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integers, Marty’s the man!”
    Now all of them laughed together as Coach waved them back on the field for batting practice.
    For the next forty-five minutes, the Orioles put on a show. It was one of those days when everyone was driving the ball. The whole team seemed totally focused— scary focused, actually—at the plate. Even Dante was spraying balls to all parts of the field, although he had a looping, totally unorthodox swing, like a guy hacking his way out of a jungle two-handed with a machete.
    Connor, Jordy, and Cody, hitting back-to-back-to-back, were outstanding. Each ripped the ball hard on every swing, and each sent two balls soaring over the outfield fence. As Cody’s final blast cleared the left-field fence and came to rest near the concession stand, the Orioles who were shagging balls in the outfield began bowing and chanting: “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”
    â€œSix bombs by three different guys!” Willie shouted. “Coach, you might as well tell the league to give us the trophy right now!”
    On the mound, Coach nodded and grinned. He took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
    â€œSomething’s going on!” he agreed. “Apparently everyone took their vitamins today!”
    Well, almost everyone.
    The only batter who struggled was Marty, who seemed to bounce the ball weakly back to the mound every time—when he made contact at all.
    After whiffing on his final three swings, Marty threw his bat down in disgust. “Hitting is overrated,” he said, pulling off his batting gloves.
    Leaning against the backstop, Connor nudged Cody and silently mouthed: “Watch this.”
    â€œWhat about pitching and fielding?” Connor asked Marty.
    â€œ Totally overrated,” Marty said, rising to the bait. “Baserunning too. Who cares how fast you are? It’s baseball, not a track meet.”
    Connor let that statement hang in the air for a moment.
    Finally he said, “So if hitting’s not important, and pitching’s not important, and neither is fielding and baserunning, how do you win baseball games?”
    Marty shot him a knowing look. Then he placed a bony finger to his temple. “You win them up here, guys,” he said. “Brain power. Superior IQ. Or as I like to call it, the Loopus Factor.”
    At this, all the Orioles within earshot cracked up. Marty grinned and said, “My job here is done,” and sauntered away. Cody realized it was the first time he had laughed that hard in weeks. He was amazed at how good it felt.
    Why can’t the good feelings ever last? he wondered as Coach signaled practice to a close. Then Cody remembered the two girls in art class this morning. When he sat down across from them, they had looked at each other and puffed out their cheeks like, Check out the chunkster .
    Oh, yeah , he said to himself. That’s why.

When you clicked on weight-loss ads, as Cody had done lately, they promised all sorts of fantastic things.
    Drop 10 pounds by Friday!
    Lose that spare tire by dawn!
    Control your appetite with our new super-secret technique!
    Or, he thought, you could do what he was doing now, which was staring at a mound of disgusting-looking steamed crabs and wondering if he’d ever eat anything again. The crabs were piled high in the middle of a picnic table in his neighbors’ backyard. Cody had no trouble imagining that he could get sick from just looking at these things.
    â€œThey’re from the Gulf of Mexico,” Mr. Hoffman said as he grabbed a big crab dusted with orange seasoning and plopped it on the paper plate in front of him. “Probably from Louisiana. It’s too early for our Chesapeake Bay crabs. But we wanted to welcome you folks to the neighborhood, Baltimore-style.”
    Oh, Cody thought, you shouldn’t have. And he meant it. You really, really shouldn’t have.
    Looking around, Cody noticed that he seemed to be