M Y L I F E A S A D I A M O N D
9
The weather was cool, and it was spitting rain.
The
tv
newscasters were calling it “Junuary.”
I looked up the forecasts on the Internet, and at
home it was nothing but sunbursts. But I didn’t
really want to go back, not after what had happened.
I trudged downstairs to our rec room. My dad
had promised he’d get us a Ping-Pong table for the
new house, and a foosball table too. I could invite
my friends over, he said. If I ever made any friends.
I turned on the
tv
to watch a
dvd
of the Blue Jays
in the playoffs and plunked myself onto the couch,
pulling my cap down on my head and folding my
arms over my chest. What was the point of anything
without baseball?
“Caspar, no,” my mom called from the kitchen.
“No, what?” I asked. She was probably going to
tell me to get outside. We’d been in Redburn for
five days. I’d stayed inside almost the whole time,
like some strange person on one of those reality
tv
shows.
“No more
tv
. Out,” she said. “Take J.R. for a walk.
Go find the park. It’s close, and it’s got a ball diamond.
I can’t believe you haven’t checked it out yet.”
J.R. eyed me. He looked kind of sad himself,
the way golden retrievers can. He was no longer a
puppy, even though he acted like it. The initials were
