Zero to Hero by Lin Oliver

that. Skin that is not attached to a person makes my blood curdle. Or it would, if I had blood.”
    “Well, I’m not thrilled about the situation either. You can’t believe how my hands hurt when I went to baseball tryouts after school. I could barely hold the bat. And when I was fielding, the palms of my hands stung every time the ball came to me.”
    The Hoove, who had flopped himself down on Billy’s bed, suddenly popped to his feet and glided over right next to Billy’s face.
    “Wait a minute,” he said, looking outraged. “You went to baseball tryouts and you didn’t tell me?”
    “Since when are you in charge of my schedule? And please, would you back off? You smell like a sack of sour oranges.”
    “It happens when I get upset. My scent can get a little tart. But don’t try to change the subject. Did you make the team, is what I want to know.”
    “As a matter of fact, I did.”
    “Atta boy. What position? Catcher? Naw, a scrawny kid like you would never be a catcher. So what are you, center field? Second base? Shortstop? Speak up.”
    “You’re looking at the new assistant scorekeeper of the junior varsity baseball team at Moorepark Middle School,” Billy announced with some pride.
    “So what does that mean? You work your way up to head scorekeeper?”
    “No, they don’t have that position.”
    “Billy Boy, let me shed some light on this situation for you,” the Hoove said. “What you’re telling me is that you get no playing time. You are going to sit on the bench and keep score. Your hands are never going to touch a ball or a glove.”
    “The coach didn’t say that.”
    “Trust me, he was thinking it.”
    Hoover paced back and forth in the way that ghosts pace, which is to say, there was no pacing involved. He just floated back and forth across the room at an accelerated rate.
    “I don’t know why you didn’t consult with me, Billy. You happen to be looking at the batting champion of the San Fernando Junior Cougars. They say I was headed for the majors. I know a thing or two about baseball. Show me your stance.”
    Billy reluctantly picked up one of the aluminum bats that was propped up in the corner of his room and assumed his best batting stance.
    “No wonder you weren’t chosen,” the Hoove said, casting a disapproving eye at Billy. “Look at you. Plant your feet farther apart. Sit into the stance. Put your hands together on the bat. And get your elbow down. You look like you’re some kind of poultry, flapping your wings for a takeoff.”
    Billy tried to make each adjustment as Hoover called out instructions. He was so busyconcentrating on keeping his elbow down and his butt in that he didn’t notice the figure standing at his bedroom door.
    It was Rod Brownstone.
    “You have to be the weirdest dude that’s ever lived here,” he said. “Do you make a habit of talking to yourself?”
    “Do you make a habit of barging into people’s rooms without even being invited?” Billy responded. “People you hardly know?”
    “I brought over a pineapple upside-down cake my mom made for your family,” Rod explained. “And your mom said I should come in and establish a relationship with you. That’s a quote.”
    “That sounds like my mom, all right.”
    “I didn’t want to come because I make it a point not to hang out with assistant scorekeepers who don’t have an ice cube’s chance in the desert of being a ballplayer.”
    “For your information, Brownstone, I’m working on my batting stance with a private coach who was almost in the majors.”
    “Really? Well, did your coach notice that those toothpicks you call arms don’t have enough muscle to hold a bat? Not like these guns.” Rod held up his arms, flexed his biceps, and kissed them both. Billy looked at his own meager biceps and decided no kissing was called for.
    Rod’s arrogance infuriated the Hoove. He was not about to let this blowbag insult Billy. The Hoove was actually surprised that he cared so