Dodger and Me by Jordan Sonnenblick Page A

and I totally missed the first five or six grounders that Dodger hit to me. After that, I got better—not great, but better. Lizzie even got all excited to try the patch. Dodger said, “Wait, let’s try some pop-ups first.”
    And that’s how I wound up with a bloody nose.
    Fortunately, the magical ball field came with a first-aid kit. Dodger stuffed a twisty cotton thing up each of my nostrils, then busted out with an ice pack, which he made me hold against one side of my rapidly swelling nose. As Dodger started raking the infield (he said we still had a couple more days to practice before my big game), Lizzie and I walked home on the blue carpet, which had reappeared right when we needed it. She said, “Well, that was a lot of fun. I mean, until the end part, obviously.”
    Through my blood-caked cotton nose plugs, I replied, “Yeh, id was.”
    She ignored my little speech problem and said, “I can’t wait to do it again! Not necessarily the bleeding scene, but the rest of it. D’you think we
could play again tomorrow? I could probably convince my mum that we needed to collect specimens for our terrariums. And, no offense, we still need to work on your ball-whacking.”
    â€œBall-whacking?”
    â€œYou know, with the bat?” she clarified.
    â€œOh,” I said. “Batting. It’s called batting.” She had a point. My team would hate me even more than they already did if I blew the last game and ruined our first-place finish. So it might be a good time for me to learn how to hit.
    We reached the edge of my backyard. Through our dining-room window, I could see my mom and Lizzie’s sitting at the table drinking coffee, with their heads bent over a big chart that said PLANNED SAFETY IMPROVEMENTS across the top. I could read the top three:
    1. Pad the playground: No ouchies!
    2. Shatterproof lunch trays!
    3. Buy helmets for dodgeball!
    Jeepers! Every kid in school knew my mom was the safety nut. If we all had to wear helmets for
stupid dodgeball and run around on padding for recess every day, that would really help my popularity —not!
    Anyway, Lizzie put a hand out and stopped me from walking into the moms’ line of sight. “Hold on,” she said. “Your mum will go absolutely mental if you walk in there with these bloody cotton thingies hanging out of your nose.”
    Again, Lizzie had a point. But I was afraid to pull the plugs out. I reached up and gently wiggled one experimentally. The slightest pressure made it feel as though an angry weasel were clawing its way up my nose into my brain.
    Lizzie sighed, reached into her school backpack, and pulled out a wad of tissues. “Here, let me,” she said.
    â€œUh, are you sure? It’s going to be really gross.” Plus, what if she made it hurt even more? And then what if I passed out in front of her? She would scream. My mom would freak and dial 911. I would wake up in a jet-powered helicopter, racing to the nearest hospital with a trauma center, and—
    Lizzie sighed. “Honestly, Willie, it’s no big
deal. I already know boys are gross.” She grinned reassuringly, wrapped a couple of tissues around her thumb and first finger, and slowly reached up to pinch the end of one cotton thing. With great care, she eased it out of my nose. When it was in the clear, she let out a long breath. “See,” she said, “no problem.” She dropped the bloody cotton and tissues on the ground, got new tissues, and repeated the whole process with my other nostril. Then she said, “Okay, sir, it looks as though, with proper nursing care, you should pull through.”
    â€œThank you,” I said weakly.
    â€œDon’t mention it. By the way,” Lizzie said, “I like your friend Dodger. I can’t believe you have a real imaginary friend! I mean, a real friend who’s imaginary. I mean, a—well, a blue chimp with powers! This is so cool! How