Clack, Clack, Clack.

The Ping-Pong ball clattered over the basement floor. “Yes!” I cried as I watched Mindy chase after it.

It was a hot, sticky June afternoon. The first Monday of summer vacation. And Joe Burton had just made another excellent shot.

That’s me. Joe Burton. I’m twelve. And there is nothing I love better than slamming the ball in my older sister’s face and making her chase after it.

I’m not a bad sport. I just like to show Mindy that she’s not as great as she thinks she is.

You might guess that Mindy and I do not always agree on things. The fact is, I’m really not like anyone else in my family.

Mindy, Mom, and Dad are all blond, skinny, and tall. I have brown hair. And I’m kind of pudgy and short. Mom says I haven’t had my growth spurt yet.

So I’m a shrimp. And it’s hard for me to see over the Ping-Pong net. But I can still beat Mindy with one hand tied behind my back.

As much as I love to win, Mindy hates to lose. And she doesn’t play fair at all. Every time I make a great move, she says it doesn’t count.

“Joe, kicking the ball over the net is not legal,” she whined as she scooped out the ball from under the couch.

“Give me a break!” I cried. “All the Ping-Pong champions do it. They call it the Soccer Slam.”

Mindy rolled her huge green eyes. “Oh, puh-lease!” she muttered. “My serve.”

Mindy is weird. She’s probably the weirdest fourteen-year-old in town.

Why? I’ll tell you why.

Take her room. Mindy arranges all her books in alphabetical order—by author. Do you believe it?

And she fills out a card for each one. She files them in the top drawer of her desk. Her own private card catalog.

If she could, she’d probably cut the tops off the books so they’d be all the same size.

She is so organized. Her closet is organized by color. All the reds come first. Then the oranges. Then the yellows. Then come the greens, blues, and purples. She hangs her clothes in the same order as the rainbow.

And at dinner, she eats around her plate clockwise. Really! I’ve watched her. First her mashed potatoes. Then all her peas. And then her meat loaf. If she finds one pea in her mashed potatoes, she totally loses it!

Weird. Really weird.

Me? I’m not organized. I’m cool. I’m not serious like my sister. I can be pretty funny. My friends think I’m a riot. Everyone does. Except Mindy.

“Come on, serve already,” I called out. “Before the end of the century.”

Mindy stood on her side of the table, carefully lining up her shot. She stands in exactly the same place every time. With her feet exactly the same space apart. Her footprints are worn into the carpet.

“Ten-eight and serving,” Mindy finally called out. She always calls out the score before she serves. Then she swung her arm back.

I held the paddle up to my mouth like a microphone. “She pulls her arm back,” I announced. “The crowd is hushed. It’s a tense moment.”

“Joe, stop acting like a jerk,” she snapped. “I have to concentrate.”

I love pretending I’m a sports announcer. It drives Mindy nuts.

Mindy pulled her arm back again. She tossed the Ping-Pong ball up into the air. And…

“A spider!” I screamed. “On your shoulder!”

“Yaaaiiii!” Mindy dropped the paddle and began slapping her shoulder furiously. The ball clattered onto the table.

“Gotcha!” I cried. “My point.”

“No way!” Mindy shouted angrily. “You’re just a cheater, Joe.” She smoothed the shoulders of her pink T-shirt carefully. She picked up the ball and swatted it over the net.

“At least I’m a funny cheater!” I replied. I twirled around in a complete circle and belted the ball. It bounced once on my side before sailing over the net.

“Foul,” Mindy announced. “You’re always fouling.”

I waved my paddle at her. “Get a life,” I said. “It’s a game. It’s supposed to be fun.”

“I’m beating you,” Mindy replied. “That’s fun.”

I shrugged. “Who cares? Winning isn’t everything.”

“Where did you read that?” she asked. “In a bubble gum comic?” Then she rolled her eyes again. I think someday her eyes are going to roll right out of her head!

I rolled my eyes, too—back into my head until only the whites showed. “Neat trick, huh?”

“Cute, Joe,” Mindy muttered. “Really cute. You’d better watch out. One day your eyes might not come back down. Which would be an improvement!”

“Lame joke,” I replied. “Very lame.”

Mindy lined up her feet carefully again.

“She’s in her serve position,” I spoke into my paddle. “She’s nervous. She’s…”

“Joe!” Mindy whined. “Quit it!”

She tossed the Ping-Pong ball into the air. She swung the paddle, and—

“Gross!” I shouted. “What’s that big green glob hanging out of your nose?”

Mindy ignored me this time. She tapped the ball over the net.

I dove forward and whacked it with the tip of my paddle. It spun high over the net and landed in the corner of the basement. Between the washing machine and the dryer.

Mindy jogged after the ball on her long, thin legs. “Hey, where’s Buster?” she called out. “Wasn’t he sleeping next to the dryer?”

Buster is our dog. A giant black Rottweiler with a head the size of a basketball. He loves snoozing on the old sleeping bag we keep in the corner of the basement. Especially when we’re down here playing Ping-Pong.

Everyone is afraid of Buster. For about three seconds. Then he starts licking them with his long, wet tongue. Or rolls onto his back and begs to have his belly scratched.

“Where is he, Joe?” Mindy bit her lip.

“He’s around here somewhere,” I replied. “Why are you always worrying about Buster? He weighs over a hundred pounds. He can take care of himself.”

Mindy frowned. “Not if Mr. McCall catches him. Remember what he said the last time Buster chomped on his tomato plants?”

Mr. McCall is our next-door neighbor. Buster loves the McCalls’ yard. He likes to nap under their huge, shady elm tree.

And dig little holes all over their lawn. And sometimes big holes.

And snack in their vegetable garden.

Last year, Buster dug up every head of Mr. McCall’s lettuce. And ate his biggest zucchini plant for dessert.

I guess that’s why Mr. McCall hates Buster. He said the next time he catches him in his garden, he’s going to turn him into fertilizer.

My dad and Mr. McCall are the two best gardeners in town. They’re nuts about gardening. Totally nuts.

I think working in a garden is kind of fun, too. But I don’t let that get around. My friends think gardening is for nerds.

Dad and Mr. McCall are always battling it out at the annual garden show. Mr. McCall usually takes first place. But last year, Dad and I won the blue ribbon for our tomatoes.

That drove Mr. McCall crazy. When Dad’s name was announced, Mr. McCall’s face turned as red as our tomatoes.

So Mr. McCall is desperate to win this year. He started stocking up on plant food and bug spray months ago.

And he planted something that nobody else in North Bay grows. Strange orange-green melons called casabas.

Dad says that Mr. McCall has made a big mistake. He says the casabas will never grow any bigger than tennis balls. The growing season in Minnesota is too short.

“McCall’s garden loses,” I declared. “Our tomatoes are definitely going to win again this year. And thanks to my special soil, they’ll grow as big as beach balls!”

“So will your head,” Mindy shot back.

I stuck out my tongue and crossed my eyes. It seemed like a good reply.

“Whose serve is it?” I asked. Mindy was taking so long, I lost track.

“It’s still my serve,” she replied, carefully placing her feet.

We were interrupted by footsteps. Heavy, booming footsteps on the stairs behind Mindy.

“Who is that?” Mindy cried.

And then he appeared behind her. And my eyes nearly bulged right out of my head.

“Oh, no!” I screamed. “It’s… McCall!”