{"product_id":"fast-pitch-isbn-9781984893048","title":"Fast Pitch","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Nic Stone comes a challenging and heartwarming coming-of-age story about a softball player looking to prove herself on and off the field\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShenice Lockwood, captain of the Fulton Firebirds, is hyper-focused when she steps up to the plate. Nothing can stop her from leading her team to the U12 fast-pitch softball regional championship. But life has thrown some curveballs her way.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eStrike one:\u003c\/b\u003e As the sole team of all-brown faces, Shenice and the Firebirds have to work twice as hard to prove that Black girls belong at bat.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eStrike two:\u003c\/b\u003e Shenice’s focus gets shaken when her great-uncle Jack reveals that a career-ending—and family-name-ruining—crime may have been a setup.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eStrike three:\u003c\/b\u003e Broken focus means mistakes on the field. And Shenice’s teammates are beginning to wonder if she’s captain-qualified.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eIt's up to Shenice to discover the truth about her family’s past—and fast—before secrets take the Firebirds out of the game forever.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Sports, suspense, mystery, history... What more could you want? A funny, charming page-turner.” –Adam Gidwitz, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A grand slam \u003c\/b\u003eof an adventure.\u003cb\u003e” —\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews, \u003c\/i\u003eStarred Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Black girl magic \u003c\/b\u003ehits a home run in Stone's latest novel.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly,\u003c\/i\u003e Starred Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Books like “Fast Pitch” are welcome evidence that writers for young readers are continuing to move beyond narratives in which the primary problem is a character’s marginalization.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e-The New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Tensions are high as the plot bounces between gameplay and sleuthing, ultimately reaching a satisfying conclusion.... \u003cb\u003eReaders of all ages will cheer for Shenice\u003c\/b\u003e.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A sports mystery that \u003cb\u003ewill keep ­readers engaged from start to finish\u003c\/b\u003e…Discussions about \u003cb\u003erace and civil rights are seamlessly ­woven into the narrative\u003c\/b\u003e through Shenice’s own ­experiences.” \u003ci\u003e—School Library Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"This contemporary sports story goes beyond mere genre appeal; it is \u003cb\u003ea novel of substance\u003c\/b\u003e, carrying the weight of history.” \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e–The Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eNic Stone\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of many novels, including the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller \u003ci\u003eDear Martin \u003c\/i\u003eand its \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling sequel, \u003ci\u003eDear Justyce\u003c\/i\u003e. She also penned the young adult titles \u003ci\u003eOdd One Out\u003c\/i\u003e, an NPR Best Book and an ALA Rainbow Book Top Ten, \u003ci\u003eJackpot\u003c\/i\u003e, a love-\u003cu\u003eish\u003c\/u\u003e story that takes a searing look at economic inequality, and \u003ci\u003eChaos Theory\u003c\/i\u003e, a Southern Book Prize finalist and a YALSA Quick Pick Selection. Her middle-grade novels include \u003ci\u003eClean Getaway\u003c\/i\u003e, a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller, and \u003ci\u003eFast Pitch\u003c\/i\u003e, which received two starred reviews including from \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, which said, “Black girl magic hits a home run in Stone’s latest.” Nic lives in Atlanta with her adorable little family.\u003cp\u003e1 \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBatter Up \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe have to win this game. . . . \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eLike gotta win. No other option. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI’ve been playing base-related ball--first tee, now soft--since the minute I could hold up a bat. Just like my daddy. And his daddy before him. And his daddy before him. It’s in my blood. And I learned the meaning of “love\/hate relationship” in a game situation like this one. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt’s the bottom of the sixth and we’re up by three, but the opposing team is at bat. Bases are loaded, two strikes, two outs. Any time I say something is stressful, my mama rolls her eyes and says, “You’re twelve, Shenice. You have no idea what that word means.” But this? Is stressful. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs I drop back into my squat behind home plate, my eyes scan the field, and I inhale deep. Impossible to not notice--for me at least--how different our two teams look. While every player on mine, the Fulton Firebirds, has some shade of brown skin, all of the Stockwood Sharks girls are white. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWhich is the case for most teams in the 12U division of the Dixie Youth Softball Association. DYSA, if you’re feeling fancy. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNot only are we Fulton Firebirds the first all-Black team in this league--which even considering the name is a huge deal--we’re the only team in the entire DYSA with more than three Black players on the roster. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAcross eight states. All of which were on the pro-slavery side during the Civil War. Something my daddy reminds me of every time he sees “DYSA.” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“It’s a weight no one your age should have to carry, but can’t ignore,” he says. And he’s right: Every win feels . . . historical. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI hate it . . . but also love it. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eVictory is almost ours. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI hear the ump--a short dude whose middle is shaped like the highlighter-hued ball that gives this game I love so much its name--hock a loogie above my head. It slams into the dirt on my right with the force of a slimy bullet. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSo gross. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI breathe in again, though it definitely makes me feel like the hot dog I ate earlier is going to join ump guy’s blob of mucus beside me. The air has to be full of phlegm germs right now. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI gotta get my head back in the game. Yes, we’re up, but I’d be lying if I said the Sharks aren’t good. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThey’re real good, in fact. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut so are we. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe have to win this game. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTheir best batter is at the plate--Steph Mahoney. I know her name because of her rep as a home-run hitter. Not surprising once you see the latest Louisville Slugger LXT choke-gripped between her half-covered hands. Her batting gloves are fingerless, which I’ve never seen in our league. But considering that bat costs 350 buckaroos, it’s clear good ol’ Steph is serious about this sport. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI lock gazes with our pitcher, Cala “Quickfire” Kennedy. My “teammate” since the days of rolling one of Daddy’s baseballs back and forth in our shared playpen (though we haven’t always played on the same actual team). She’s the best, most epic fast-pitch heat thrower in the state. Likely even in all of Dixie, and maybe the whole country. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAll she’s gotta do is throw one more strike. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIn my peripheral vision, I see the blond, freckly-faced girl on third base take a quick peek at her coach, who tugs at his right earlobe, and then brushes a finger beneath his nose. After a slight nod, she subtly steps one foot off the slightly raised white square, and shifts into a ready-to-run stance, eyes on Cala, like a little lion cub who has decided home plate is her prey. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSteal a run? Not on my watch. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe HAVE to win this game. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI “adjust” my face mask with my left hand--my signal to Hennessey Lane, our go-to third-base girl (and a robotics champion to boot), that the ball is coming at her fast so she can pick the runner off, which would win us the game--and within a second, Quickfire has thrown a pitch. It’s wide, and Steph rightly doesn’t swing. But I was right about blondie: she takes off from third. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGood thing they don’t call me Lightning Lockwood for nothing. Before the ump can shout, “Ball two!” I’ve fired the yellow sphere at Hennessey, and the golden-haired Shark is diving back toward the base, her fingertips reaching the edge a mere breath before Hennessey tags her side, ball in glove. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“SAFE!” the third-base ump says, slashing his arms out to his sides. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHennessey lobs the ball back to Cala, and as the LXT batter repositions herself, I use my fingers to signal my suggested pitch: rising curve, outside edge. Cala stands, centers, and whips her arm around quick as a camera flash. It hits my glove before I can blink-- \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“BALL THREE!” Loogie Ump barks behind me. His voice is a little phlegmy. It’s like I can feel the germs raining down on my back now. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“All good, Cay!” Cala’s mom shouts from the stands. “Head in the game, baby!” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAs I remove the ball from my glove to toss it back to Cala, it feels like it’s on fire. Not literally, of course. But I have no doubt Cala feels it, too: this pitch could decide the game. All she’s gotta do is throw one more strike. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI signal for a fastball, straight up the middle. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCala lets it rip, and I position my glove and await the telltale thunk and slight throb of my palm inside my glove. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThere’s a THWACK instead. Followed by a different thunk: that of the Louisville Slugger hitting the ground. Steph takes off running, her orangey-red braid swinging as cheering explodes from the visitor stands. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shoot to my feet and yank my helmet off. Watch, unable to breathe, as our center fielder, Britt-Marie Hogan--my best girl friend--runs with everything she’s got to keep up with the soaring yellow ball . . . \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eShe jumps, but to no avail. It flies over the fence, and the Shark fans yell even louder. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“HOME RUN!” the ump shouts behind me. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI turn away from the plate. There’s no way I can watch us lose. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe ride home is super uncomfortable, largely because no one is saying a word inside the Firebus. Usually we all love being in Coach Nat’s giant van--the whole team rides together to and from games, and the Firebus has space for all of us: thirteen players, plus Coach Nat and her wife, Ms. Erica, who never misses anything we do as a team. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eCoach is the dean of a charter school in the “inner city” (she always puts that in quotes) and is an actual former youth softball national champion. She started the Fulton Firebirds two years ago at the suggestion of her mentor, a Black businesswoman we call Ms. Monica, who is the head lawyer at Coke, and who also is a former softballer. As Ms. Monica told us the first time we met her, “There just isn’t enough concentrated Black girl magic in this sport.” Coach Nat recruited every one of us from all over the city. And she and Ms. Erica take excellent care of us and are very invested in our team. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eExample: they strung LED lights around the ceiling of the van--red, orange, and yellow, our team colors--and there’s a rotating softball Ms. Erica covered in square mirrors hanging at the center that makes the colored light scatter everywhere. The outside of the van is black, but it has a firebird painted on the hood, with wings that turn to flames as they wrap around the sides. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDefinitely the coolest vehicle on any road in this area of town. Which is kind of funny, because even though Coach Nat and Ms. Erica would fit in around here--they’re both white ladies--we’ve all seen more than a few other white people notice who’s driving this “drip mobile,” as Coach Nat calls it, and do a double take. Makes us laugh every time. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eNobody is laughing now, though. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOn a win day, we’d be talking and laughing and begging Ms. Erica to crank up the music since Coach Nat won’t (she says it’ll ruin our hearing). \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe’d be singing and dancing. Celebrating. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut as we zip up the tree-lined highway out of “Sandy Saltshaker”--it’s really Sandy Springs, but according to Britt-Marie, “In a place with so few people of color, the name should reflect the folks who live there so everyone knows”--it’s so quiet, I feel like I can hear the germs from Loogie Ump’s spit crawling around on my skin. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWe stop at a red light, and I close my eyes and let my chin drop. Mama would say I’m being dramatic, and my numbskull little brother would toss in his unwanted two cents and agree, but I feel like my head has gotten too heavy for my neck and I just can’t hold it up anymore. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI shouldn’t cry. I know I shouldn’t. Really, this isn’t that big a deal. This game was basically a scrimmage. It won’t hurt our record in the league or affect our standings as we head into tournament season a few weeks from now. It won’t keep us from my ultimate goal for the team this year: the DYSA 12U World Championship title (even though “world” is clearly inaccurate since the whole league is only eight states). A team with a Black player--let alone an all-Black team--has never made it through the district tournament. Even making it to State would be huge: a message that girls like us do belong on the field. We’ve definitely had some games where the opposing team’s fans suggested otherwise. Gotta love Georgia.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eGoing all the way--snagging that Dixie trophy--would be next level. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut to get there, we have to actually win. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI feel like such a baby about the jawbreaker lump in my throat that feels like it’s gonna dissolve and spill outta my eyes in liquid form. Especially since I know getting eaten by the Stockwood Sharks doesn’t. Actually. MATTER. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eStill, though: The other girls in the creepily silent van voted to make me their captain. It’s my job to keep morale up . . . and I can’t think of a single thing to say. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBecause it’s also my job to lead us to victory, and I clearly failed at that, too. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe jawbreaker liquid is spilling over now. Too bad it’s not sweet instead of salty. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAn arm slips beneath my left arm--the one I catch with--and hooks my elbow before something heavy lands on my shoulder. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBritt-Marie’s head. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m pretty sure my eyesight is ruined from the sun glistening off all that shiny golden hair,” she says. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI snort. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m serious,” she continues. “They had a blinding advantage. The kajillion-dollar super bats didn’t hurt, either.” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re ridiculous, Britt,” I say, smiling now. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I’m right. And you know it.” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI don’t say anything back. Don’t have to. I just breathe out and let the trees blur by. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e2\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHome Team \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eSunday mornings in the Lockwood household are usually my favorite time of the week. We’re not churchgoers unless it’s Easter, Juneteenth, or Christmas, and there typically aren’t any weekly plans or activities, so my brother Drake and I sleep until eleven and wake to the smell of bacon. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd to old-people music. There’s this one group called Boyz II Men that sings a lot of sappy songs our parents seem to love dancing and being ooey-gooey to. They hug all up on each other, and they kiss. On the mouth. And while there’s technically nothing wrong with kissing--I haven’t done it yet, but a couple girls on the team have, and they seem to like it--seeing my parents do it is . . . yuck. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eEspecially this morning. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Could you guys maybe get a room?” I say as I step into the kitchen. Mama is sitting on the island, and Daddy’s in front of her with one arm around her waist. They’re just smoochin’ away like nobody else lives here. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDaddy pulls back. “Last I checked, we have an entire house,” he says. “You certainly don’t pay any bills up in here.” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Mm-hmm,” Mama chimes in. I can imagine her dark brown eyes cutting to the side, and her full lips pursing. “Freeloaders stay full of opinions, don’t they, baby?” She pulls his face back toward hers. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“They sure do, queen.” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAnd then they’re at it again. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“So nasty,” I grumble, plopping down at the kitchen table.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Who pooed in your Cheerios?” My head flies forward--a result of being pushed from behind--and I swing my throwing arm. My annoying little brother, Drake, manages to jump out of the way, completely dodging the blow. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“STEEE-RIKE!” He laughs and takes the seat across the table from me. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re childish,” I say. “Sneak attacks are cowardly. And who even says pooed?” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I do! POOOOOOED!” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Child. Ish.” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“I mean, I am a child. . . .” \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“You’re both children, and we can tell,” Mama says. She sets plates of steaming scrambled cheese eggs, French toast, golden hash brown rounds, and fried green tomatoes on the table. Then she goes back to the kitchen and returns with a bowl I know is full of piping-hot pimento cheese grits, and a platter of thick Black Forest bacon. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eI smile, knowing this bacon--the only bacon Millie Lockwood allows to touch her precious seasoned cast-iron griddle--involves a forty-seven-minute drive outside the city to a farmer’s market in what Britt-Marie would call “questionable territory.” And she’s not entirely wrong: I’ve made the trip with Mama a few times, and we do see a number of Confederate flag emblems on billboards, in yards, and on the bumpers of cars along the way. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eBut the farmer we buy our bacon from? Mr. Joiner? He’s one of the nicest old white dudes I’ve ever met. In fact, last time I went with Mama, he showed me a signed Satchel Paige baseball card--super old-school, and so original, he had it in a thick plastic sleeve. And he told me that if I lead my team to the State title, he’ll give it to me. To keep. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama puts our beverages of choice in front of our place settings: sparkling water for her; coffee for Daddy . . . as in the whole pot; orange juice for Drake (so basic, that kid); and freshly squeezed star ruby grapefruit juice for me. Then she passes empty plates around and sits as Daddy slowly makes his way over. For as long as I can remember, he’s walked with a cane, but it does seem like he’s moving slower and is in more pain than usual these days. He groans as he takes his seat.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Yearling","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301075636453,"sku":"NP9781984893048","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984893048.jpg?v=1767726753","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/fast-pitch-isbn-9781984893048","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}