Mickey & Me by Dan Gutman Page B

Klosowski, who was being loaded into an ambulance—attacked me. I was helpless. They were all over me, pulling off the chicken suit and ripping off my shirt and pants.
    â€œHelp!” I screamed. “Give me back my clothes!”
    â€œWe should really shave his legs!” Ziggy hollered. “He’s pretty hairy.”
    â€œNo time for that!” Mickey replied.
    Once they had me down to my underwear, four of the Chicks held my arms and legs while the rest of them put the dress or skirt or whatever it was on me. I struggled to get free, but they were too strong. Tiby and Teeny put a pair of cleats on my feet, and Ziggy stuffed a couple of balled-up pairs of sweat socks in the front of the uniform.
    â€œThere,” Mickey declared as she put a Chicks cap on my head. “Nobody will know you’re a guy.”
    â€œYou look spiffy, sugar!” Merle said.
    â€œThis is embarrassing,” I whined.
    â€œI don’t know,” Tiby said, looking me up and down. “I think he needs a little makeup.”
    â€œNo makeup!” I shouted. “Even guys who play bagpipes don’t wear makeup!”
    â€œLipstick at the very least,” Tiby decided.
    â€œNo!”
    They grabbed me again before I could make a run for it. Five or six of them pinned me to the floor while Tiby ran to get her makeup case.
    â€œIt’s a five-dollar fine if you get caught without lipstick on,” Mickey said. “You don’t want to get fined, do you?”
    This was all my stupid cousin’s fault. If she hadn’t slipped the Mickey Maguire card in place of my Mickey Mantle card, this never would have happened. I could be partying with Mickey Mantle right now instead of being tortured and humiliated by these lunatic girls.
    â€œWill you stop wriggling around?” Tiby said as she painted my lips. “I’m gonna smear it all over your face!”
    â€œStop dillydallying!” shouted Max Carey, who was on his way to the dugout to confer with the umpire. “Step on it, girls!”
    When they were done with my makeover, they let me off the floor.
    â€œYou look like a real all-American girl now,” Mickey said as she led me to the dugout, like a prisoner on his way to jail.
    â€œPinch running for Klosowski,” boomed the public address announcer, “Josephine Stoshack.”
    Max Carey looked me up and down, then shook his head.
    â€œPathetic,” he grumbled. “Simply pathetic.”
    It took the whole team to push me out of the dugout and onto the field.

10
Pinch Runner
    I’VE HAD A FEW HUMILIATING EXPERIENCES IN MY LIFE . Like the time my pants fell down while we were climbing the ropes in gym class. And then there was the time I claimed I could balance on one edge of a canoe on Hopkins Pond. But this, by far, topped them all.
    I jogged out to first base, pulling my cap down low in hopes that it wouldn’t be so obvious that I was a guy. Mickey was coaching first base. Max Carey had come out of the dugout to coach third.
    â€œOkay, listen carefully,” Mickey instructed. “There are no outs. If the ball is hit in the air, you’ve got to return to first. On the ground, you’ve got to go.”
    â€œI know all that—”
    â€œNot so low!” Mickey warned me. “They’ll hear you!”
    â€œI know all that,” I repeated, raising my voice tosound like a girl. “I’ve been in Little League for five years.”
    â€œWait!” Mickey whispered as she peered into the dugout. “Max is giving you the steal sign.”
    â€œWhat?” I complained. “Max isn’t even in the dugout. I don’t want to steal. I thought you said you guys would drive me in.”
    â€œNo time to argue. Max is the manager. He’s relaying the signs from third. He’s trying to stay out of a double play situation. You’re stealing on the first pitch. If you make it safely, watch the dugout. If