Note to Readers:
Certain sections of this serial, THE SIXTH DEGREE, can be read in any order. When you (the reader) need to have read a previous section, I (Solomon, the author of THE SIXTH DEGREE) will put in one of those sections that say "Previously on THE SIXTH DEGREE . . ." and then everybody will be happy, and if you're not, then go to hell, you f*cker.
Charlie Kingston gripped the baseball and slowly pulled it out of his mitt. He eyed the man at bat, his best friend, Glen MacDougal, and lifted his right leg slowly, the way his idol, Randy Johnson did it on TV. He drew back his left arm and held it there for second, then whipped it forward and let the ball escape his grasp. The red-stitched ball flew through the air and was met by the aluminum bat as Glen hacked forward and hit the ball, more by luck than anything else.
The ball quickly sailed high into the air, over the fence marking the boys’ baseball field and landed in the lake, startling a placid fisherman, who quickly recovered and began yelling obscenities to the boys, much to their enjoyment.
Charlie looked over at Glen and saw that instead of running the bases frantically, or laughing at the fisher’s displeasure, as the other boys were doing, he was instead looking at the fence. Charlie looked and soon understood Glen’s fascination: Daniela Cortez was standing there, with her girlfriends, watching the game. But as Charlie turned to look, she about-faced and began to leave the field.
Charlie jogged over, abandoning the fallen apart game, and patted his friend on the back. “Come on, dude. You’ve been after her since summer started, but you haven’t said a word to her.”
“Yeah, but what could I say?” Glen sighed. “We ain’t got nothing in common, ’cept the fact that we’re both minorities, an’ so is everybody else. You’re the only white kid here.”
Charlie looked around. “Well, you both . . . like . . . to . . . .” He trailed off.
Glen bent down to tie his shoe. “C, give it up. You know I ain’t got no chance with her.” He stood up. “You’d have a better chance askin’ her out than me, even though you sweat like a dog when you talk to a girl.” He pushed up his glasses. “I’m outta here.”
Charlie watched him go, his friend’s muscular frame noticeable as he pushed through the smaller kids, watched him pass an old, scruffy man as he went through the gate on his way home, watched until he turned a corner and was out of sight.
