River's Edge by Marie Bostwick

especially since they didn’t seem to have the good manners to be embarrassed for themselves. Such a thing would never have happened in my home, and I knew if Father had seen the careless way the Muller boys were being brought up, he would certainly have disapproved.
    He would also have disapproved of the way all the children were allowed to run wild. They were forever shouting and jumping, playing tricks on one another, sliding down the banisters instead of walking politely down the stairs. Cookie was more like a boy than any girl I’d ever met. True, she was always available when her mother needed a hand in the kitchen and seemed very capable, too, but she never wore a dress unless she was going to school or to church. She played baseball along with her brothers, sliding into the bases just as they did and getting just as dirty.
    A few weeks after my arrival, I sat under a nearby oak tree reading while the Muller children engaged in their daily baseball game. The game seemed silly to me, and I couldn’t understand why the Mullers loved it so. One of the twins, either Chip or Chuck—I still couldn’t tell the difference between them—ran over to where I was sitting and offered to teach me to play. I said no, thank you, and that I preferred to read.
    â€œAw, c’mon, Elise,” he urged. “If you played outfield, we’d have enough people so I could play catcher. It would make the whole game go a lot faster.”
    Cookie ran over to add her plea to her brother’s. “Oh, yes, Elise! Come and play. It really isn’t hard at all. You’d catch on in no time. Besides, nobody ever hits anything into the outfield except Junior, and even when he does, we don’t really keep score, so it doesn’t matter.”
    â€œThat’s not true,” the twin objected, giving his sister a shove with his elbow. “I hit it there all the time. Last week I hit it clear over past the barn, and it took you so long to throw it in, I coulda walked to homeplate,”
    â€œChip, that wasn’t a fair hit, and you know it,” Cookie argued. “The right side of the barn is the foul line, but you ran in anyway. Junior said it didn’t count.”
    Chip scowled. “It did too. What does Junior know, anyway? Who died and made him the ref?”
    â€œWell, I guess he knows more about baseball than you do,” Cookie returned sourly.
    â€œDoes not!” yelled Chip, giving his sister a shove.
    â€œDoes too!” shouted Cookie and shoved him even harder. They kept shouting and shoving with increasing ferocity until it seemed they were on the verge of an out-and-out fistfight. Mr. Muller heard the noise and came out onto the porch to investigate, but Junior ran over to break his siblings apart just as Cookie bit into Chip’s hand, which was pulling on her braid.
    I was shocked. At home a girl would never even dream of pushing a boy, let alone biting him.
    â€œWhat’s going on here? Knock it off, you two hotheads!” Junior pried the combatants apart. Chip and Cookie backed away as their brother stepped between them, but they were still panting with emotion. Cookie was the first to speak,
    â€œChip wanted to teach Elise to play ball, and I said she should, too. I said she could play outfield because nobody ever hits it out there except you,”
    â€œThat’s not true! I hit one way past the barn last week!” Chip shouted, lunging for Cookie’s braid again. For a moment it seemed like the fight was on again until Junior wedged himself between his siblings.
    â€œStop it, Chip!” Junior commanded, and, amazingly, Chip did. “That hit you had last week was foul, and you know it,” he added.
    Chip scowled, and Cookie stuck her tongue out at him in victory, but Junior froze her with a look. “It’s not true that nobody hits into the outfield but me. Last summer Chip must have hit eight or nine homers. It’s just the