The Best Friend Battle (Sylvie Scruggs #1)
English

The Best Friend Battle (Sylvie Scruggs #1)

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Description

"Funny and human and clever and wise. I really, really like this sparkling, racing, hilarious little gem." -- Hilary McKay, author of SAFFY'S ANGEL and BINNY IN SECRET
Sylvie Scruggs doesn't like Georgie Diaz. He always calls her Scruggs. He always beats her in baseball. He didn't invite her to his party. Plus, he's a boy.
Now Georgie is trying to steal Sylvie's best friend, Miranda Tan. He's giving Miranda a super-special birthday present, so Sylvie will too -- only her present will be ten times better. With the help of her twin brothers, a ferret, a castle, and some glitter glue, Sylvie sets out to make Miranda remember who her REAL best friend is, and forget about Georgie forever.
"Two words: Sylvie Scruggs. Two more words: LOVE HER! Eyre nails it with this new kid on the block. (And here's a challenge: I dare you not to laugh out loud)." -- Barbara O'Connor, author of HOW TO STEAL A DOG and THE FANTASTIC SECRET OF OWEN JESTER

Subjects

Informations

Published by
Published 31 March 2015
Reads 0
EAN13 9780545620949
License: All rights reserved
Language English
Document size 3 MB

Legal information: rental price per page €. This information is given for information only in accordance with current legislation.

It was eight o’clock in the morning, and I was standing on the pitcher’s mound. Georgie Diaz was up to bat. He wiped his sweaty black hair off his forehead. He spat something gross right next to his shoe. He raised his bat into position. Then he smiled. “Let’s see if you can get the ball over the plate, Scruggs.” I stamped my cleat into the pitcher’s mound. “Oh yeah,” I said. “Well, you’d better start closing your eyes now, the ball’s gonna come so fast.” Georgie crouched lower, getting ready to hit. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” “Throw the ball, Sylvie,” my coach said in her exasperated tone, the one that means she is tired of being seven months pregnant and standing in the dugout, watching a bunch of nine-year-olds play baseball. “Okay, Mom,” I said. “Go, Sylvie!” said my twin brothers, Tate and Cale. “Rip out his heart. Stamp on his gizzards. Eat his brains for lunch!” The twins were five, and they loved smack talk. I straddled the pitcher’s mound, my long brown hair tucked behind my ears. In one smooth motion, I pulled my legs together, the ball and glove coming up to my chest. There was a runner on first and a runner on third. I gave them both the eye. Then I looked into the stands where I knew my best friend, Miranda, would be watching. And there she was, behind home plate like always. Her hands were clasped together; her face was tense. Her mouth opened. Her lips began to move. I waited for the thumbs-up and the “Go, Sylvie!” she always gives me when I need it. “Go, Georgie!” she cried. “You can do it! Whack that ball! Home run! Home run!”
The ball fell from my hand onto the mound. I couldn’t believe it. “Come on, Scruggs,” Georgie called. “Throw the ball already.” But I was still staring at Miranda, who was looking at me now. She gave me a thumbs-up and a “Go, Sylvie!” but it wasn’t the same. What good is a “Go, Sylvie!” when you’ve just shouted “Go, Georgie!”? You can’t cheer for two people at the same time. Not when those two people are enemies. I picked up the ball and threw it at Georgie, but it was no use. My pitch went straight toward him, too slow, too easy. Georgie’s bat hit the ball with a crack. The ball soared over my head and into the outfield, where it smacked into the fence and thumped to the ground. My entire team groaned. Even my coach. Georgie took off like a cheetah with short legs. He ran to first base, then to second, then to third, and then home, following the two runners before him. Then he did the stupid disco dance he always does whenever he scores. At the end of his dance, he pointed to himself and said, “Me? Home run? Oh, yeah, baby, home run.” I kicked at the air as hard as I could. That was not a true home run. The ball has to go over the fence to be a true home run. Everyone knows that, and I was about to shout this when my coach grabbed my arm.
“You’re tired, honey,” she said. “We got in really late last night, and you didn’t get much sleep on the plane. Let’s let someone else pitch.” “Mom!” I cried. I couldn’t leave the mound, because if I stopped pitching, Georgie would think he’d won. He’d think I was being kicked off the field because he got a hit off me. “No,” I said. “I can’t stop pitching now.” “Of course you can,” my mom said, meaning she was going to make me. I looked at Miranda. She was pushing her shiny dark hair out of her eyes and smiling at Georgie. “Nice hit!” she shouted. Miranda, my best friend. “Sylvie,” my mom said. “It’s time to go.” I stamped my foot into the mound. “It’s still my turn,” I said. My mom crossed her angry arms and gave me her you’d-better-watch-it look.