The Puttermans Are in the House


 
 
 
 
 Dedication
 To David, Isaac, and Daniel—may you cheer your hearts out
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 
 Before: Sammy
 Now: Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 Sammy
 Matty
 Becky
 After: Sammy
 
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Books by Jacquetta Nammar Feldman
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 
 Before
 Sammy
 It’s a perfect end-of-May day at the ballpark, and my baseball team’s clinching our semifinal playoff game.
 I’ve been at first base like always. Calm and cool. Stretch and catch. My twin brother, Matty, has been pitching, shutting batters down like a routine matter of business: strike one, strike two, strike three, you’re out!
 My whole family’s been in the stands cheering us on like usual.
 We’re their star twin team: Sammy Putterman, the only girl still holding her own in the Houston, Texas, twelve-and-under baseball league, and Matty Putterman, whose lefty southpaw arm’s going to take him all the way to the major leagues someday.
 Our team’s up 6–0 at the top of the fifth inning, easy-peasy lemon squeezy. It’s been a near-perfect game . . . until now.
 My brother is gone.
 I squint at the stands. My dad’s spitting out a mouthful of sunflower seeds, his eyes darting around. My mom is speed texting, her brow cut into a deep V shape. My grandparents, Bubbe and Papa Putterman, are whispering to each other while plastering big supportive smiles my way. My uncle Mike and aunt Deb are shifting around in their seats and shrugging to each other.
 And my first cousin, Becky, who didn’t want to be here anyway, is eyeing the car.
 The ballpark’s mic screeches alive and the guy who’s been playing the walk-up batter’s music says, “Matthew Putterman, Matthew Putterman, please return to field number three, you are needed on the mound to resume play.”
 But there’s still no Matty.
 The last time I saw my brother, it was the bottom of the fourth and I was outside the batter’s box. He’d just smacked a single and driven in two runs! With our team’s bats on fire and Matty’s dominant fastball, it was sure to be another blowout win that would take us to the finals next Saturday.
 I’d taken a few practice swings, grinned at him on first base, and said with our twin telepathy, Get ready, Matty! I’m bringing you home!
 The fastball had come middle-in over the plate, right where I like it, and I’d barreled it. It sailed to left center, and I ran as fast as I could as the ball struck the fence. Then I stopped at second with a double and watched my brother slide into home plate, scoring another run.
 But after our team took the field again, he never came back out of the dugout to pitch. I figured he ran quick to the bathroom like he does sometimes, and he’d come back any second. He didn’t.
 Now everyone’s staring at me—my family and my coach, all the parents in the stands, my whole team, and a bunch of players from the team we’re up against. They’re looking at me like I must know what’s going on with my brother, where he is. And usually I would.
 But somehow I don’t.
 It’s like this: one minute, you’re having this great conversation on the phone. You’re talking and laughing and talking and laughing. Then the call gets dropped, but you don’t know it, so you keep talking. Then you realize there’s no one on the other end, there’s only silence.
 And you think—maybe if you’d been listening a little bit closer, maybe you would’ve heard the cut connection. Maybe you wouldn’t be standing on first base punching your mitt, all confused.
 That’s how I feel right now. Just like that.
 I stare at the hill where Matty should be and blink, just to make sure this isn’t some kind of mind-trick joke. I wave to Matty’s best friend and our catcher, Ethan Goldberg, to get his attention, but he’s hanging his head and kicking at home plate with his cleats.
 He’s upset that Matty’s not here, too.
 Coach calls, “Hey, Sammy! Keep everybody warm!” and hurls me a ball. Then I throw grounders to the other infielders while we wait.
 But my brother never shows.
 The other team’s coach jogs over to my coach and points to his watch. My coach calls in another pitcher, and my eyes jump to my parents.
 They gesture to their phones and shoot me identical thumbs-ups, like they’re the twins, to make it seem okay that my brother’s gone. So I grind my cleats into the clay and get ready at first, trying to stay calm and cool, even though I want to sink to the dirt and cry.
 My team plays on, going through the motions. Matty’s reliever walks the bases loaded, and our defense crumbles. We lose, giving up eight runs in the next two innings, and I strike out on the last at-bat of the game. We’re not heading to the finals next Saturday, but if Matty had been here, with me . . . we would be!
 I throw my gear into my baseball bag and text my brother.
 Me: Where did you go? Why aren’t you here?
 He doesn’t text me back.
 I stomp to our car and climb into the back seat behind my parents. My mom and dad stare straight ahead, tight-lipped and quiet. I squeak, “Mom, did Matty text you back?”
 She frowns over her shoulder and nods.
 My dad clears his throat. “Sammy, uhh, your brother walked home. Says he . . . uhh . . . hates baseball now. Says he doesn’t want to play anymore.”
 I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut. My voice