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have a couple of important announcements to make. First, I’d like to welcome Orlando Ramirez. Please stand, Orlando.”
    Every head in the class swiveled around to stare at the new kid. Poor Orlando did his best impression of butter on a hot day. He melted. The guy was great in center field, but playing center of attention was a different story. He obviously hated it.
    “Orlando’s family just arrived from Florida,” said Mr. Swickle. “I know I speak for the whole class when I say how pleased we are to havehim. Let’s give him a big, warm welcome to Room twelve.”
    Everybody clapped politely. Everyone, that is, except Stump. He cheered like he was at a ball game. “Or-lan-do! Or-lan-do! Or-lan-do!” he chanted, pumping his fist in the air. If he could have, I’m sure Stump would have done the wave.
    Unfortunately, it takes more than one person to do the wave.
    “Second order of business,” continued the teacher. “Undoubtedly you will have noticed something new when you arrived at school this morning.”
    A murmur of excitement buzzed through the room.
    “Yes, I refer to the giant mountain of snow heaped by plows during vacation. Word to the wise: do not even think about going anywhere near it. The mountain is off-limits. No one is to climb it, slide down it, build a snow fort on it, or otherwise have anything to do with it. Inother words, pretend it isn’t there.”
    Stump raised his hand.
    “Yes?” called Mr. Swickle.
    “Are you saying we should treat Mount Rambletown like the elephant in the room?”
    I snorted. Leave it to Stump.
    Mr. Swickle leveled his gaze at my friend. “Elephant, tiger, great white shark, T. rex . Call it what you want. I’m saying, stay away from it. The consequences for not doing so, I am advised, will be severe. Does everyone understand?”
    The class groaned in unison. We understood.
    “Do you particularly understand, Mr. Plumwhiff?”
    Stump made a “Who me?” face and held up his hands.
    “Excellent,” said Mr. Swickle.

CHAPTER 10
    “L et us now turn our attention to the blackboard,” said Mr. Swickle. “You will notice where I have inscribed a poem for our mutual pleasure and enlightenment.”
    April is National Poetry Month. Mr. Swickle celebrated the occasion by starting every morning with a new poem. I guess it could have been worse. April could have been National Long Division Month or something.
    Surprisingly, a few of the poems actually were okay. They hardly seemed like poems at all. The best ones used normal words that sometimes didn’t even rhyme and they could be about almost anything you could thinkof. Such as jumping off a rope swing into a cool pond on a hot day.
    A real hot day would have been nice. It would’ve melted the snow.
    “As you can see, today’s selection is called ‘Father Time Is Coming’ by the poet J. Patrick Lewis,” Mr. Swickle said. “It’s about a subject near and dear to many of our hearts—baseball. Who would like to read it?”
    A half dozen hands shot into the air, including mine. I’d never heard of the poem, but I knew you couldn’t beat the subject.
    “Gabby? Excellent. Begin when you’re ready.”
    Gabby stood at her desk and cleared her throat. “Father Time Is Coming,’” she read. “‘Out of a windmill windup, the whipcord arm grooves a dartball.’”
    I sat up a little straighter in my chair. In my head I could see the hurler whipping his pitch. I didn’t know what a dartball was, but it sure sounded nasty. Gabby continuedreading through a list of weapons this cool character had in his arsenal. Forget about ordinary fastballs and curves. The guy’s stuff included the “two-hump blooper” and the “radioball”—you could hear it, but you never saw it. That last one reminded me of Flicker Pringle, star pitcher of the Hog City Haymakers. He whips the ball so hard it’s nothing but a blur.
    “‘I’m Satchel,’” Gabby recited, reaching the poem’s last line. “‘I do as I