The distance to home / Jenn Bishop.
Record details
- ISBN: 978101938744 (pbk.)
- ISBN: 9781101938744
- Physical Description: 230 pages ; 20 cm
- Edition: First Yearling edition.
- Publisher: New York : Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, a division of Penquin Random House LLC [2017], 2016
Content descriptions
General Note: | Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children's Books, New York, in 2016. |
Search for related items by subject
Subject: | Baseball stories. Sisters > Juvenile fiction. Grief > Juvenile fiction. Death > Juvenile fiction. |
Available copies
- 9 of 9 copies available at Evergreen Indiana.
Holds
- 0 current holds with 9 total copies.
Other Formats and Editions
Location | Call Number / Copy Notes | Barcode | Shelving Location | Status | Due Date |
---|---|---|---|---|---|
Adams PL Sys. - Geneva Branch | JF BIS (Text) | 34207002206036 | Juvenile Fiction | Available | - |
Akron Carnegie PL - Akron | JUV FIC BIS (Text) | 75253000057380 | Juvenile Fiction | Available | - |
Fayette Co PL - Connersville | J BISHOP (Text) | 39230031907668 | Children Books | Available | - |
Ladoga Clark Twp PL - Ladoga | JFIC BIS (Text) | 34545000325229 | Juvenile | Available | - |
Loogootee PL - Loogootee | JUV FIC BIS (Text) | 70511000060360 | Juvenile Fiction | Available | - |
Newton Co PL - Morocco Community Library | R FIC BISHOP (Text) | 71561000143658 | NWPLMChildren's chapter books | Available | - |
Newton Co PL - Roselawn Library | R FIC BISHOP (Text) | 71561000143665 | NWPLRChildren's chapter books | Available | - |
Ridgeville PL - Ridgeville | J BIS (Text) | 36684000010284 | Young Adult Fiction | Available | - |
Rushville PL - Rushville | J FIC BIS (Text) | 38520000418460 | Childrens' Room | Available | - |
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The Distance to Home
By Jenn Bishop
Random House Children's Books
All rights reserved.
1
{this summer}
I used to think if you got woken up in the middle of the night, you needed to watch out. In movies and books, bad things only happen in the middle of the night.
But itâs not true. Something bad can happen in the middle of a perfectly sunny day.
When Dad starts up the truck, the red numbers on the dashboard clock surprise me. Itâs nearly 2:00 a.m. He hums to himself, lost in his own world. He didnât used to be like this. Sometimes it seems like Dad from last summer and Dad from this summer are two totally different people.
Dad from this summer doesnât tell me where weâre going or why he told me ten minutes ago to get dressed and meet him outside. Only that it was a good surprise. Whatever that means. Itâs been a long time since we got a good surprise.
After a few minutes of quiet, Dad turns on the radio. In the middle of the night out here, thereâs never much on except for After Midnight, this show where people call in to dedicate songs to people they loved until something went wrong.
âOur caller tonight is Abby,â the DJ says. âTell us your story.â
âSure. Two years ago, I met the love of my life in line at the grocery store. How cheesy is that? I know, right? We spent every waking moment together, and six months later he proposed. We were supposed to get married this weekend, but Trevor had a heart attack when he was running a marathon two months ago.â
Dad reaches his hand out to turn the radio off. âDonât,â I whisper. He puts his hand back on the steering wheel and sighs.
âHe didnât make it,â Abby says. âI miss him so much. I think about him all the time. Can you play Bette Midlerâs âThe Wind Beneath My Wingsâ in honor of him?â
âGoing out to Trevor, wherever you are, from Abby,â the DJ says, and the song starts to play.
I found the radio show one night when I couldnât sleep. Dad and Mom donât know that I plug my headphones into the old stereo in my room and listen after they go to bed. It helps, hearing other peopleâs stories.
âThe song wonât bring him back,â Dad mutters under his breath.
Itâs not supposed to, I want to tell him. Thatâs not the point. But we never talk about this stuff anymore. It feels like Mom and Dad think Iâm done talking about it, after my appointments with Miss Ella and her cracked orange leather chair and that plant she always forgot to water. But I wasnât ready then. I barely got started.
I tap my fingers on the side of the door along with the song. âWhere are we going?â My voice is shaky, like I havenât used it in a while. Which I guess is true. Thereâs no one around to talk to anymore after Mom and Dad go to bed.
âThe Millersâ. Weâre getting a boy this summer.â
âA boy?â
Dad doesnât answer me at first.
âWhat do you mean?â
âThe players got in late tonight. They flew into OâHare, and JimâI mean, Mr. Millerâjust got back with them. Weâre going to host one this summer.â
âWeâre getting a baseball player?â
âYup.â Dad raises his eyebrows in that mischievous way he always used to, and for a second itâs as if Dad from last summer is back.
Our town is the home of the Tri-City Bandits, a minor league baseball team. The players donât make much money here, and wonât until they reach the big leagues, so for the summer they stay in peopleâs houses for free. Mostly retired people who have extra bedrooms, but sometimes people who still have kids at home.
âOne of the Bandits is going to stay in our house?â My voice gets higher with each word. I canât help it. My sister, Haley, and I always wanted one of the players to stay with us. Every summer, Haley would beg Mom and Dad, but they always said no. They were too busy.
âMom knows?â I ask.
Dad clears his throat. âYour mother and I thought this would be a good thing for us. And for you.â He glances over at me, like heâs waiting for me to agree.
Maybe if thereâs someone else around the house, Mom will have someone else to hover over. Busy Bee Mom, Haley called her. Sheâd joke about how Mom would knock on her door five million times every night with questions about school and Haleyâs friends and then buzz her way over to my door to check in on me and my homework. Back and forth, back and forth. I could picture Mom like that at the community college, too, where she used to teach English. Buzzing from one desk to the next.
Now she has no one else to buzz to. Only me.
But not anymore. Not this summer, anyway. Me and a baseball player.
I stare out the window at all the cornfields, but itâs more like Iâm playing a movie in my head. I can see it already. Thereâs a super-tan guy living in our house for the whole summer, taking me and my neighbor Casey out for ice cream after the games. We can sit in the seats right behind home plate and shout out our playerâs name. And he wonât just be a name off the roster, some guy who signed a foul ball I happened to catch. Heâll be my friend.
I want to tell Haley all about it. To have her sitting in the spot next to me, the spot in the truck that was hers.
I blink my eyes real fast so tears donât have a chance to form. We pull into the Millersâ driveway, and Dad puts the truck into park. I dig under the seat for my glove. Itâs got to be in here somewhere.
âYou coming, Quinnen?â Dad is already at the Millersâ front door.
âIâll be right there!â My fingertips touch the worn leather. I reach my arm in deeper, until I have a good grasp on it.
When I pull the glove out, it has dust all over it from being in Dadâs truck so long. I slide my hand in, but my fingers hit up against the leather. Itâs too small. Iâve outgrown it. I squeeze my hand into it anyway and look at the Millersâ house. Dad has already gone inside.
I run up to the front door and have just put my hand on the doorknob when someone inside opens it for me.
âHey, little lady. Isnât it way past your bedtime?â
âLittle lady?â Come on. âIâm eleven.â I have to crane my neck way back to see his face. I thought I had grown a lot lately, but this guy is super-tall. His skin is really tan, and his hair is so blond itâs almost white.
âSo?â
âDid you have a bedtime the summer you were eleven?â
âSorry,â he says, but he doesnât sound sorry. âI didnât realize eleven was so mature.â
Heâd better not be the one weâre bringing home.
âDo you know where my dad went?â
âTheyâre getting things sorted out downstairs.â He turns and walks down the hallway. Maybe he really has to go to the bathroom or something, but he could at least say âExcuse me.â Good thing I know where the door to the basement is.
I hear lots of voices as I make my way down the stairs. The Millers mustâve had the basement redone since last summer. It seems like everyoneâs house has one of these basement den places except mine. Thereâs a big flat-screen TV up on the wall, with ESPN on mute and a bunch of gigantic guys sprawled out on the couch in front of it. There are so many that some of them have to sit on the floor.
Maybe I donât want a basement den after all. The place stinks. It smells like that one time we picked up Caseyâs big brother and his friends from football practice. Stinky cheese and feet and the garbage, right before Dad takes it out.
There have to be at least two dozen ballplayers down here, and no windows open to let in some fresh air. A few of the guys look sleepy, and I kind of feel bad for them. My dad is talking to Mr. Miller, who keeps pointing at the different guys and scribbling stuff down on a notepad.
I scan the room for Katie Miller, and I find her before she sees me. Sheâs sitting on one of the couches, between two of the ballplayers. I pretend I donât see her and head straight for the piano. Even though I donât know how to play, I lightly tap my fingers along the keys.
âDo you play?â He has an accent, but I still understand the question.
âPiano?â I ask, turning my face up toward his.
Heâs two or three heads taller than me, with dark brown skin and brown eyes. He has what my dad calls a five oâclock shadow. I donât know what that means exactly, but his face looks like it could scratch you if you touched it.
He shakes his head. âNo. Baseball.â
âNot really.â
He points to the glove, still on my left hand. I am the worst liar ever.
âI used to play.â At least thatâs not a lie.
âWhy donât you play now?â he asks.
But there are too many reasons, and I donât know where to start. I open my mouth and shut it. I do it again. I probably look like a fish.
Finally I say, âItâs a long story.â
âI like stories. But right now, I like piano.â He pulls out the bench and sits on it, patting the spot next to him.
I look around to see who heâs trying to get to sit with him, but then he pats the spot again. I sit down and watch as he spreads his hands across the keyboard and starts playing. Softly at first, but then louder. His hands bounce along the keys. Unlike me, he knows what heâs doing. I look up at his face and heâs smiling, with his eyes closed.
When Haley played flute, Iâd sometimes catch her practicing with her eyes closed. Her body would sway to the music. I never told her I watched her. Iâm sure she wouldâve been embarrassed.
But this guy whose name I donât know is playing with his eyes closed in front of everyone. Heâs not afraid or embarrassed. He looks both happy and sad at the same time, if thatâs possible.
Mr. Miller yells to get everyoneâs attention, and the guy stops playing. Everyone quiets down and looks at Mr. Miller, whoâs still scribbling on his notepad. âThere were some last-minute changes, but Iâve got you all paired with your host families. These kind folks are putting you up for the whole summer. That means putting a roof over your head, not putting up with your shenanigans. None of that partying you mightâve gotten used to in college. Weâre expecting you to obey the house rules.â
A few of the players sitting on the floor smile at each other, almost starting to laugh, and then put on straight faces.
âIâm going to read off your names and the names of the families youâll be spending the summer with. Some of these nice folks came out in the middle of the night to pick you up. The others will stop by in the morning. If theyâre here for you now, theyâll wave and find you later. Please raise your hand so they know who you are.â He flips through a few pages.
âWhatâs your name?â I whisper to the piano-playing baseball player.
âHector.â
âIâm Quinnen.â I donât say that I hope heâs going to be staying with us, but I do. All the other guys? Maybe some of them are nice. But are they smiling-with-their-eyes-closed-while-playing-the-piano nice? I donât know.
âQuinnen. You have a nice name.â
Dad looks over at me and Hector sitting next to each other, and I think I see him smile. Itâs only for a second, but I really think he does.
Mr. Miller finally starts to read off the list. âDavid Hernandez. Youâll be staying with me and my family.â A chubby guy with a buzz cut raises his hand. I put my money on him being a catcher.
âTimothy Scott, youâre gonna be with Ken and Cathy Montross.â Phew! That one has lots of tattoos and big, veiny muscles. Iâd be scared to run into him in our upstairs hallway at night.
âHector Padilla,â Mr. Miller says. Hector doesnât stick his hand up like heâs supposed to. I nudge him and whisper, âRaise your hand.â
Please, us. Please, us.
âYouâre with the Farrells,â Mr. Miller says. The Farrells live up the street from us. I look over at Dad, but heâs busy talking to one of the players. He doesnât even care which guy we get.
I listen carefully, my eyes darting around the room as Mr. Miller reads out one name after another. One by one, the players raise their hands and smile, like theyâre happy to be with these families they donât even know.
âOnly a few left now, and youâll all be on your way.â Mr. Miller flips to the next page.
âBrandon Williams?â
The annoying blond guy who let me in raises his hand.
Not us. Not us, I chant in my head.
âYouâll be staying with the Donnelly family.â
Dad waves his hand and catches Brandonâs eye.
Oh, great.
âAre you tired?â I ask Hector while Mr. Miller finishes reading off the last few names.
âSÃ,â he replies. âVery tired.â
âLong flight?â
He nods.
âWhere did you come from?â I ask.
âDominican Republic.â
Iâve looked it up on the map before, since so many good baseball players come from there. âThatâs really far away.â No wonder heâs so sleepy.
âHey, man.â I look up and see Brandon walking right toward us. âHey, little lady. Guess weâre going to be seeing a lot more of each other.â
I slump on the piano bench. âYeah.â
David Hernandez comes over and says something to Hector in Spanish. Hector stands up. âAre you coming to Opening Day?â
âAlways,â I say. âSee you there. Bye, Hector.â
âGood-bye, Quinnen. Maybe sometime I can show you how to throw a slider.â He points at my glove. âYouâre a pitcher, no?â
How does he know?
Something flutters deep inside me, like a knuckleball, but by the time I open my mouth to respond, Hector and David are walking over to their host families and Iâm alone with Brandon.
âWhat position do you play?â I ask Brandon.
âPitcher.â
I cringe as he cracks his knuckles. I hate when boys do that. âHow fastâs your fastball?â
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Distance to Home by Jenn Bishop. Copyright © 2017 Jenn Bishop. Excerpted by permission of Random House Children's Books.
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