Praise for

Katie McGarry

bestselling author of

PUSHING THE LIMITS

‘The love story of the year’ —Teen Now

‘A real page-turner’ —Mizz

‘A romance with a difference’ —Bliss

‘McGarry details the sexy highs, the devastating lows, and the real work it takes to build true love’

—Jennifer Echols

‘A riveting and emotional ride’

—Simone Elkeles

‘Highly recommend to fans of hard-hitting, edgy, contemporary and to anyone who loves a smouldering, sexy, consuming love story to boot!’

—Jess Hearts Books Blog

‘McGarry is definitely a YA author to keep an eye out for.’

—Choose YA Blog

DARE YOU TO

Ryan lowers his lips to my ear.

‘Dance with me, Beth.’

‘No.’ I’m definitely learning-impaired. I whispered the reply. I might as well have screamed yes. This is a mistake, Beth. A huge, glaring mistake. Just run!

Ryan places his other hand on the small of my back and moulds his strong body to mine. I inhale and welcome the scent of warm earth and summer rain. Ryan smells … delicious.

‘This works better if you touch me,’ he says.

I loosely lay my hands on his shoulders. Sort of like what I saw Echo do once when Noah swept her off the bed to dance. My skin tingles. Touching Ryan, oh God, it’s too much … too intimate. ‘I’m only doing this because I owe you.’

‘That’s okay.’ On rhythm, Ryan moves his hips from side to side. His hand slides an inch lower and the gentle pressure he exerts on my thigh stirs my body to sway in time with his. Our feet never leave the ground, but, I swear, I’m flying.

About the Author

KATIE MCGARRY was a teenager during the age of grunge and boy bands and remembers those years as the best and worst of her life. She is a lover of music, happy endings and reality television, and is a secret University of Kentucky basketball fan.

Katie would love to hear from her readers. Contact her via her website, katielmcgarry.com, follow her on Twitter @KatieMcGarry, or become a fan on Facebook and Goodreads.

Also available

PUSHING THE LIMITS

CROSSING THE LINE (ebook novella)

Coming soon

CRASH INTO ME

Find out more about Katie McGarry at www.miraink.co.uk and join the conversation on Twitter @MIRAInk or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/MIRAInk

Dare You To
Katie McGarry

www.miraink.co.uk

“It is the beautiful bird which gets caged.”

—Old Chinese Proverb

RYAN

I’M NOT INTERESTED in second place. Never have been. Never will be. It’s not the style of anyone who wants to play in the majors. And because of my personal philosophy, this moment sucks. My best friend is seconds from scoring a phone number from the chick working the Taco Bell counter, placing him in the lead.

What started as a simple dare twisted into a night-long game. First, Chris dared me to ask the girl in line at the movies for her number. Then I dared him to ask the girl at the batting cages for her number. The more we succeeded, the more momentum the game gained. Too bad Chris owns a grin that melts the hearts of all girls, including the ones with boyfriends.

I hate losing.

Taco Bell Chick blushes when Chris winks at her. Come on. I chose her because she called us redneck losers when we ordered. Chris rests his arms on the counter, inching closer to the girl, as I sit at the table and watch the tragedy unfold. Shouldn’t she be having an epiphany right about now? If not, can she find some self-respect and tell Chris to beat it?

Every single muscle on the back of my neck tenses as Taco Bell Chick giggles, writes something on a piece of paper, and slides it over to him. Dammit. The rest of our group howls with laughter and someone pats me on the back.

Tonight isn’t about phone numbers or girls. It’s about enjoying our last Friday night before school begins. I’ve tasted everything—the freedom of hot summer air in the Jeep with the panels down, the peace of dark country roads leading to the interstate, the exciting glow of city lights as we took the thirty-minute drive into Louisville, and, lastly, the mouthwatering taste of a greasy fast-food taco at midnight.

Chris raises the phone number like a referee holding up the glove of the prize champion. “It’s on, Ryan.”

“Bring it.” There’s no way I’ve gotten this far to have Chris outdo me.

He slouches in his seat, tosses the paper into the pile of numbers we’ve collected over the evening, and tugs his Bullitt County High baseball cap over his brown hair. “Let’s see. These things have to be thought through. The girl chosen carefully. Attractive enough so she won’t fall for you. Not a dog because she’ll be excited someone gave her a bone.”

Mimicking him, I shift back in the chair, extend my legs, and fold my hands over my stomach. “Take your time. I’ve got forever.”

But we don’t. After this weekend, life changes—my life and Chris’s. On Monday, Chris and I will be seniors starting our last fall baseball league. I only have a few more months to impress the professional baseball scouts or the dream I’ve been working toward my entire life will dissolve into ashes.

A shove at my foot brings me back to the here and now.

“Stop the serious shit,” Logan whispers. The lone junior at the table and the best damn catcher in the state nods toward the rest of the group. He knows my facial expressions better than anyone. He should. We’ve been playing together since we were kids. Me pitching. Him catching.

For Logan’s sake, I laugh at a joke Chris told even though I didn’t hear the punch line.

“We close soon.” Taco Bell Chick wipes a table near ours and gives Chris a smile. She almost looks pretty in the glow of the red neon Drive-Thru Open sign.

“I may call that one,” says Chris.

I lift a brow. He worships his girlfriend. “No, you won’t.”

“I would if it weren’t for Lacy.” But he has Lacy, and loves her, so neither one of us continues that conversation.

“I have one more try.” I make a show of glancing around the purple Tex-Mex decorated lobby. “What girl are you choosing for me?”

A honk from the drive-thru announces the arrival of a car full of hot girls. Rap pounds from their car and I swear one girl flashes us. I love the city. A brunette in the backseat waves at me. “You should pick one of them.”

“Sure,” Chris says sarcastically. “In fact, why don’t I hand you the title now?”

Two guys from our table hop out of their seats and go outside, leaving me, Logan, and Chris alone. “Last chance for hot city girls before we drive back to Groveton, Logan.”

Logan doesn’t say anything one way or another, nor does his face move an inch. That’s Logan for you—unmoved by much. Unless it involves a feat associated with death.

“There she is.” Chris’s eyes brighten as he stares at the entrance. “That’s the girl I’m calling as yours.”

I suck in a deep breath. Chris sounds too happy for this girl to be good news. “Where?”

“Just came in, waiting at the counter.”

I risk a look. Black hair. Torn clothes. Total skater. Damn, those chicks are hard-core. I slap my hand against the table and our trays shift. Why? Why did Skater Girl have to wander into Taco Bell tonight?

Chris’s rough chuckles do nothing to help my growing agitation. “Admit defeat and you won’t have to suffer.”

“No way.” I stand, refusing to go down without a fight.

All girls are the same. It’s what I tell myself as I stroll to the counter. She might look different from the girls at home, but all girls want the same thing—a guy who shows interest. A guy’s problem is having the balls to do it. Good thing for me I’ve got balls. “Hi. I’m Ryan.”

Her long black hair hides her face, but her slim body with a hint of curves catches my attention. Unlike the girls at home, she isn’t wearing marked-down designer labels. Nope. She has her own style. Her black tank top shows more skin than it covers and her skintight jeans hug all the right places. My eyes linger on a single rip in them, directly below her ass.

She leans over the counter and the rip widens. Skater Girl turns her head toward me and the drive-thru. “Is someone going to take my fucking order?”

Chris’s laughter from our corner table jerks me back to reality. I pull off my baseball cap, mess my hand through my hair, and shove the hat back in place. Why her? Why tonight? But there’s a dare and I’m going to win. “Counter’s a little slow tonight.”

She glares at me like I’m a little slow. “Are you speaking to me?”

Her hard stare dares me to glance away, and a lesser guy would. I’m not lesser. Keep staring, Skater Girl. You don’t scare me. I’m drawn to her eyes though. They’re blue. Dark blue. I never would have thought someone with such black hair could have those brilliant eyes.

“I asked you a question.” She rests a hip against the counter and crosses her arms over her chest. “Or are you as stupid as you look?”

Yep, pure punk: attitude, nose ring, and a sneer that can kill on sight. She’s not my type, but she doesn’t have to be. I just need her number. “You’d probably get better service if you watched your language.”

A hint of amusement touches her lips and dances in her eyes. Not the kind of amusement you laugh with. It’s the taunting kind. “Does my language bother you?”

Yes. “No.” Girls don’t use fuck. Or they shouldn’t. I don’t care for the word, but I know when I’m being tested and this is a test.

“So my language doesn’t bother you, but you say—” she raises her voice and leans over the counter again “—I could get some fucking service if I watched my language.”

Wouldn’t hurt. Time to switch tactics. “What do you want?”

Her head snaps up as if she had forgotten I was there. “What?”

“To eat. What do you want to eat?”

“Fish. What do you think I want? I’m at a taco joint.”

Chris laughs again and this time Logan joins in. If I don’t salvage this, I’ll be listening to their ridicule the entire way home. This time I lean over the counter and wave at the girl working the drive-thru. I give her a smile. She smiles back. Take lessons, Skater Girl. This is how it’s supposed to work. “Can I have a minute?”

Drive-Thru Chick’s face brightens and she holds up a finger as she continues with the order from outside. “Be right there. Promise.”

I turn back to Skater Girl, but instead of the warm thank-you I should be receiving she shakes her head, clearly annoyed. “Jocks.”

My smile falters. Hers grows.

“How do you know I’m a jock?”

Her eyes wander to my chest and I fight a grimace. Written in black letters across my gray shirt is Bullitt County High School, Baseball State Champions.

“So you are stupid,” she says.

I’m done. I take one step in the direction of the table, then stop. I don’t lose. “What’s your name?”

“What do I have to do to make you leave me alone?”

And there it is—my opening. “Give me your phone number.”

The right side of her mouth quirks up. “You’re fucking kidding.”

“I’m dead serious. Give me your name and phone number and I’ll walk away.”

“You must be brain damaged.”

“Welcome to Taco Bell. Can I take your order?”

We both look at Drive-Thru Chick. She beams at me, then cowers from Skater Girl. With her lids cast down, she asks again, “What can I get you?”

I pull out my wallet and slam ten dollars on the counter. “Tacos.”

“And a Coke,” Skater Girl says. “Large. Since he’s paying.”

“Oookaay.” Drive-Thru Chick enters the order, slides the money off the counter, and returns to the order window.

We stare at each other. I swear, this girl never blinks.

“I believe a thank-you is in order,” I say.

“I never asked you to pay.”

“Give me your name and phone number and we’ll call it even.”

She licks her lips. “There is absolutely nothing you can do to ever get me to give you my name or number.”

Ring the bell. Playtime ended with those words. Purposely invading her space, I steal a step toward her and place a hand on the counter next to her body. It affects her. I can tell. Her eyes lose the amusement and her arms hug her body. She’s small. Smaller than I expected. That attitude is so big I hadn’t noticed her height or size. “I bet I can.”

She juts out her chin. “Can’t.”

“Eight tacos and one large Coke,” says the girl from behind the counter.

Skater Girl snatches the order and spins on her heel before I can process I’m on the verge of losing. “Wait!”

She stops at the door. “What?”

This “what” doesn’t have nearly the anger of the one before. Maybe I’m getting somewhere. “Give me your phone number. I want to call you.”

No, I don’t, but I do want to win. She’s wavering. I can tell. To keep from scaring her off, I bury my excitement. Nothing sends me higher than winning.

“I’ll tell you what.” She flashes a smile that drips with a mixture of allure and wickedness. “If you can walk me to my car and open the door for me, I’ll give you my number.”

Can.

She steps into the humid night and skips down the sidewalk to the back parking lot. I wouldn’t have pegged this girl as a skipper. Skip she does and I follow, tasting the sweet victory.

Victory doesn’t last long. I freeze midstep on the sidewalk. Before she can prance past the yellow lines confining an old rusty car, two menacing guys climb out and neither appears happy.

“Something I can do for you, man?” the taller one asks. Tattoos run the length of his arms.

“Nope.” I shove my hands in my pockets and relax my stance. I have no intention of getting into a fight, especially when I’m outnumbered.

Tattoo Guy crosses the parking lot, and he’d probably keep coming if it wasn’t for the other guy with hair covering his eyes. He stops right in front of Tattoo Guy, halting his progress, but his posture suggests he’d also fight for kicks. “Is there a problem, Beth?”

Beth. Hard to believe this hard-core girl could have such a delicate name. As if reading my thoughts, her lips slide into an evil smirk. “Not anymore,” she answers as she jumps into the front seat of the car.

Both guys walk to their car while keeping an eye on me, as if I’m stupid enough to jump them from behind. The engine roars to life and the car vibrates like duct tape holds it together.

In no hurry to go inside and explain to my friends how I lost, I stay on the sidewalk. The car slowly drives by and Beth presses her palm against the passenger window. Written in black marker is the word signaling my defeat: can’t.

BETH

THERE’S NOTHING BETTER than the feeling of floating. Weightless in warmth. Comforter-out-of-the-dryer warmth. The warmth of a strong hand against my face, running through my hair. If only life could be like this … forever.

I could do forever here, in the basement of my aunt’s house. All walls. No windows. The outside kept outside. The people I love inside.

Noah—his hair hiding his eyes, keeping the world from seeing his soul.

Isaiah—a sleeve of beautiful tattoos that frightens the normal and entices the free.

Me—the poet in my mind when I’m high.

I came to this house for safety. They came because the foster care system ran out of homes. We stayed because we were stray pieces of other puzzles, tired of never fitting.

One year ago, Isaiah and Noah bought the couch, the king-size mattress, and the TV from the Goodwill. Shit thrown away by somebody else. By yanking it down a flight of stairs into the depths of the earth, they made us a home. They gave me a family.

“I wore ribbons,” I say. My own voice sounds bizarre. Echoing. Far away. And I speak again so I can hear the strangeness. “Lots of them.”

“I love it when she does this,” Isaiah says to Noah. The three of us relax on the bed. Finishing another beer, Noah sits at the end with his back propped against the wall. Isaiah and I touch. We only touch when we’re high or drunk or both. We can because it doesn’t count then. Nothing counts when you feel weightless.

Isaiah runs his hand through my hair again. The gentle tug urges me to close my eyes and sleep forever. Bliss. This is bliss.

“What colors?” The normal rough edges of Isaiah’s tone disappear, leaving smooth deepness.

“Pink.”

“And?”

“Dresses. I loved dresses.”

It feels as if I’m turning my head through sand in order to look at him. My head rests on his stomach and I smile when the heat of his skin radiates past his T-shirt onto my cheek. Or maybe I’m smiling because it’s Isaiah and only he can make me smile.

I love his dark hair, shaved close to his scalp. I love his kind gray eyes. I love the earrings in both ears. I love … that he’s hot. Hot when he’s high. I giggle. He’s tragically hot when he’s sober. I should write that down.

“Do you want a dress, Beth?” Isaiah asks. He never teases me when I remember my childhood. In fact, it’s one of the few times he asks endless questions.

“Would you buy me one?” I don’t know why, but the thought lightens my heart. The teeny sober part of my brain reminds me I don’t wear dresses, that I spurned ribbons. The rest of my mind, lost in a haze of pot, enjoys the game—the prospect of a life with dresses and ribbons and someone willing to make my wildest dreams come true.

“Yes,” he answers without hesitating.

The muscles around my mouth become heavy and the rest of my body, including my heart, follows suit. No. I’m not ready for the comedown. I close my eyes and will it to go away.

“She’s baked.” Noah’s not baked and part of me resents him for it. He quit pot and being carefree when he graduated, and he’s taking Isaiah with him. “We waited too long.”

“No, it’s perfect.” Isaiah moves and places my head on something soft and fluffy. He gave me a pillow. Isaiah always takes care of me.

“Beth?” His warm breath drifts near my ear.

“Yes.” It’s a groggy whisper.

“Move in with us.”

Last spring, Noah graduated from high school and the foster system. He’s moving out and Isaiah’s going with him, even though Isaiah can’t officially leave foster care until he graduates next year and turns eighteen. My aunt doesn’t care where Isaiah lives as long as she keeps receiving the checks from the state.

I try to shake my head no, but it doesn’t work too well in sand.

“The two of us talked and you can have a bedroom and we’ll share the other one.”

They’ve been at this for weeks, trying to convince me to leave with them. But ha! Even stoned I can foil their plans. I flutter my eyes open. “Won’t work. You need privacy for sex.”

Noah chuckles. “We have a couch.”

“I’m still in high school.”

“So’s Isaiah. In case you didn’t notice, you’re both seniors this year.”

Smart-ass. I glare at Noah. He merely sips his beer.

Isaiah continues, “How else are you going to get to school? You gonna ride the bus?”

Hell no. “You’re going to get your sorry ass up early to pick me up.”

“You know I will,” he murmurs, and I find a hint of my bliss again.

“Why won’t you move in with us?” Noah asks.

His direct question sobers me up. Because, I scream in my mind. I flip onto my side and curl into a ball. Seconds later something soft covers my body. The blanket tucked right underneath my chin.

“Now, she’s done,” says Isaiah.

My ass vibrates. I stretch before reaching into my back pocket for my cell.

For a second, I wonder if pretty boy from Taco Bell somehow managed to score my number. I dreamed of him—Taco Bell Boy. He stood close to me, looking all arrogant and gorgeous with his mop of sandy-blond hair and light brown eyes. This time he wasn’t trying to play me by getting my number. He was smiling at me like I actually mattered.

As I said—just a dream.

The image fades when I check the time and the caller ID on my cell: 3:00 a.m. and The Last Stop bar. Fuck. Wishing I never sobered up, I accept the call. “Hold on.”

Isaiah’s asleep beside me, his arm haphazardly thrown over my stomach. Gently lifting it, I squeeze out from underneath. Noah’s passed out on the couch, with his girlfriend, Echo, pulled tight against him. Shit, when did she get back in town?

Quietly, I climb the stairs, enter the kitchen, and shut the door to the basement. “Yeah.”

“Your mother’s causing problems again,” says a pissed-off male voice. Unfortunately, I know this voice: Denny. Bartender/owner of The Last Stop.

“Have you cut her off?”

“I can’t stop guys from buying her drinks. Look, kid, you pay me to call you before I call the police or bounce her out to the curb. You’ve got fifteen minutes to drag her ass out.”

He hangs up. Denny really needs to work on his conversational skills.

I walk the two blocks to the strip mall, which boasts all the conveniences white trash can desire: a Laundromat, Dollar Store, liquor store, piss-ass market that accepts WIC and food stamps and sells stale bread and week-old meat, cigarette store, pawn shop, and biker bar. Oh, and a dilapidated lawyer’s office in case you get caught shoplifting or holding up any of the above.

The other stores closed hours ago, placing the bars over their windows. Groups of men and women huddle around the scores of motorcycles that fill the parking lot. The stale stench of cigarettes and the sweet scent of cloves and pot mingle together in the hot summer air.

Denny and I both know he won’t call the cops, but I can’t risk it. Mom’s been arrested twice and is on probation. And even if he doesn’t call the cops, he’ll kick her out. A burst of male laughter reminds me why that’s not a good thing. It’s not happy laughter or joyous or even sane. It’s mean, has an edge, and craves someone’s pain.

Mom thrives on sick men. I don’t get it. Don’t have to. I just clean up the mess.

The dull bulbs hanging over the pool tables, the running red-neon lights over the bar, and the two televisions hanging on the wall create the bar’s only light. The sign on the door states two things: no one under the age of twenty-one and no gang colors. Even in the dimness, I can see neither rule applies. Most of the men wear jackets with their motorcycle gang emblem clearly in sight, and half the girls hanging on those men are underage.

I push between two men to where Denny serves drinks at the bar. “Where is she?”

Denny, in his typical red flannel, has his back to me and pours vodka into shot glasses. He won’t talk and pour at the same time—at least to me.

I force my body to stay stoically still when a hand squeezes my ass and a guy reeking with BO leans into me. “Wanna drink?”

“Fuck off, dickhead.”

He laughs and squeezes again. I focus on the rainbow of liquor bottles lined up behind the bar, pretending I’m someplace else. Someone else. “Hand off my ass or I’ll rip off your balls.”

Denny blocks my view of the bottles and slides a beer to the guy seconds away from losing his manhood. “Jailbait.”

Dickhead wanders from the bar as Denny nods toward the back. “Where she’s always at.”

“Thanks.”

I draw stares and snickers as I walk past. Most of the laughter belongs to regulars. They know why I’m here. I see the judgment in their eyes. The amusement. The pity. Damn hypocrites.

I walk with my head high, shoulders squared. I’m better than them. No matter the whispers and taunts they throw out. Fuck them. Fuck them all.

Most everyone in the back room hovers over a poker game near the front, leaving the rest of the room empty. The door to the alley hangs wide-open. I can see Mom’s apartment complex and her front door from here. Convenient.

Mom sits at a small round table in the corner. Two bottles of whiskey and a shot glass sit beside her. She rubs her cheek, then pulls her hand away. Inside of me, anger erupts.

He hit her. Again. Her cheek is red. Blotchy. The skin underneath the eye already swelling. This is the reason why I can’t move in with Noah and Isaiah. The reason I can’t leave. I need to be two blocks from Mom.

“Elisabeth.” Mom slurs the s and drunkenly waves me over. She picks up a whiskey bottle and tips it over the general area of the shot glass, but nothing comes out. Which is good because she’d miss the glass by an inch.

I go to her, take the bottle, and set it on the table beside us. “It’s empty.”

“Oh.” She blinks her hollow blue eyes. “Be a good girl and go get me another.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Then get you something too.”

“Let’s go, Mom.”

Mom smoothes her blond hair with a shaky hand and glances around as if she just woke from a dream. “He hit me.”

“I know.”

“I hit him back.”

Don’t doubt she hit him first. “We’ve gotta go.”

“I don’t blame you.”

That statement hits me in ways a man can’t. I release a long breath and search for a way to ease the sting of her words, but I fail. I pick up the other bottle, grateful for the pitiful amount remaining, pour a shot, and swig it down. Then pour another, pushing it toward her. “Yes, you do.”

Mom stares at the drink before letting her middle-aged fingers trace the rim of the shot glass. Her nails are bitten to the quick. The cuticles grown over. The skin surrounding the nails is dry and cracked. I wonder if my mom was ever pretty.

She throws her head back as she drinks. “You’re right. I do. Your father would never have left if it wasn’t for you.”

“I know.” The burn from the whiskey suppresses the pain of the memory. “Let’s go.”

“He loved me.”

“I know.”

“What you did … it forced him to leave.”

“I know.”

“You ruined my life.”

“I know.”

She begins to cry. It’s the drunk cry. The type where it all comes out—the tears, the snot, the spit, the horrible truth you should never tell another soul. “I hate you.”

I flinch. Swallow. And remind myself to inhale. “I know.”

Mom grabs my hand. I don’t pull away. I don’t grab her in return. I let her do what she must. We’ve been down this road several times.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Mom wipes her nose with the bare skin of her forearm. “I didn’t mean it. I love you. You know I do. Don’t leave me alone. Okay?”

“Okay.” What else can I say? She’s my mom. My mom.

Her fingers draw circles on the back of my hand and she refuses eye contact. “Stay with me tonight?”

This is where Isaiah drew the line. Actually, he drew the line further back, forcing me to promise I’d stay away from her altogether after her boyfriend beat the shit out of me. I’ve kind of kept the promise by moving in with my aunt. But someone has to take care of my mom—make sure she eats, has food, pays her bills. It is, after all, my fault Dad left. “Let’s get you home.”

Mom smiles, not noticing I haven’t answered. Sometimes, at night, I dream of her smiling. She was happy when Dad lived with us. Then I ruined her happiness.

Her knees wobble when she stands, but Mom can walk. It’s a good night.

“Where are you going?” I ask when she steps in the direction of the bar.

“To pay my tab.”

Impressive. She has money. “I’ll do it. Stay right here and I’ll walk you home.”

Instead of handing me cash, Mom leans against the back door. Great. Now I’m left with the tab. At least Taco Bell Boy bought me food and I have something to give Denny.

I push people in my quest to reach the bar, and Denny grimaces when he spots me. “Get her out, kid.”

“She’s out. What’s her tab?”

“Already paid.”

Ice runs in my veins. “When?”

“Just now.”

No. “By who?”

He won’t meet my eyes. “Who do you think?”

Shit. I’m falling over myself, stumbling over people, yanking them out of my way. He hit her once. He’ll do it again. I run full force out the back door into the alley and see nothing. Nothing in the dark shadows. Nothing in the streetlights. Crickets chirp in surround sound. “Mom?”

Glass breaks. Glass breaks again. Horrible shrieks echo from the front of Mom’s apartment complex. God, he’s killing her. I know it.

My heart pounds against my rib cage, making it difficult to breathe. Everything shakes—my hands, my legs. The vision of what I’ll see when I reach the parking lot eats at my soul: Mom in a bloody pulp and her asshole boyfriend standing over her. Tears burn my eyes and I trip as I round the corner of the building, scraping my palms on the blacktop. I don’t care. I need to find her. My mom …

My mom swings a baseball bat and shatters the back window of a shitty El Camino.

“What … what are you doing?” And where did she score a baseball bat?

“He.” She swings the bat and breaks more glass. “Cheated.”

I blink, unsure if I want to hug her or kill her. “Then break up with him.”

“You crazy ass bitch!” From the gap between the two apartment buildings, Mom’s boyfriend flies toward her and smacks her face with an open palm. The slap of his hand across her cheek vibrates against my skin. The baseball bat falls from her hands and bounces three times, tip to bottom, against the blacktop. Each hollow crack of the wood heightens my senses. It settles on the ground and rolls toward my feet.

He yells at her. All curses, but his words blend into a buzzing noise in my head. He hit me last year. He hits Mom. He won’t hit either one of us again.

He raises his hand. Mom throws out her arms to protect her face as she kneels in front of him. I grab the bat. Take two steps. Swing it behind my shoulder and …

“Police! Drop the bat! Get on the ground!” Three uniformed officers surround us. Damn. My heart pounds hard against my chest. I should have thought of this, but I didn’t, and the mistake will cost me. The cops patrol the complex regularly.

The asshole points at me. “She did it. That crazy ass girl took out my car. Her mom and I, we tried to stop it, but then she went nuts!”

“Drop the bat! Hands on your head.”

Dazed from his blatant lie, I forgot I still held it. The wooden grip feels rough against my hands. I drop it and listen to the same hollow thumping as it once again bounces on the ground. Placing my hands behind my head, I stare down at my mom. Waiting. Waiting for her to explain. Waiting for her to defend us.

Mom stays on her knees in front of the asshole. She subtly shakes her head and mouths the word please to me.

Please? Please what? I widen my eyes, begging for her to explain.

She mouths one more word: probation.

An officer kicks the bat from us and pats me down. “What happened?”

“I did it,” I tell him. “I destroyed the car.”

RYAN

SWEAT DRIPS FROM MY SCALP and slithers down my forehead, forcing me to wipe my brow before shoving the cap back on. The afternoon sun beats down on me as if I’m simmering in hell’s roasting pan. August games are the worst.

My hands sweat. I don’t care about my left hand—the one wearing the glove. It’s the throwing hand I rub repeatedly on my pant leg. My heart pounds in my ears and I fight off a wave of dizziness. The smell of burnt popcorn and hot dogs drifts from the concession stand, and my stomach cramps. I stayed out too late last night.

Taking a look at the scoreboard, I watch as the temperature rises from ninety-five degrees to ninety-six. Heat index has to be over one hundred. In theory, the moment the index hits one-o-five, the umps should call the game. In theory.

It wouldn’t matter if the temperature was below zero. My stomach would still cramp. My hands would still sweat. The pressure—it builds continually, twisting my insides to the point of implosion.

“Let’s go, Ry!” Chris, our shortstop, yells from between second and third.

His lone battle cry instigates calls from the rest of the team—those on the field and those sitting on the bench. I shouldn’t say sitting. Everyone in the dugout stands with their fingers clenched around the fence.

Bottom of the seventh, we’re up by one run, two outs, and I screwed up and pitched a runner to first. Damn curveball. I’ve thrown one strike and two balls with the current batter. No more room for error. Two more strikes and the game’s over. Two more balls and I walk a batter, giving the other team a runner in scoring position.

The crowd joins in. They clap, whistle, and cheer. No one louder than Dad.

Grasping the ball tightly, I take a deep breath, wrap my right arm behind my back, and lean forward to read Logan’s signal. The stress of this next pitch hangs on me. Everyone wants this game done. No one more than me.

I don’t lose.

Logan crouches into position behind the batter and does something unexpected. He pulls his catcher’s mask onto the top of his head, places his hand between his legs, and flips me off.

Damn bastard.

Logan flaunts a grin and his reminder causes my shoulders to relax. It’s only the first game of the fall season. A scrimmage game at that. I nod and he slides his mask over his face and flashes me the peace sign twice.

Fastball it is.

I glance over my shoulder toward first. The runner’s taken a lead in his hunt for second, but not enough to chance a steal. I cock my arm back and throw with a rush of power and adrenaline. My heart thumps twice at the sweet sound of the ball smacking into Logan’s glove and the words Strike two falling out of the umpire’s mouth.

Logan fires the ball back and I waste no time preparing for the next pitch. This will be it. My team can go home—victorious.

Logan holds his pinkie and ring fingers together. I shake my head. I want to close this out and a fastball will do it, not a curve. Logan hesitates before showing me two peace signs. That’s my boy. He knows I can bring on the heat.

Keeping his hand between his legs, he pauses, then points away from the batter, telling me that my fastballs have been straying outside. I nod. An understanding to keep placement in mind with my speed. The ball flies out of my hand, punches Logan’s glove right in the middle, and the umpire shouts, “Ball!”

I stop breathing. That was a strike.

The fence rattles as my teammates bang on it, screaming at the injustice. Shouting at the umpire, Coach stands on the verge of no-man’s-land between the dugout and the field. My friends on the field whistle at the bad call. The crowd murmurs and boos. In the bleachers, with her head down and lost in prayer, Mom grasps the pearls that hang around her neck.

Dammit. I yank hard on the bill of my hat, trying to calm the blood racing in my veins. Bad calls suck, but they happen. I’ve got one more shot to close this out. One more …

“That was a strike.” Dad steps off the bleachers and heads to the fence right behind the umpire. The players and the crowd fall silent. Dad demands fairness. Well, his version of fair.

“Get back in the stands, Mr. Stone,” the ump says. Everyone in this town knows Dad.

“I’ll return to my seat when we have an ump that can call fair. You’ve been calling bad this entire game.” Even though he said it loud enough for the entire park to hear, he never raised his voice. Dad’s a commanding man and someone this entire town admires.

From behind the fence, Dad towers over the short, fat ump and waits for someone to make right what he views as a wrong. We’re carbon copies of each other, my dad and I. Sandy hair and brown eyes. Long legs. All shoulders and upper arms. Grandma said people like Dad and me were built for hard labor. Dad said we were built for baseball.

My coach steps onto the field along with the coach from the other team. I agree. The ump’s been calling bad, on both sides, but I find it ironic that no one had the guts to say anything until Dad declared war.

“Your dad’s the man.” Chris walks onto the pitcher’s mound.

“Yeah.” The man. I glance over to Mom again and at the empty space where my older brother, Mark, used to sit. Mark’s absence stings more than I thought it would. I extend my glove out to Logan, who has inched away from the four men discussing the fairness of the calls. He automatically pitches the ball back.

Chris scans the crowd. “Notice who came to the game?”

I don’t bother looking. Lacy always attends Chris’s games.

“Gwen,” he says with a canary-ate-the-cat grin. “Lacy heard she’s into you again.”

I react without thinking and turn my head to search the bleachers for her. For two years, Gwen and baseball were my entire life. The breeze blows through Gwen’s long blond hair and, as if she could sense my stare, she looks at me and smiles. Last year, I loved that smile. A smile once reserved for me. Several months have passed since that time. Mom still loves her. I’m not sure how I feel anymore. A guy scales the bleachers and puts his arm around her. Yeah, rub it in, asshole. I’m well aware Gwen and I are done.

“Play ball!” The voice of a new ump booms from the batter’s box. The old ump shakes hands with Dad on the other side of the fence. As I said, Dad believes in fairness and also thinks justice should be served with a man’s pride still intact. Well, for every man that isn’t my brother.

Everyone off the field claps and watches my father return to his seat. Some people extend their hands to him. Others pat his back. Off the field, Dad’s the leader of this community. On the field, I’m the man.

Out of the batter’s box, the batter takes a few practice swings. Two strikes. Three balls. And the kid knows I can bring heat. I whistle and gesture for Logan.

Beside me, Chris laughs. He knows I’m up to no good. Logan approaches with his catcher’s mask on top of his head. “What’s up, boss man?”

“Talk to me.”

This is what a great catcher does. “The batter was sluggish, but he’s had a break, which means he’ll give it everything he has. Your fast has been wandering outside and he knows it.”

I roll the ball in my fingers. “He’ll be expecting fast?”

“If I was him, I’d expect you to throw fast,” says Chris.

I shrug my shoulder and the muscles yell in protest. “Let’s do a changeup. He’ll read it as fast and won’t have enough time to readjust.”

A smile slides across Chris’s face and he places his glove over his mouth. “You’re popping him out.”

“We’re popping him out,” I repeat, hiding my own lips with my glove.

I turn toward the field and whistle to get everyone’s attention. Chris goes back to short, slides his open hand across his chest, and taps his left arm with his right hand twice. The center fielder runs up, and our second baseman passes on the message. By the time I face the batter, Logan’s already sent the message to first and third.

Logan flips his mask over his face, crouches into position, and holds his glove out for the pitch. Yeah, I’m closing this out.

“See you tonight, dawg.” Chris kicks my foot as he walks past. He cradles his bat bag in one hand and Lacy’s hand in the other. Chris and I met Lacy when our schools combined in sixth grade. I liked her the day she skinned her knee playing football with the boys. Chris fell in love with her the day she pushed him on the playground after he tagged her out in baseball. They’ve been a couple since sophomore year—the year he grew a pair and finally asked her out.

Lacy pulls a rubber band off her wrist and twists her brown hair into a messy bun. I love that she isn’t a girly girl. In order to keep up with me, Chris, and Logan, a girl has to have thick skin. Don’t get me wrong—she’s hot as hell, but Lacy doesn’t give a damn what others think of her. “We’re going to the party tonight. I want conversation and people and dancing. There is more to life than batting cages and dares.”

With our fingers frozen on unlacing our cleats, Logan and I snap up our heads. Chris’s face blanches. “That’s sacrilegious, Lace. Take it back.”

Next to me, Logan shoves his feet into his Nikes and tosses his cleats into his bag. “You don’t know the thrill of winning a good dare.”

“Dares aren’t fun,” she says, the reprimand thick in her tone. “They’re crazy. You set my car on fire.”

Logan holds up his hand. “I opened the window in time. In my defense, the upholstery is barely singed.”

Chris and I chuckle at the memory of Lacy screaming as she was doing forty on a curve. The short story: a hamburger wrapper, a lighter, a stopwatch, and a dare. Logan accidentally dropped the blazing wrapper and it rolled under Lacy’s seat. One patented I’ll-kick-you-until-you-drop glare from Lacy shuts us both up. “I wish you’d get a girlfriend so she can drive your insane ass around.”

“I can’t.” Logan waggles his eyebrows. “I’m Ryan’s wingman.”

“Wingman.” She spits the word, then points a sparkly fingernail at both me and Logan, but I don’t miss how it lingers on me. “One of you needs to find a girl and commit. I’m tired of this testosterone bull.”

Lacy hates the string of girls I’ve dated over the summer. She’s terrified I’ll influence Chris to drop her, though she should know better. Chris reveres her as his own personal religion.

“You didn’t approve of the one I committed to last time,” I say. “Why should I try again?”

“Because you can do better than evil.”

I drop my tone. “Gwen’s not evil.” Gwen and I broke up, but there’s no reason to talk trash about her.

“Speak of the devil,” mumbles Logan.

“Hi, Ryan.” I turn my head to witness Gwen in all her glory. A blue cotton dress swishes around her tanned legs, and she wears a new-to-me pair of cowboy boots. Hand-curled ringlets bounce at the ends of her long blond hair. Surrounded by her three best girlfriends, she floats right past, but keeps her green eyes locked on me.

“Gwen,” I say in return. Reaching the concession stand, she sweeps her hair over her shoulder as she refocuses her attention. I keep staring, trying to remember why we broke up.

“Drama!” Lacy purposely blocks my view of Gwen’s ass. “She was nothing but drama. Remember? You said, ‘Lacy, there’s nothing real about her,’ and I said, ‘I know,’ and I happily threw an ‘I told you so’ in your face. Then you said, ‘Don’t let me go back to her,’ and I said, ‘Can I rip off your balls if you attempt it,’ and you said …”

“‘No.’” I said no because Lacy would actually do it, and I prefer my balls attached, but I did ask her to remind me of that conversation if I became weak. Logan and I should ask some girls to the movies next weekend. Hell, if Skater Girl had given me her number, I might even have considered calling her. God knows she was sexy as hell and when it comes to Gwen, a distraction always helps.

“Come on, Logan,” says Chris. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

Near the dugout, Dad wraps an arm around Mom as the two of them chat with Coach and a man dressed in a polo shirt and khakis. I wonder if anyone else notices how Mom leans slightly away from Dad’s body. Probably not. Mom’s in homecoming-court mode, all smiles and laughs.

From over his shoulder, Dad indicates I should join them by giving me one of his rare I’m-proud-of-you smiles. It makes me unbalanced. Yeah, we won, but we win a lot. It’s what state champions do. Why the outpouring of pride now?

As I said, Dad and I are clones, except for the age and the skin. Years of rain, sun, heat, and cold have seasoned his face. Owning a construction company requires a lot of time in the elements. “Ryan, this is Mr. Davis.”

Mr. Davis and I both offer our hands at the same time. He’s tall, thin, and possibly my father’s age, except Mr. Davis doesn’t look weathered. “Call me Rob. Congratulations on a well-played game. You have a hell of a fastball.”

“Thank you, sir.” I’ve heard it before. Mom tells everyone God gave me a gift, and while I’m not sure what I think of that, I won’t deny I’ve enjoyed the ride. Too bad Dad and I couldn’t garner any interest at pro baseball tryouts.

I’m used to meetings and introductions. Because Dad owns his own company and has a seat on the city council, he’s into networking. Don’t get me wrong—Dad’s not the power-hungry sort. He declined running for mayor several times, even though my mom has been begging him to consider it for years. He’s just real into the community.

Rob tilts his head to the field. “Do you mind throwing a couple for me?”

Mom, Dad, and Coach share knowing grins and I feel like someone told a joke and left me out of the punch line. Or maybe I am the punch line. “Sure.”

Rob pulls a radar gun and a business card out of the bag. He keeps the radar gun in his left hand and hands me the card. “I came here today to watch a player from the other team. Didn’t see what I was looking for with him, but I think I found something promising with you.”

Dad claps my back, and his public showing of affection has me looking at him. Dad’s not a touchy guy. My family—we aren’t like that. I grip the card in my hand, and it takes everything I’ve got not to swear in shock in front of my mother. The man heading to the area behind home plate is Rob Davis, scout for the Cincinnati Reds.

“Told you that spring tryouts weren’t the end of it.” Dad motions for me to follow Rob. “Go blow him away.”

BETH

THE OLDER PRISON GUARD, the nice one, walks beside me. He didn’t put the cuffs on supertight like the other dickhead guard. He isn’t in my face, trying to scare the shit out of me. He’s not trying to reenact a scene from Cops. He just walks next to me, ignoring my existence.

I’m all for silence after listening to a girl come down from a bad acid trip last night.

Maybe it was today.

I don’t have a clue what time of day it is.

They gave me breakfast.

They discussed lunch.

It must be morning. Maybe midday.

The guard opens the door to what I can only describe as an interrogation room. Other than the holding cell I’ve shared with the fifteen-year-old who’s way too strung out for my taste, this is where I’ve spent the majority of my time since they arrested me for destruction of property. The guard relaxes his back against the wall. I sit at the table.

I need a cigarette.

Bad.

Unbelievably bad.

Like I would rip off my own arm if I could get one drag.

“What are you coming down from?” The guard stares at my fingers.

I stop tapping the table. “Nicotine.”

“That’s rough,” he says. “I never kicked it.”

“Yeah. It fucking blows.”

The police officer who arrested me last night—this morning—steps into the room. “She speaks.”

Yeah. Didn’t mean to. I clamp my mouth shut. Last night, this morning—who the hell knows—I managed to keep silent when they grilled me on my mom, my home life, my mom’s boyfriend. I refused to talk, refused to say one word, because if I did, I could have said the wrong thing and sent my mom to jail. There’s no way I could live with that.

I have no idea what happened to her or her boyfriend after they snapped the handcuffs on my wrist and sat me in the back of the squad car. If God’s hearing prayers from me, then maybe Mom’s in the clear and the asshole’s sharing a urinal with the other felons-of-the-month.

The officer resembles a twenty-year-old Johnny Depp, and he smells clean—soap with a hint of coffee. He’s not the one who tried to talk to me last night. Just the guy that arrested me. He settles into the seat across from me and the guard leaves.

“I’m Officer Monroe.”

I glare at the table.

Officer Monroe reaches over, unlocks the cuffs, and slides them to his side of the table. “Why don’t you tell me what really happened last night?”

Just one drag. Oh God, it’d be better than a deep kiss from a really hot guy. But I’m not kissing a hot guy and I don’t have a cigarette because I’m currently being questioned in purgatory.

“Your mom’s boyfriend, Trent—we know he’s bad news, but he’s smart. We’ve never gotten enough to put him away. Maybe you can help us and yourself. Help us put him in jail, then he’ll be away from you and your mom.”

I agree—he’s Satan. Other than the fact that he’s a washed-up has-been of a football player who traded tackling men on the field for beating the shit out of women though, I have nothing to tell them beyond rumors I’ve heard on the street. The cops who walk the south-side beat are well aware of our bedtime stories regarding The Asshole Known as Trent. The tantalizing tidbit that he hits me and Mom could get us a flimsy piece of paper with the words Emergency Protection Order on the header, but domestic violence offenders rarely sit inside jail cells for long, plus Trent burns EPOs and puppies for fun.

Even before my mother got involved with Trent, the police were after him, but he’s the walking, talking real-life version of an oil spill—impossible to pick up once he’s been released. Helping the police will only bring the ooze and his sickening wrath quicker to our doorstep.

“He lives in the same apartment complex as your mom, right? Wouldn’t it be nice to live with her again and not have to worry about him?”

Having no idea how he knows I don’t live with my mom, I fight hard not to glance at him. Refusing to indicate he’s right.

“We didn’t even know he was dating your mom. He, uh, sees other women.”

I keep from rolling my eyes. There’s a shock.

“Elisabeth,” he says after my nonresponse.

“Beth.” I hate my given name. “My name is Beth.”

“Beth, your one phone call has been standing in the lobby since five a.m.”

Isaiah! My eyes flash to Officer Monroe’s. The walls I built to protect myself crumble and fatigue sets in as the iciness I’ve clung to all night melts. Fear and hurt rush to take its place. I want Isaiah. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.

I blink, realizing the stinging sensation is tears. Wiping at my face, I try to find my strength—my resolve, but I only find a heavy emptiness. “When can I go home?”

Someone knocks. Officer Monroe cracks the door open and exchanges a few heated whispers before nodding. Seconds later, my aunt, an older and cleaner version of my mother, walks in. “Beth?”

Officer Monroe leaves, closing the door behind him.

Shirley comes straight to me. I stand and let her hug me. She smells like home: stale cigarettes and lavender fabric softener. I bury my face in my aunt’s shoulder, wishing for nothing more than to lie in the bed in her basement for a week.

A cigarette is a close second.

“Where’s Isaiah?” Though I’m grateful for my aunt, my heart was set on seeing my best friend.

“Outside. He called me the moment he heard from you.” Shirley squeezes me before breaking our embrace. “What a mess.”

“I know. Have you seen Mom?”

She nods, then leans in and whispers in my ear, “Your mom told me what really happened.”

The muscles around my mouth tighten and I try to stop my lower lip from trembling. “What do I do?”

Shirley runs her hands up and down my arms. “Stick with your story. They brought Trent and your mom in for questioning. With you not talking, they couldn’t find anything to arrest them on. Your mom’s twitchy though. If you talk, they’ll send her to jail for breaking probation and the destruction of property. She’s scared of going to jail.”

So am I, but Mom can’t hack jail. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Her arms drop to her sides and she places the table between us. It’s only a few steps, but it creates a gap resembling a canyon. I turned seventeen last month. Before tonight, I felt like an adult: old and big. I don’t feel so big anymore. Right now I feel small and very, very alone. “Shirley?”

“Your uncle and I don’t have money for a lawyer. Isaiah and Noah, even that girl Noah brings around, they offered what they had, but your uncle and I got scared once the cops told us you took a bat to Trent. Then I had an idea.”

My heart sinks as if someone yanked a trapdoor right below it. “What did you do?”

“I know you don’t want anything to do with your dad’s side, but his brother, Scott—he’s a good man. Left that baseball team and became a businessman. He has a lawyer. A fancy one.”

“Scott?” My mouth gapes. “How … what …” My breathing becomes shallow as I try to make sense of the insanity falling out of my aunt’s lips. “Impossible. He left.”

“He did,” she says slowly. “But he moved back to his hometown last month and he called me to find you. He wanted you to go live with him and his wife, but we blew him off. Your mom talked to him when he got persistent and she told him you ran away.”

My lip curls at the thought of him anywhere near me. “Good choice. So why involve Scott now? We don’t need him. We can figure this out without him or his fancy lawyer.”

“They said you were going to hit Trent with a bat,” Shirley repeats as she wrings her hands together. “That’s serious and I thought we needed help.”

“No. Tell me you didn’t.” I’m in hell. Or pretty damn close.

“We would have respected your wishes about him, but then this happened and … I called him. Listen to me, he has a great life now. Lots of money and he wants you.”

I start to laugh. Only it’s not funny. It’s not even close to funny. It’s the saddest damn thing I’ve ever heard. I collapse into the seat and rest my head in my hands. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He got the charges dropped.” Not a hint of happiness can be found in her voice.

I keep my face hidden, unable to look at her to see whatever truth she’s been building toward. “What did you do?” I ask again.

Shirley kneels beside me and pitches her voice low. “When I called him, your uncle Scott went to your mom’s apartment. He saw things he shouldn’t have seen. Things that can hurt your mom.”

I sway to the side as if I’ve been hit by a wave and the rushing sound of being sucked into the ocean whirls in my ears. My world is crashing around me. He went into my old room. Mom told me never to go in there after I left to live with Shirley. I never have. There are things even I don’t want to know.

“He didn’t tell the police,” she says.

Shocked by her revelation, I peek at her through my fingers. “Really?”

Shirley’s lips turn down and she scrunches her forehead. “Your mom had no choice. He walked into the station with his lawyer and made the demand—she either turned over custody of you to him, or he would tell the cops what he saw.”

My aunt stares at me, her eyes bleak. “She signed over custody. He’s your legal guardian now.”

RYAN

THANKS TO THE SHOWERS at the community center, there’s no need to head home. Clean and dressed in street clothes, I return to heaven.

Everyone has left the ballpark. The bleachers are empty. The concession stand closed. Kenny Chesney blares from the parking lot, meaning that Chris ignored me when I told him I’d catch up with him later. Chris is really good at three things—playing shortstop, loving his girl, and knowing what I need even when I don’t know it myself.

At least most of the time.

From the community pool, little kids squeal in delight in time to the sounds of splashing and the bounce of the diving board. My brother, Mark, and I spent most of our summers swimming in that pool. The other part, we spent playing ball.

I stand on the pitcher’s mound, except this time I’m in blue jeans and my favorite Reds T-shirt. The early evening sky fades from blue to orange-and-yellow. It’s no longer a million degrees and the breeze shifts from the south to the north. This is my favorite part of the game—the time alone afterward.

The rush of winning and the knowledge I have a scout interested in me still linger in my blood. My lungs expand with clean oxygen and my muscles lose the tension that weighed me down during the game. I feel relaxed, at peace, and alive.

I stare at home plate and in my mind I see Logan crouched in position and the batter taking a practice swing. My fingers curl as if I’m clutching the ball. Logan calls for a curve; I accept, except this time I …

“I knew you’d be here.” In her brown leather cowboy boots and blue dress, Gwen swings around the gate into the dugout.

“How?” I ask.

“You screwed up the curve.” In one smooth motion, Gwen sits on the bench in the dugout and pats the wood beside her. She’s playing a game. One I’ll lose, but damn if my feet don’t move toward her.

She looks good. Better than good. Beautiful. I ease down beside her as she tosses her blond ringlets behind her shoulder. “I remember you explaining the bases to me in this dugout. The best baseball conversation we ever had.”

I lean forward and clasp my hands together. “Maybe you missed part of the conversation, because I wasn’t explaining baseball.”

Gwen flashes her bright smile. “I know, but I still enjoyed the demonstration.”

Our eyes meet for a moment and I glance away when heat crawls along my cheeks. Gwen’s the only girl I’ve had any real experience with. She used to blush when she talked about anything sexual, but she doesn’t today. Nausea rolls through my gut. What new bases has Mike taught her?

“You seemed out of it during the game.” The material of her dress swishes as she crosses her legs and angles her body toward mine. Our thighs touch now, creating heat. I wonder if she notices. “Are you having problems with your dad again?”

Gwen and I spent countless afternoons and evenings in this dugout. She always knew when Dad pushed me too far with the refs or that if I played like crap, I’d come here for clarity. “No.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Everything. Mom and Dad fighting. Mark’s absence. Me and pro ball. My friends/not-friends relationship with Gwen. For a moment, I think about telling her about Mark. Like the rest of the town, she remains blissfully unaware. I stare into her eyes and search for the girl I first met my freshman year. She wouldn’t have messed with me then. Unfortunately, I’ve since become her favorite pastime. “I’m not in the mood to be played, Gwen.”

Gwen raises her hand and twirls her hair around her finger. The glint of a large red-stoned ring strikes me like an ice pick. I shift so that our thighs no longer touch. “Mike gave you his class ring.”

She drops her hand and covers it with the other, as if hiding the ring will make me forget it’s there. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Last night.”

“Congratulations.” If I could have let more anger seep out I would have.

“What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know.” My voice rises with each word. “For starters, not be here screwing with me.”

She ignores my comment as her own voice hardens. “Mike’s a good guy and he’s always around. He’s not gone all the time and doesn’t have a thousand commitments like you.”

In all of our breaks and breakups, we never fought. Never raised our voices at each other. Before, I never considered yelling at Gwen; now it’s the only thing I want to do. “I told you that I loved you. What else could you want?”

“To be first. Baseball always came first with you. God! How much clearer a picture did you need? I broke up with you at the beginning of your seasons.”

I stand up, unable to sit next to her. How much clearer a picture? Obviously I needed detailed drawings with written directions. “You could have told me that’s how you felt.”

“Would it have changed anything? Would you have given up baseball?”

I curl my fingers into the metal of the fence and stare out at the field. How could she ask that type of question? Why would any girl ask a guy to give up something he loves? Gwen’s playing games right now and I’ve decided to throw the pitch that ends the inning. “No.”

I hear her sharp intake of air and the guilt of hurting her punches me in the stomach.

“It’s just baseball,” she rushes out.

How can I make her understand? Beyond the fence is a raised mound, a trail of dirt leading to four bases all surrounded by a groomed green field. It’s the only place where I’ve felt like I belonged.

“Baseball isn’t just a game. It’s the smell of popcorn drifting in the air, the sight of bugs buzzing near the stadium lights, the roughness of the dirt beneath your cleats. It’s the anticipation building in your chest as the anthem plays, the adrenaline rush when your bat cracks against the ball, and the surge of blood when the umpire shouts strike after you pitch. It’s a team full of guys backing your every move, a bleacher full of people cheering you on. It’s … life.”

The clapping of hands to my right causes me to jump out of my skin. In pink hair and a matching swimsuit cover-up, my junior English teacher and soon-to-be senior English teacher stops the annoying sound and raises her hands to her chin as if in prayer. “That was poetry, Ryan.”

Gwen and I share a what-the-hell look before returning our stares to Mrs. Rowe. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

She picks her beach bag up off the ground and swings it. “The pool closed for the night. I saw you and Ms. Gardner and decided to remind the two of you that your first personal essay is due to me on Monday.”

Gwen’s boots stamp on the ground as she switches legs again. A month ago, Mrs. Rowe tried to ruin everyone’s vacation with a summer homework assignment.

“I’m so excited to read them,” she continues. “I’m assuming you’ve completed yours?”

Haven’t even started. “Yeah.”

Gwen stands and readjusts Mike’s ring on her finger. “I’ve gotta go.” And she does. Without another word. I shove my hands in my pockets and rock on my feet, waiting for Mrs. Rowe to follow Gwen’s lead. I’ve got a ritual to complete.

Obviously having no intention of leaving, Mrs. Rowe leans her shoulder against the dugout entrance. “I wasn’t kidding about what you said, Ryan. You showed a lot of talent in my class last year. Between that and what I just heard, I’d say you have the voice of a writer.”

I snort a laugh. Sure, that class was more interesting than math, but. “I’m a ballplayer.”

“Yes, and from what I hear, a fine one, but it doesn’t mean you can’t be both.”

Mrs. Rowe is always looking for a book convert. She even started a literary club at school last year. My name isn’t on that roster. “I’ve got a friend waiting for me.”

She glances over her shoulder toward Chris’s truck. “Please tell Mr. Jones that his paper is also due on Monday.”

“Sure.”

Again I wait for her to leave. Again she doesn’t. She just stands there. Uncomfortable, I mumble a goodbye and head for the parking lot.

I try to shake off the irritating itch embedded in my neck, but I can’t. That moment on the mound is hallowed ground. A need. A must. My mother calls it a superstition. I’ll call it whatever she wants, but in order for me to win the next game, I have to stand on that mound again—by myself—and figure out the mistake I made with my curveball.

If not, it means bad mojo. For the team. For my pitch. For my life.

With his head tilted back and eyes closed, Chris sits in his old black Ford. His door hangs wide-open. Chris worked his ass off for that truck. He plowed his granddaddy’s cornfield this summer in return for a leaky truck that rolled off the line when we were seven.

“I told you to head home.”

He keeps his eyes closed. “I told you to let the bad throw go.”

“I did.” We both know I didn’t.

Chris comes to life, closes the door, and turns over the motor. “Hop in. We’ve got a party to go to that will make you forget.”

“I’ve got a ride.” I motion to my Jeep, parked next to his truck.

“My goal is to make sure you ain’t gonna be fit to drive home.” He revs the engine to keep it from stalling out. “Let’s go.”

BETH

OFFICER MONROE PUSHES OFF the wall the moment I slip out of the girls’ bathroom. “Beth.”

I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m not real giddy for the long-lost uncle reunion either. I pause, folding my arms over my chest. “I thought I was free.”

“You are.” Officer Monroe has clearly mastered the Johnny Depp puppy-dog eyes. “When you’re ready to tell me what happened last night, I want you to call.” He holds out a card.

Never going to happen. I would rather die than send Mom to jail. I brush past him and walk into the lobby. Hurting my eyes, the sun glares through the windows and the glass doors. I blink away the brightness and spot Isaiah, Noah, and Echo. Isaiah leaps to his feet, but Noah puts a hand on his shoulder and whispers something to him, nodding to the left. Isaiah stays still. His steely-gray eyes implore me to come to him. I want to. More than anything.

Two people cross in front of Isaiah, and pain slices my chest. It’s my mom. Like some sort of deranged baby monkey, she clings to her asshole boyfriend. Her eyes are desperate. She sucks her cheeks in as if she’s trying to hold back tears. That bastard has engulfed her in his disgusting life. I swear to God, I’m going to drag her back out.

Trent yanks her out the door. It’s not over, asshole. Not even close.

I’m about to step toward Isaiah when I hear it. “Hello, Elisabeth.” A shiver snakes down my spine. That voice reminds me of my father.

I turn to face the man who’s hell-bent on destroying my life. He resembles my father in looks as well: tall, dark brown hair, blue eyes. The main difference is that Scott’s built like an athlete, whereas my father had the body mass of a meth head.

“Leave me alone.”

He gives Isaiah the judgmental once-over. “I think you’ve been left alone for too long.”

“Don’t pretend to care. I know your promises are worth shit.”

“Why don’t we get out of here, now that you’re free to go. We can talk at home.”

Scott puts a hand on my arm and is unmoved when I jerk away. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Yes,” he says in an annoyingly even tone. “You are.”

The muscles in my back tense as if I’m a cat arching its back to hiss. “Did you just tell me what to do?”

Fingers wrap around my wrist and gently pull me to the left. Isaiah hovers over me and speaks in a hushed tone. “Do you need a reminder you’re in a police station?”

I sneak a peek and notice Officer Monroe and another cop watching our dysfunctional family reunion. My uncle regards Isaiah and me with interest, but keeps his distance.

My body is nothing but anger. Rage. It beats at my lungs, wreaks havoc with my blood. And Isaiah is standing here telling me to rein it in? I have to let it go because it’s consuming me. “What do you want me to do?”

Isaiah does something he’s never done sober. He touches his hand to my cheek. His palm feels warm, strong, and safe. I lean into it as the anger drains from his simple touch. Part of me craves that anger. I don’t care for the frightening emptiness left behind.

“Listen to me,” he whispers. “Go with him.”

“But—”

“I swear to God I’m going to take care of you, but I can’t do it right here. Go with him and wait for me. Do you understand?”

I nod as I finally comprehend what he’s attempting to tell me without saying the words. He’s going to come for me. A shimmer of hope breaks through the emptiness and I fall into the safety of Isaiah’s protective arms, our bodies pressed tight to one another.

RYAN

IN THE BACK FIELD that borders three farms, a field party rages without me, Logan, and Chris. Parties are great. They have girls, girls who drink beer, dancing, girls who like dancing, and guys who hate dancing but do it anyway in the hope of laying the girls who drink beer.

Lacy’s in the mood to dance, Chris is in the mood to avoid dancing, I’m still burnt from Skater Girl last night, and Logan’s always game for the stupid and insane. Ten minutes into the party, Lacy was dancing and the three of us took on a dare. Actually, I took on a dare. I lost last night and I don’t lose. Chris and Logan are along for the ride.

“You can’t pull this one off.” Chris walks beside me as we head toward the cars parked neatly in a line. The full moon gives the field a silver glow and the scent of bonfire smoke hangs in the air.

“That’s because you have no imagination.” Thankfully, I have plenty and I know a few guys who get a kick out of screwing with friends.

“This is going to be sweet,” Logan says when I change course and head toward a group of defensive linemen enjoying their own private party.

Tim Richardson owns a mammoth-size, ozone-killing truck, which is good, because the four guys sitting on lawn chairs on the back of it easily weigh 275 pounds each. Tim liberates a can of beer from his cooler and tosses it to me. “What’s going on, Ry?”

“Nothing.” I put the cold can on the tailgate. No drinking for me. I’ve got business to take care of. “Not in the mood for the party?”

His truck is one of the few that can make it over the hill into the back field. “A girl over there is pissed at me,” Tim mutters. “Anytime I go near her, she won’t keep her mouth shut.”

Logan snorts and Chris smacks him on the back of the head. Pissed would be an understatement. Rumor at school said Tim’s ex-girl caught him making out with her twin sister. Tim throws a warning glare at Logan before focusing on me. “How’s your brother? The team’s ticked at him. He promised he’d help with summer practice while he was home from college.”

Hating these kinds of questions, I shift my stance and shove my hands in my pockets. Dad made it clear that we tell no one what happened with Mark. “He’s been busy.” Before Tim has a chance to probe further, I switch to the problem at hand. “How would you guys like to help me with a … situation?”

Tim leans forward as his fellow linemen snicker. “What dare did you sign up for this time?”

I bob my head back and forth like what I’m preparing to ask isn’t a big deal. “Nothing fancy. Rick dared me to move his car.”

Tim shrugs because it doesn’t sound like a big deal.

“Without the keys,” says Chris.

Tim lowers his head, and deep chuckles resonate from his chest. “You three are the definition of insane. You know that, right?”

“Says the guy that tackles other dudes for fun,” I say. “Are you in or out?”

Tim’s lawn chair moves with him as he stands. As he reaches his full height, the chair plunges onto the bed of the truck with a loud clank. “In.”

Curled fingers miserably clutch metal and my back and thighs burn with pain. Seven guys, one 2,400-pound car, and one more inch to go.

“On three,” I say through clenched teeth. “One …”

“Three,” yells Logan and I barely unwedge my fingers from the bumper of the two-door Chevy Aveo when the six other guys drop the car to the ground. The frame of the blue car bounces like a Slinky before coming to a rest.

“Sweet shocks,” says Logan.

Sweat soaks my shirt. Gasping for air, I bend over and place my hands on my knees. The rush of the win races through my veins and I laugh out loud.

Logan admires our handiwork. “Six feet over and nicely parallel parked between two trees.” Nicely meaning the front and rear bumpers currently kiss bark.

Tim’s chest heaves as if he’s experiencing a heart attack. “You’re a crazy son-of-a-bitch, Ry.” Pant. “How the hell is Rick going to move this piece of shit?”

“Chris, Logan, and I will stick around. Once he gets done freaking, we’ll lift the back end and move it so he can wedge out.”

Tim laughs while shaking his head. “I’ll see you at school on Monday.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Anytime. Let’s go, guys. I need a beer.”

I sag to the ground and lean against the tree near the bumper. Chris slides against the passenger door until his butt hits the dirt. We both stare at Logan, waiting for him to join us, but he’s busy studying the two oak trees pinning in our third baseman’s car.

In any circle that doesn’t involve me, Chris, and Lacy, Logan is known for silence and his constant state of boredom. At the moment, so-called silent, bored boy’s mind is spinning like a toddler on a sugar high. It’s ironic: at school, people think I’m the adrenaline junkie because I admire a good dare. Hell, I’m not looking for a high—I just like to win. Logan, on the other hand, thrives on the edge. Gotta love a guy like that.

I’m not the only one who’s noticed Logan’s insane infatuation with the tree. Chris eyes him warily. “What the hell are you doing, Junior?”

Logan winks at me. “Be back in a second, boss man.” He scrambles up the old oak tree. Small dead limbs that can’t hold his weight fall through the branches and onto the ground.

Chris grows restless. He won’t admit it, but heights scare the shit out of him and Logan’s fear of nothing scares the shit out of him more. “Get your ass back down here.”

“Okay,” calls Logan from somewhere high in the tree.

I shake my head. “You shouldn’t have said that.”

From above, tree limbs crackle and snap and leaves whoosh as if a strong breeze rushes through them. It’s not wind. It’s Logan, and one of these days he’s going to get himself killed. A swirl of dirt accompanies the thud on the ground. Logan’s body presses against my foot. On his back, with his black hair full of torn leaves, Logan convulses with laughter. Obviously this isn’t the night he was meant to die. He turns his head to look at Chris. “Here.”

I kick Logan hard when I remove my foot from under his ass. “You’re the crazy son-of-a-bitch, not me.”

“Crazy?” Logan rolls over to sit up. “I’m not the one following a psycho chick into a parking lot for a phone number. Those guys could have kicked your ass.”

Damn. I hoped they had forgotten. “I could have taken them.” They would have eventually handed my ass to me, but I would have given them some bruises as payback. Two versus one are bad odds.

“Not the point,” says Logan.

“Since you mentioned it.” Chris takes his baseball cap off and holds it over his heart. “I’m going to take this moment and remind everyone of the following—I won.”

“I won tonight. So we’re even again.”

Chris shoves his hat back on. “Doesn’t count.”

He’s right. It doesn’t. The only dares we keep track of are the ones we give to one another. “Enjoy the brief taste of victory. I’ll be winning next time.”

We lapse into silence, which is fine. Our silences are never uncomfortable. Unlike girls, guys don’t have to talk. Every now and then, we hear laughter or shouting from the party. Every now and then, Chris and Lacy text. He likes to give her space, but doesn’t trust drunk guys near his girl.

Logan fiddles with a long branch that fell to the ground. “Dad and I headed into Lexington this morning to check out U of K.”

I hold my breath, hoping that the conversation doesn’t turn to where I think it’s heading. Logan’s had this visit scheduled for weeks. He’s a damn genius and will have every college knocking on his door next year, including the University of Kentucky. “How’d it go?”

“I saw Mark.”

I rub the back of my head and try to ignore the nagging ache inside. “How is he?”

“Fine. He asked about you. Your mom.” He pauses. “Your dad.”

“He’s fine. That’s it?”

“No offense, but it was weird. I’m cool that he’s your brother and that he’s made his choices, but I’m not sticking around to play head shrink over your family problems, especially when he had an audience.”

“An audience?” I echo.

“Yeah,” says Logan. “His boyfriend, I guess.”

The twisting pressure usually only reserved for games pummels my stomach. I pull my knees up and lower my head. “How do you know it was his boyfriend?”

Logan’s face scrunches. “I dunno. He was standing next to another dude.”

“It could have been a friend,” says Chris. “Did the guy look gay?”

“Mark didn’t look gay, asswipe,” Logan snaps. “Who would have guessed the damn defensive lineman had it for the home team. And sure, the other dude could’ve been straight. But how the hell should I know?”

Listening to them discuss my gay brother’s possible gay boyfriend is just as comfortable as convincing my mom over and over again that I prefer girls and their girl parts. Nothing makes you think you might need years of therapy like having to say the word breasts in front of your mother. “Can we end this conversation?”

I consider walking back to Tim’s truck and collecting that beer. I’ve only been shit-faced drunk twice in my life. Once when Mark told the family he was gay. The second time when Dad kicked him out for that announcement. Both incidents happened in the span of three days. Lessons learned: don’t tell Dad you’re gay, and getting drunk doesn’t make anything untrue. It just makes your head hurt in the morning.

With a loud crack, Logan breaks the twig in his hand. He’s looking for courage, which means I’m going to hate the words coming out of his mouth. “Mark was all cryptic, but he said you’d know what he meant. He said he can’t come and he hoped you’d understand why.”

The muscles in my neck tighten. My brother didn’t even have the balls to tell me himself. I texted him last week. I outright defied my parents and texted him. I asked him to come home for dinner tomorrow night and he never texted back. Instead, he took the coward’s way out and used Logan.

Earlier this summer, Dad gave the ultimatum: as long as Mark chooses guys, he’s no longer a part of our family. Mark walked out, knowing what leaving meant: leaving Mom … leaving me. He never considered trying to stay home and fight to keep our family together. “He made his choice.”

Logan lowers his voice. “He misses you.”

“And he left,” I snap. I kick the back tire of the car. Angry. Angry at Dad. Angry at Mark. Angry at me. For three days straight Mark talked. He said the same thing over and over again. He’s still Mark. My brother. Mom’s son. He told me how he spent years confused because he wanted to be like me. He wanted to be like Dad.

And when I asked him to stay, when I asked him to stand his ground … he left. He packed up his shit and he left, leaving me and the destruction of my family behind.

“Screw the serious talk,” says Chris. “We won today. We’ll win fall season and spring. We’re going to graduate victorious and when we do, Ryan’s going pro.”

“Amen,” says Logan.

From their lips to God’s ears, but sometimes God chooses not to listen. “Don’t get your hopes up. The scout today could be a one-time deal. Next week they could find somebody else to love.” I should know. That happened at the pro tryouts this past spring.

“Bullshit,” says Chris. “Destiny is knocking, Ry, and you need to get your ass up to answer.”

BETH

I FELL ASLEEP. Either that or my dear old uncle Scott drugged me. I’m going with fell asleep. Scott may be a dick, but he’s a dare-to-keep-kids-off-drugs kind of dick. I should know. He once brought red ribbons and a police mascot to my preschool.

I love irony.

Moonlight streams through white lace curtains hanging from an artsy brown metal rod. I sit up and a pink crochet blanket falls away. The bedding beneath me is still perfectly made and I’m wearing the same outfit I wore on Friday night. Someone has neatly laid my shoes on the wooden floor next to the bed. Even sober, I wouldn’t have done that. I don’t do neat.

I lean over and turn on a lamp. The crystals decorating the bottom edge of the shade clink together. The dull light draws my focus to the painfully cheery purple paint on the wall. Closing my eyes, I count the days. Let’s see. Friday night I went out with Noah and Isaiah and put Taco Bell Boy in his place. Early Saturday, Mom tried to become a felon. Saturday morning, Scott ruined my life.

I pretended to fall asleep in the car so I wouldn’t have to talk to Scott, but I sucked and actually fell asleep. Scott woke me, I think, and half carried me into the house. Crap. Why don’t I put a sign on my head and announce I’m a loser girl who needs help.

I open my eyes and stare at the ticking clock on the bedside table. Twelve fifteen. Sunday. This is early Sunday morning.

My stomach growls. I’ve gone a full day without eating. Wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last. I slip out of bed and slide my Chuck Taylor wannabes onto my feet. Time to have a coming-to-Jesus moment with Uncle Scott. That is, if he’s awake. It may be better if he went to bed. That way I can slip out without the fight.

Maybe I’ll score some food before I call Isaiah. With a room like this, I bet he buys brand-name cereal.

The house has that newly built, fresh sawdust smell. Outside the bedroom is a foyer instead of a hallway. A large staircase, the type I thought existed only in movies, winds to the second floor. An actual chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Guess baseball pays well.

“No …” A woman’s voice carries from the back of the house. I can tell she’s still talking, but she’s lowered her tone. Did he marry or does he keep a fuck on hand like he did when I was a kid? Gotta be a fuck. I overheard Scott tell Dad once that he’d never marry.

I follow the low voices to the brink of a large open room and pause. The entire back of the house—excuse me, mansion—is one enormous wall of windows. The living room flows right into the eat-in kitchen.

“Scott.” Exasperation eats at the woman’s tone. “This is not what I signed up for.”

“Last month you were on board with this,” says Scott. Part of me feels vindicated. He’s lost that annoyingly smooth calm from yesterday.

“Yes, when you told me you wanted to reconnect with your niece. There is a difference between reconnecting and invading our life.”

“You were fine with it when I called last month from Louisville and said I wanted her to live with us.”

The woman snaps, “That was after you said she ran away. I didn’t actually think you would find her. When you described the hellhole she lived in, I figured she was long gone. She’s a criminal. You expect me to feel safe with her in my home?”

Her words slice me open. I’m not that bad. No, I’m not kittens and bunnies, but I’m not that bad. I glance down at my outfit. Jeans. Tank top. My black hair falls in front of my face. It doesn’t matter. She made her decision before she met me. I bury the hurt, step into the room, and welcome the anger. Screw her. “You might want to listen to her. I’m a fucking menace.”

The shocked expression on their faces is almost worth being here. Almost. I press my lips together to keep from laughing at Scott. He wears a pair of chinos and a short-sleeved button-down shirt. It’s a far cry from the outfits he used to wear when I was a kid: gangsta jeans that showed his underwear.

The woman is nothing like the girls Scott dated when he was eighteen. Her hair is a natural blond instead of bleached. She’s thin, but not alcohol-diet thin, and she looks kind of smart. Smart as in she probably finished high school.

She sits at a massive island in the center of the kitchen. Scott leans on the counter across from her. He glances at her, then talks to me. “It’s late, Elisabeth. Why don’t you go back to bed and we’ll talk in the morning.”

My stomach cramps, and a light wave of dizziness fogs my brain. “Do you have food?”

He straightens. “Yes. What do you want? I can fix some eggs.”

Scott used to make me scrambled eggs every morning. Eggs—the WIC-approved food. The reminder hurts and creates warm fuzzies at the same time. “I hate eggs.”

“Oh.”

Oh. The man’s a conversational genius. “Do you have cereal?”

“Sure.” He enters a pantry and I plop onto a stool at the island as far from Scott’s girl as possible. She stares at a spot right in front of me. Huh. Funny. I’m in arm’s reach of a butcher block full of knives. I can imagine the thoughts running through her single-celled brain.

Scott places boxes of Cheerios, Bran Flakes, and Shredded Wheat in front of me.

“You have got to be fucking kidding.” Where the hell are the Lucky Charms?

“Nice language,” the woman says.

“Thanks,” I respond.

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Do I look like I fucking care?”

Scott slides a bowl and spoon to me, then goes to the refrigerator for milk. “Let’s tone it down.”

I choose the Cheerios and keep pouring until a few toasty circles trickle onto the counter. Scott sits in the chair next to mine and the two of them watch me in silence. Well, sort of silence. My crunching is louder than a nuclear bomb blast.

“Scott told me you had blond hair,” says the woman.

I swallow, but it’s hard to do when my throat tightens. The little girl I used to be, the one with blond hair, died years ago and I hate thinking about her. She was nice. She was happy. She was … not someone I want to remember.

“Why is your hair black?” The lawn ornament at the other end of the island has officially become annoying.

“What are you exactly?” I ask.

“This is my wife, Allison.”

The Cheerios catch in my throat and I choke, coughing into my hand. “You’re married?”

“Two years,” says Scott. Ugh. He does that googly-eye thing Noah does with Echo.

I slide another spoonful of Cheerios into my mouth. “When I’m done—” crunch, crunch, crunch “—I’m going home.”

“This is your home now.” Scott has that calm tone again.

“The hell it is.”

Allison’s eyes dart between me and the knives. Yeah, lady, a couple of hours in jail and I’ve moved from destruction of property to sociopath.

“Maybe you should listen to her,” she says.

“Yeah,” I say through more crunches, “maybe you should listen to me. Your wife’s worried I’m going to go all Manson and slit her throat while she sleeps.” I smile at her for effect.

Color drains from her face. At times, I really enjoy being me.

Scott gives me the once-over—starting with my black hair, then moving on to my black fingernails, the ring in my nose, and finally my clothes. Then he turns to his wife. “Will you give us a few minutes alone?”

Allison leaves without saying a word. I shovel in more cereal and purposely talk with my mouth full. “Did you have to purchase the leash for her or did it come as a package deal?”

“You won’t disrespect her, Elisabeth.”

“I’ll do as I fucking please, Uncle Scott.” I mimic his fake haughty tone. “And when I’m done eating my shitty cereal, I’m calling Isaiah and I’m going home.”

Him—silence. Me—crunch, crunch, crunch.

“What happened to you?” he asks in a soft voice.

I swallow what’s in my mouth, put down the spoon, and push the bowl of half-eaten Cheerios away. “What do you think happened?”

Scott—the master of long silences.

“When did he leave?” he asks.

I don’t have to be a mind reader to know Scott’s asking about his deadbeat brother. The black paint on my fingernails chips at the corners. I scrape off more of it. Eight years later and I still have a hard time saying it. “Third grade.”

Scott shifts in his seat. “Your mom?”

“Fell apart the day he left.” Which should tell him a lot, because she wasn’t exactly the poster child for reliability before Dad took off.

“What happened between them?”

None of his business. “You didn’t come for me like you promised.” And he stopped calling when I turned eight. The refrigerator kicks on. I scrape off more paint. He faces the fact that he’s a dick.

“Elisabeth—”

“Beth.” I cut him off. “I go by Beth. Where’s your phone? I’m going home.” The police confiscated my cell and gave it to Scott. He told me in the car that he tossed it in the garbage because I “didn’t need contact with my old life.”

“You just turned seventeen.”

“Did I? Wow. I must have forgotten since no one threw me a party.”

Ignoring me, he continues, “This week my lawyers will secure my legal guardianship of you. Until you turn eighteen, you will live in this house and you will obey my rules.”

Fine. If he won’t show me the phone, I’ll find it. I hop off the chair. “I’m not six anymore and you aren’t the center of my universe. In fact, I consider you a black hole.”

“I get that you’re pissed off I left….”

Pissed? “No, I’m not pissed. You don’t exist to me anymore. I feel nothing for you, so show me where the damned phone is so I can go home.”

“Elisabeth …”

He doesn’t get it. I don’t care. “Go to hell.” No phone in the kitchen.

“You need to understand….”

I walk around his fancy ass living room with his fancy ass leather furniture looking for his fancy ass phone. “Take whatever you have to say and shove it up your ass.”

“I just want to talk….”

I lift my hand in the air and flap it like a puppet’s mouth. “Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. I’ll only be gone a couple of months. Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. I’ll make enough money to get us both out of Groveton. Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. You’ll never grow up like me. Blah, blah, blah, Elisabeth. I’ll make sure you have some fucking food to eat!”

“I was eighteen.”

“I was six!”

“I wasn’t your father!”

I throw my arms out. “No, you weren’t. You were supposed to be better than him! Congratulations, you officially became a replica of your worthless brother. Now where the fuck is the damn phone?”

Scott slams his hand on the counter and roars, “Sit your ass down, Elisabeth, and shut the fuck up!”

I quake on the inside, but I’ve been around Mom’s asshole boyfriends long enough to keep from quaking on the outside. “Wow. You can take the boy out of the trailer park and pretty him up in a Major League Baseball uniform, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the boy.”

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Whatever. Where’s the phone?”

Noah told me once that I have a gift that borders on supervillain status—the ability to push people past the edge of sanity. The way Scott releases another breath and rubs his forehead tells me I’m pushing him hard. Good.

Scott tries for that obnoxious, level tone again, but I can hear the edge of irritation in it. “You want trailer park, I can go trailer park. You are going to live in my house with my rules or I’ll send your mother to jail.”

“I broke out the windows of the car. Not her. You have nothing on her.”

Scott narrows his eyes. “Wanna discuss what’s in your mom’s apartment with me?”

My body lurches to the left as the blood seeps out of my face, leaving behind a blurry and tingling sensation. Shirley already warned me, but hearing it from him is still a shock. Scott knows what I don’t want to know—Mom’s secret.

“Push me, Elisabeth, and I’ll have this same exact conversation with the police.”

I stumble as I try to stay upright. The back of my legs collide with a coffee table. Losing the battle, I sit. Right beside me is a phone and as much as I want to, I can’t touch it. Scott has me. The bastard traded my life for my mom’s freedom.

RYAN

I LEAN AGAINST the closed tailgate of Dad’s truck and listen from two parking spots away as Dad recounts to a group of men loitering outside the barbershop every detail of our meeting with the scout last night. Some of them heard the story at church this morning. Most of the listeners are generational farmers and this kind of news is worth hearing again, even if it means standing in the type of August heat where you can smell the acrid stench of blacktop melting.

In my peripheral view, I notice a man stop on the sidewalk and assess the ring of listeners and my storytelling father. I don’t pay attention to tourists and if he were a local, he’d join the group. It’s better to leave the tourists alone. If you look at them, they talk.

Groveton’s a small town. To appeal to tourists, Dad persuaded the other councilmen to call the old stone buildings dating back to the 1800s Historic then add the words Shopping District. Four B-and-Bs and new tours of the old bourbon distillery later, and the city folk brave the fifteen-mile winding country road from the freeway. It can make parking a bitch on the weekends, but it gives lots of good people jobs when money gets tight.

“What’s the local gossip?” the man asks.

He’s speaking and I didn’t even make eye contact. That’s bold for a tourist. I fold my arms across my chest. “Baseball.”

“No kidding.” There’s a drop in his tone that catches my attention.

I turn my head and feel my eyes widen in slow motion. No way. “You’re Scott Risk.”

Everyone in this town knows who Scott Risk is. His face is one of the few to peer at the student population from the Wall of Fame at Bullitt County High. As a shortstop, he led his high school team to state championships twice. He made the majors straight out of high school. But the real achievement, the real feat that made him a king in this small town, was his eleven-year stint with the New York Yankees. He’s exactly what every boy in Groveton dreams of becoming, including me.

Scott Risk wears a pair of khakis, a blue polo, and a good-natured grin. “And you are?”

“Ryan Stone,” Dad answers for me as he appears from out of thin air. “He’s my son.”

The circle of men outside the barbershop watch us with interest. Scott holds out his hand to Dad. “Scott Risk.”

Dad shakes it with a badly suppressed smug smile. “Andrew Stone.”

“City Councilman Andrew Stone?”

“Yes,” Dad says with pride. “I heard rumors you were moving back to town.”

He did? That’s the sort of news Dad should have shared. “This town always did love gossip.” Scott keeps the friendly look, but the light tone feels forced.

Dad chuckles. “Some things never change. I heard you were looking at buying some property nearby.”

“Bought,” says Scott. “I purchased the old Walter farm last spring, but asked the Realtor to keep the sale quiet until we moved into the home we built farther back on the property.”

My eyebrows shoot up and so do Dad’s. That’s the farm right next to ours. Dad takes a step closer and angles his back to make the three of us into our own circle. “I own the property a mile down the road. Ryan and I are huge fans of yours.” No, he’s not. Dad respects Scott because he’s from Groveton, but loathes anyone from the Yankees. “Except when you played the Reds. Home team takes precedent.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else.” Scott notices my baseball cap. “Do you play?”

“Yes, sir.” What exactly do I say to the man I’ve worshipped my entire life? Can I ask for his autograph? Can I beg him to tell me how he stays calm during a game when everything is on the line? Do I stare at him like an idiot because I can’t find anything more coherent to say?

“Ryan’s a pitcher,” Dad announces. “A major-league scout watched him at a game last night. He thinks Ryan has the potential to be picked up by the minors after graduation.”

Scott’s easygoing grin falls into something more serious as he stares as me. “That’s impressive. You must be pitching in the upper eighties.”

“Nineties,” says Dad. “Ryan pitched three straight in the nineties.”

A crazy gleam hits Scott’s eyes and we both smile. I understand that spark and the adrenaline rush that accompanies it. We share a passion: playing ball. “Nineties? And you’re just now getting the attention of scouts?”

I readjust my hat. “Dad took me to Reds’ tryout camp this past spring, but …”

Dad cuts me off. “They told Ryan he needed to bulk up.”

“You must have listened,” Scott says.

“I want to play ball.” I’m twenty pounds heavier than last spring. I run every day and lift weights at night. Sometimes, Dad does it with me. This dream also belongs to Dad.

“Anything can happen.” Scott looks over my shoulder, but his eyes have that far-off glaze, as if he’s seeing a memory. “It depends on how badly you want it.”

I want it. Badly. Dad checks his watch, then extends his hand again to Scott. He’s itching to pick up some new drill bits before supper. “It was nice officially meeting you.”

Scott accepts his hand. “You too. Would you mind if I borrowed your son? My niece lives with me and she’ll be starting Bullitt County High tomorrow. I think the transition will be easier for her if she has someone to show her around. As long as that’s okay with you, Ryan.”

“It would be an honor, sir.” It would. This is beyond my wildest dreams.

Dad flashes me his all-knowing smile. “You know where to find me.” The crowd near the barbershop parts like Moses commanding the Red Sea as Dad strolls toward the hardware store.

Scott turns his back to the crowd, steps closer to me, and runs a hand over his face. “Elisabeth.” He pauses, rests his hands on his hips, and starts again. “Beth’s a little rough around the edges, but she’s a good girl. She could use some friends.”

I nod like I understand, but I don’t. What does he mean by rough around the edges? I keep nodding because I don’t care. She’s Scott Risk’s niece and I’ll make sure she’s happy.

Beth. A strange uneasiness settles in my stomach. Why does that name sound familiar? “I’ll introduce her around. Make sure she fits in. My best friend, Chris, he’s also on the team.” Because I’ll try to work Chris and Logan into any conversation I have with Mr. Risk. “He has a great girl who I’m sure your niece will love.”

“Thanks. You have no idea how much this means to me.” Scott relaxes as if he dropped a hundred-pound bag of feed. The bell over the clothing shop chimes. Scott places a hand on my shoulder and gestures at the shop. “Ryan, I’d like you to meet my niece, Elisabeth.”

She walks out of the shop and crosses her arms over her chest. Black hair. Nose ring. Slim figure with a hint of curves. White shirt with only four buttons clasped between her breasts and belly button, fancy blue jeans, and an eye roll the moment she sees me. My stomach drops as if I swallowed lead. This is possibly the worst day of my life.

BETH

“IT’S NICE TO MEET YOU,” Arrogant Taco Bell Boy says as if we never met. Maybe he doesn’t remember. Jocks usually aren’t smart. Their muscles feast on their brains.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.” I’m in hell. No question about it. This bad version of the town from Deliverance is certainly hot as hell. The heat in this forsaken place possesses a strangling haze that envelops me and seizes my lungs.

Scott clears his throat. A subtle reminder that fuck is no longer an acceptable word for me in public. “I’d like you to meet Ryan Stone.”

Once upon a time, Scott used to say words like s’up and sick. Variants of fuck were the only adjectives and adverbs in his vocabulary. Now he sounds like a stuck-up, suit-wearing, cocky rich guy. Oh wait, he is.

“Ryan’s volunteered to show you around at school tomorrow.”

“Of course he has,” I mumble. “Because my life hasn’t sucked enough in the past forty-eight hours.”

God must have decided He wasn’t done screwing with me yet. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott blackmailed me into living here. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott’s wife bought these tragically conservative clothes. He wasn’t done screwing with me when Scott told me he was enrolling me at the local redneck, Children of the Corn school. No, he wasn’t quite done screwing with me yet. The damn icing on this cake is the conceited ass standing in front of me. Ha fucking ha. Joke’s on me. “I want my clothes back.”

“What?” Scott asks. Good—I messed with him without cursing.

“He’s not dressed like a moron, so why should I?” I motion to the designer jeans and starched Catholic-schoolgirl shirt disgracing my body. Per Scott’s request to play nice with Allison, I stepped out of the dressing room to look at this atrocity in the full-length mirror. When I returned, my clothes were gone. Tonight, I’m searching for a pair of scissors and bleach.

Scott censures me by subtly shaking his head. I have close to a whole year of this bull in front of me, and the woman I’m trying to protect I can’t even see—my mom. A part of my brain tingles with panic. How is she? Did her boyfriend hit her again? Is she worried about me?

“You’re going to love it here,” says Taco Bell Boy—I mean Ryan.

“Sure I am.” My tone indicates I’m going to love this place as much as I’d love getting shot in the head.

Scott clears his throat again and I wonder if he cares that people will assume he’s diseased. “Ryan’s father owns a construction business in town and he’s on the city council.” Underlying message to me: don’t screw this moment up.

“Of course.” Of course. Story of my freaking life. Ryan’s the rich boy that has everything. Daddy who owns the town. Daddy who owns the business. Ryan, the boy who thinks he can do anything he wants because of it.

Ryan flashes me an easygoing grin and it’s sort of hypnotizing. As if he created it just for me. It’s a glorious grin. Perfect. Peaceful. With a hint of dimples. It promises friendship and happiness and laughter and it makes me want to smile back. My lips start to curve into an answer and I stop myself abruptly.

Why do I do this to myself? Guys like him don’t go for girls like me. I’m a toy to them. A game. And these types of guys, they all have the same rules of play: smile, trick me into thinking that they like me, then toss me to the side once I’ve been used. How many countless losers do I have to stupidly make out with only to regret it in the morning? Over the past year—too many.

But while listening to Ryan easily digress into a conversation with Scott about baseball, I swear that I’m done with loser guys. Done with feeling used. Just done.

And this time, I won’t break the promise—no matter how lonely I get.

“Yeah,” Ryan says to Scott as if I’m not standing right here, as if I’m not important enough to involve in conversation. “I think the Reds have a shot this year.”

God, I hate Ryan. Standing there all perfect with his perfect life and perfect body and perfect smile, pretending he never laid eyes on me before. He glances at me from the corner of his eye and I realize why he’s pouring on the charm. Ryan wants to impress Scott. Guess what? Misery definitely loves company. My life shouldn’t be the only one that sucks. “He hit on me.”

Silence as my words kill the moronic baseball conversation. Scott rubs his eyes. “You just met him.”

“Not now. Friday night. He hit on me and he stared at my ass while he did it.”

Joy. Utter joy. Okay, not utter, but the sole joy I’ve had since Friday night. Ryan yanks off his hat, runs his hand through his mess of sandy-blond hair, and shoves the hat back on. I like him better with his hat off.

“Is this true?” Scott asks.

“Y-yes,” stutters Ryan. “No. I mean yes. I asked for her phone number, but she didn’t give it to me. But I was respectful, I swear.”

“You stared at my ass. A lot.” I turn and lean over a little so I can give a demonstration. “Remember, there was a rip right along here.” I slide my finger along the back of my leg. “You bought me tacos afterward. And a drink. So I’m assuming you must have enjoyed the view.”

I hear muffled male comments and I peek at the crowd of men farther down the sidewalk. The first genuine smile slips across my face. Scott’s going to love a show. Maybe if I push hard enough I’ll be home in Louisville by dinner.

“Elisabeth.” Scott drops his voice to trailer-park pissed. “Turn around.”

Twelve different shades of red blotch Ryan’s cheeks. He doesn’t even look at my ass, but at my uncle. “Okay … yes, I asked her out.”

Scott does a double take. “You asked her out?”

Hey now. Why’s he surprised? I’m not a dog.

“Yes,” says Ryan.

“You wanted to take her on a date?”

Uh-oh. Scott sounds happy. No. I’m not going for happy.

“Yes.” Ryan holds out his hands. “I thought … I thought …”

“That I would be easy?” I snap, and Scott winces.

“That she was funny,” Ryan says.

Yeah. I’m sure that’s exactly what he thought. “More like you thought it would be fun to screw with me. Or just plain screw.”

“Enough,” snapped Scott. His narrowing blue eyes rage at me as I thrust my hands in the stiff pockets of the new jeans. Scott lowers his head and pinches the bridge of his nose before forcing that fake relaxed grin into place. “I apologize for my niece. She’s had a rough weekend.”

I don’t want him to apologize for me to anyone. Especially not to this arrogant ass. My mouth drops open, but the brief white-trash glance Scott gives me shuts it. Scott becomes Mr. Superficial again. “I understand if you don’t want to help Elisabeth at school.”

Ryan has this blank, way too innocent expression. “Don’t worry, Mr. Risk. I’d love to help Elisabeth.” He turns to me and smiles. This smile isn’t genuine or heartwarming, but cocky as hell. Bring it, jock boy. Your best won’t be good enough.

RYAN

THE WALLS OF OUR KITCHEN used to be burgundy. As kids, Mark and I would race home from the bus stop and when we’d burst into the kitchen we’d be greeted by the aroma of freshly baked cookies. Mom would ask us about our day while we dunked the hot cookies in milk. When Dad came home from work, he’d sweep Mom into his arms and kiss her. Mom’s laughter in Dad’s arms was as natural as Mark’s and my constant banter.

With an arm still wrapped around her waist, he’d turn to us and say, “How are my boys?” Like Mark and I didn’t exist without each other.

Thanks to the renovations Dad finished last week, the kitchen walls are gray now. And thanks to my brother’s announcement and my father’s reaction to the announcement this summer, the loudest sound in the kitchen is the clink of knives and forks against china.

“Gwen came to your game,” says Mom. It’s only the third time she’s mentioned it in the past twenty-four hours.

Yeah, with Mike. “Uh-huh.” I shove a hunk of pot roast into my mouth.

“Her mom said she still talks about you.”

I stop mid-chew and glance at Mom. Proud for earning a reaction from me, she smiles.

“Leave him alone,” Dad says. “He doesn’t need a girl distracting him.”

Mom purses her lips and we enter another five minutes of clinking forks and knives. The silence stings … like frostbite.

Unable to stomach the tension much longer, I clear my throat. “Did Dad tell you we met Scott Risk and his—” psychotic “—niece?”

“No.” My mother stabs at the cherry tomato rolling around in her salad bowl. The moment she spears the small round vegetable, Mom glares at Dad. “He has a niece?”

Dad holds her gaze with irritated indifference and follows it up with a drink from his longneck.

“I gave you a wineglass,” Mom reminds him.

Dad places the longneck, which drips with condensation, next to said glass right on the wood of the table—without a coaster. Mom shifts in her seat like a crow fluffing out its wings. The only thing she’s missing is the pissed-off caw.

For the last few months, Dad and I have been eating our dinners in the living room while watching TV. Mom gave up food after Mark left.

Mom and Dad began marriage counseling a few weeks ago, though they have yet to directly tell me. The need to project perfection won’t allow them to admit to a flaw like their marriage needing help from an outside source. Instead, I found out the same way I discover anything in this house: I overheard them fighting in the living room while I lay in bed at night.

Last week, their marriage counselor recommended that Mom and Dad try to do something as a family. They fought for two days over what that something should be until they settled on Sunday dinner.

It’s why I invited Mark. We haven’t had a dinner together since he left and if he’d showed, maybe the four of us could have found a way to reconnect.

I wonder if Mom and Dad feel the emptiness of the chair next to mine. Mark possessed this charm that kept my parents from fighting. If they were annoyed with each other, Mark would tell a story or a joke to break the chill. The arctic winter in my house never existed when he was home.

“Yeah, he has a niece,” I say, hoping to move the conversation forward and to fill the hollowness inside me. “Her name is Elisabeth. Beth.” And she’s making my life hell—not too different from suffering through this dinner.

I tear a biscuit apart and slather on some butter. Beth embarrassed me in front of Scott Risk and I lost a dare because of her. I drop the biscuit—the dare. A spark ignites in my brain. Chris and I never set a time limit on it, which means I can still win.

Mom straightens the napkin on her lap, disrupting my thoughts. “You should be friendly with her, Ryan, but maintain your distance. The Risks had a reputation years ago.”

Dad’s chair scrapes against the new tile and he makes a disgusted noise in his throat.

“What?” Mom demands.

Dad rolls his shoulders back and focuses on his beef instead of answering.

“You have something to say,” prods Mom, “say it.”

Dad tosses his fork onto his plate. “Scott Risk has some valuable contacts. I say get close to her, Ryan. Show her around. If you do a favor for him, I’m sure he’d do one for you.”

“Of course,” says Mom. “Give him advice that goes directly against mine.”

Dad begins talking over her and their combined raised voices cause my head to throb. Losing my appetite, I slide my chair away from the table. It’s gut-wrenching, listening to the ongoing annihilation of my family. There is absolutely no worse sound on the face of the planet.

Until the phone rings. My parents fall silent as all three of us look over at the counter and see Mark’s name appear on the caller ID. A rocky combination of hope and hurt creates a heaviness in my throat and stomach.

“Let it go,” Dad murmurs.

Mom stands on the second ring and my heart beats in my ears. Come on, Mom, answer. Please.

“We could talk to him,” she says as she stares at the phone. “Tell him that as long as he keeps it a secret he can come home.”

“Yeah,” I say, hoping that one of them will change their minds. Maybe this time Mark would choose to stay and fight instead of leaving me behind. “We should answer.”

The phone rings a fourth time.

“Not in my house.” Dad never stops glaring at his plate.

And the answering machine picks up. Mom’s cheerful voice announces that we’re away at the moment, but to please leave a message. Then there’s a beep.

Nothing. No message. No static. Nothing. My brother doesn’t have the balls to leave me a message.

And I’m not stupid. If he wanted to talk to me, he could have called my cell. This was a test. I invited him to dinner and he was calling to see if I was the only one who wanted him home. I guess we all failed.

Mom clutches the pearls around her neck and the hope within me fades into an angry clawing. Mark left. He left me to deal with this destruction on my own.

I jerk out of my seat and my mother turns to face me. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got homework.”

The corkboard over my computer desk vibrates when I slam my bedroom door shut. I pace the room and press my hands against my head. I’ve got a damn homework assignment and the clarity and calm of a boat being tossed by the waves. What I need to do is run off the anger, lift weights until my muscles burn, throw pitches until my shoulder falls off.

I shouldn’t be writing a damn four-page English paper on anything “I want.”

The chair in front of my desk rolls back as I fling myself into the seat. With one press of a button the monitor brightens to life. The cursor mockingly blinks at me from the blank page.

Four pages. Single spaced. One-inch margins. My teacher’s expectations are too high. Especially since it’s still technically summer vacation.

My fingers bang on the keys. I’ve played ball since I was three.

And I stop typing. Baseball … it’s what I should write about. It’s what I know. But the emotions churning inside of me need a release.

Dad and Mom would turn into raging bulls if I wrote about the real status of my family. Appearances mean everything. I bet they haven’t even told their marriage counselor the truth about why they see her.

A dawning realization soothes some of the anger. I shouldn’t do it. If anyone figured it out, I’d be in deep, but right now I need to dump all the resentment. I erase the first line and give words to the emotions begging for freedom.

George woke up with a vague memory of what used to be, but one glance to the left brought on a harrowing realization of what his new reality was. Of what, specifically, he had become.

BETH

“THEY MIGHT REMEMBER ME.” Mondays suck and so does the first day of school in Hicksville, USA. I lean against the windows in the guidance counselor’s office and look around. Décor circa the 1970s: faux wood paneling, desk and chairs bought from the Wal-Mart bargain basket. The scent of mildew hangs in the air. This is backwoods schools at their finest.

“That’s the point, Elisabeth.” Scott flips through a thick schedule booklet. “Your old elementary school is one of three schools that feed into here. You’ll know some people and rekindle old friendships. What about Home Ec? You and I baked cookies a couple of times, remember?”

“Beth. I go by Beth.” It’s like the man is learning impaired. “And the last time I baked anything, it was brownies and I put …”

“We’ll put Home Ec in the No section. But I prefer the name Elisabeth. What was your best friend’s name? I used to drive you to her house.”

And we played with dolls. Over and over again. Her mom let us use her real cups for tea parties. They had a real house with real beds and I loved staying for dinner. Their food was hot. It becomes hard to swallow. “Lacy.”

“That’s right. Lacy Harper.”

The door to the office opens and the guidance counselor pops in his head. “Just a few more minutes, Mr. Risk. I’m on the line with Eastwick High.”

Scott drops that cheesy grin. “Take your time. Is there a Lacy Harper at this school?”

Somebody shoot me. Now. Right now.

“Yes, there is.”

The fun doesn’t stop coming. Scott glances at me. “Isn’t that great?”

I overly fake my response. “Awesome.”

He either chooses to ignore my sarcasm or believes my excitement. “Mr. Dwyer, could you place Beth in one of Lacy’s classes?”

Mr. Dwyer practically falls to the floor in admiration. “We’ll certainly try.” He withdraws from his own office and shuts the door.

“Were you smacked upside the head with a bat?” I can’t believe Scott expects me to attend this school.

“Only when I was five and on days that end in y,” he mumbles, still flipping through the catalog. His response pricks my chest. I’ve done my best to block out that portion of my childhood. Grandpa, his dad, used to beat the crap out of him and my dad. Scott kept him from doing the same to me. “What about Spanish?”

I actually smile. “My friend Rico taught me some Spanish. If a guy’s too touchy I can say …”

“Strike Spanish.”

Damn. That could have been fun. “Seriously, Scott. Do you really want me going to school here? Have you thought this through? Your pet with a wedding ring …”

“Allison. Her name is Allison. Let’s say it together. All-i-son. See, not so hard.”

“Whatever. She loves how everybody worships you. How long is that going to last when they remember that you’re low-life trash from the trailer park a couple miles out of Groveton?”

He stops flipping through the catalog. Even though his eyes fix on the paper, I can tell he’s no longer reading. “I’m not that kid anymore. People only care about who I am now.”

“How long do you think it will take before people remember me or Mom?” I meant to say it nasty, like a threat, but it came out soft and I hate myself for it.

Scott looks at me and I loathe the sympathy in his eyes. “They’ll remember you the way I do—a beautiful girl who loved life.”

Pissed that he keeps discussing that poor pathetic girl, I break eye contact. “She died.”

“No, she didn’t.” He pauses. “As for your mom, she moved into town her sophomore year and dropped out when she was still fifteen. People won’t remember her.”

Nausea strikes and my hand drops to my abdomen. Scott wasn’t there when the police came to the trailer and he wasn’t there to dry my tears. This is a small town and everyone knows everyone else. Even though they promised to keep that night a secret, I’m sure someone told.

“What happens to both of us when someone remembers Dad?” I ask. “No one’s going to worship you then. This is a bad mistake, Scott. Send me home.”

“Mr. Risk.” The guidance counselor from Hicksville pokes his head into the office. Worry lines clutter his overly large forehead and his fingers white-knuckle a fax. I told him I majored in detention while at Eastwick. “Can I have a moment?”

I tilt my head, knowing the words to say to make Mr. Dwyer uncomfortable. “What was that class you wanted to put me in? Hmm.” I tap my finger to my chin. “Honors English?”

“Sit down, Elisabeth.” Scott’s getting really good at demanding things in a low voice. “Okay, Mr. Dwyer, let’s discuss Beth’s schedule.”

RYAN

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, bow your heads and give an amen. Scott Risk’s niece is attending Bullitt County High and the dare is back in play. I weave through the crowded hallway with an extra spring in my step. Defeat is a nasty word. A word I no longer have to accept.

My mood crashes when I spot Chris backing Lacy against a locker. His head angles down as hers inches up. Not a good position to be in with the assistant principal exiting his office. Last year, he lectured the junior class on our hormones, carnal impulses, and the consequences for those who break the body boundary barrier. In plain English: if you’re caught standing close to a person of the opposite sex, then you’ll spend a day in detention. Back-to-back state championships require practice, not detention.

“Backseats of cars work.” I ease to the other side of Chris and Lacy to block the oncoming assistant principal’s view. “Preferably off campus.”

Chris groans when Lacy places her hand on his chest and pushes him until they’re an “acceptable” distance apart. She lets out a frustrated sigh. “Morning, Ry.”

“Go away,” Chris says flatly.

“The assistant principal is on the prowl and we are not moving practice like we did last year because you’re sitting in detention.”

Chris lets out a sigh identical to Lacy’s. “You need a girlfriend.”

“Exactly!” Lacy throws her arms out. “I’ve been saying that for months. Not an evil girlfriend. We are not doing evil again. I was tired of wearing crucifixes. I considered carrying holy water, but then I would have had to sneak into a church and then—”

“Shut it down,” I tell her. There has always been bad blood between Gwen and Lace, but I dated Gwen once. I won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting her.

The first warning bell rings, and the three of us head to English. Standing by himself, oozing perpetual boredom, Logan waits for us at the line between the seniors’ lockers and the juniors’. The four of us take as many classes as we can together. For fun. For camaraderie. For Lacy and Logan to help me and Chris with homework.

Because the boy is smarter than Einstein and most of the kids in this school are dumber than dirt, Logan takes senior courses. Next year, they won’t have any classes advanced enough for him, so odds are they’ll shove him in a dark corner of the library and pretend he doesn’t exist.

I glance around the hallway, trying to spot Beth. “So, about that continuing dare from Friday.”

“You mean the bet you lost on Friday.” Chris enters English and claims our usual seats by the window. Lacy stays in the hallway to do her girl-talk thing.

“No, the bet I’m going to win.”

Chris flashes a disbelieving grin. “Logan, do you hear the smack he’s talking?”

Logan drops into his seat and slouches. “You lost, Ryan. Badly.”

“Badly?” I ask.

“The most fun I’ve had in weeks,” Chris says. “In fact, let’s relive the moment. Hi, I’m Ryan, I want your phone number.” He holds out his hand to Logan.

“Let me think,” Logan says. “She had this elegant way of talking. Oh yeah, I believe her response was ‘Fuck you.’”

“Her name is Beth.”

“Getting her name wasn’t the dare.” Determined to keep Mrs. Rowe from taking into her possession every hat he owns like last year, Chris shoves his cap into his back pocket. “You lost. Be a man. Suck it up. Or let us continue to make fun of you. Either way works.”

“I like making fun of him,” says Logan.

I lower my voice and lean into the aisle so only Logan and Chris can hear. I have a small window of opportunity and the longer people stay in the dark regarding her uncle, the better my odds of scoring her number. Scott is a god at this school, which automatically makes her a demigod. “Her real name is Elisabeth Risk and she’s Scott Risk’s niece.”

“Beth.” Books slam on my desk and the three of us flinch and look up. Black hair, nose ring, and a formfitting white shirt unbuttoned recklessly close to areas where guys stare. Well, at least where I stare. Good God almighty, the girl’s hot.

“I’m going to say this slowly and use little words in the hope you can follow along. If you call me Elisabeth again, I’ll make sure you can never father children. Tell anyone else whose niece I am and you’ll be sucking air out of a tube in your throat.”

Chris laughs and it’s the deep, throaty kind that tells me the shit we’re entering is bad. “It’s nice to meet you. Ryan just told us how badly he wanted to call you, didn’t you, Ry?”

Ding-ding, Chris rang the bell for round two and he’s in direct violation of game play by interfering. Well played, because I would have done the same damn thing. “I tried looking for you this morning, but the secretary said you were in a meeting with Mr. Dwyer.”

Her blue eyes pierce me, and an eyebrow slowly arches toward her hairline. The silence stretching between us becomes excruciating. Chris shifts in his seat and Logan slouches lower by an inch. I will her to leave, but I need her presence to win the dare. I focus on keeping my face relaxed. If I even breathe, Skater Girl will know she has the upper hand.

“Uh-huh,” she finally responds. “I’m sure you did. Suck-ups do that type of thing. Here’s the deal. I avoid you, you avoid me, and when my uncle asks if you helped me today I’ll giggle like one of those pathetic girls standing in the hallway and gush about how poor, defenseless me couldn’t make it in the big, mean school without big, strong Ryan to help me out.”

“You can giggle?” asks Logan.

She glares at him. He shrugs. “You don’t strike me as the giggling type—just saying.”

Damn, Logan entered game play too, which means he’ll want to place money on the dare. Time to salvage. “This is Chris and Logan. They play baseball with me. Chris has a girlfriend who I’m sure you’ll love and if you want, you can sit with us today during lunch.”

“Dear God, you really are brain damaged.”

The bell rings and Skater Girl goes to the opposite side of the room and holes up in the corner. That went well. My friends both wear smiles that make me want to kick their asses.

“Twenty she curses you out by lunch,” says Chris.

“Thirty she kills you by lunch,” adds Logan.

“I’m getting her number.” The two of them laugh, and the muscles in my biceps tighten at the thought of another loss. The paper in my notebook crinkles in my fist. “You don’t think I’ve got game?”

“Not enough game for that,” says Logan.

“I’ll prove you wrong.” Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Beth. With her head down and her long black hair hiding her face, she doodles in a notebook with a pen in her left hand. Huh—a southpaw.

Chris shakes his head. “Sorry, dawg. Beth attending Bullitt High is a rule-changing event. See, phone numbers are for those we will never see again. You have months to work her. You want a win, then the stakes are raised—you have to ask her out and she has to accept.”

“And the date has to be at a public venue for no less than an hour,” adds Logan. “You know, to keep it legit.”

I shouldn’t do it. If I mess this up, I could tick off Scott Risk; but then again, if I work this right, I could have Scott Risk eating out of the palm of my hand. He all but begged me to become friends with the spawn of Satan over there. Plus, if I walk away from this opportunity, it means I lost and I don’t lose.

“Fine,” I say. “Dare accepted.”

Game on, Skater Girl. Game on.

BETH

I NEED A CIGARETTE and a smoker who will trust me. Unfortunately, I haven’t come across either of those in my four hours of living the teen version of Deliverance. From a distance, while the juniors and seniors head to lunch, I follow two guys with long hair and sagging jeans. I hope I can convince one of them to give me a drag.

They round a corner and I give them a sec. If I approach before they light up, they’ll try to act cool like they aren’t doing anything. Then there will be nothing I can say to convince them I won’t snitch.

Hell, I wouldn’t believe me. The new girl in a white button-down shirt.

I’ve given them long enough. I turn the corner, prepared to tell them to chill, but the words catch in my mouth. They aren’t there.

It’s a short hallway with double doors leading out. I hurry to the window and watch as the two guys duck and weave through the parking lot. My head smacks the door. Damn. I never thought they’d skip. First day. That’s hard-core.

At the sound of a knock, my heart kicks out of my chest and with one glance out the window it melts. It’s him. My body sags with relief. It’s really him. I press the door open and the moment the warm summer sun caresses my face, Isaiah gathers me into his arms. Normally, I wouldn’t do this—touch him so aware. Today, I don’t mind. In fact, I bury myself in him.

“It’s okay.” Isaiah kisses my hair and his hand cradles the back of my head, keeping me close. He kissed me. This embrace should bother me and I should push him away. We don’t connect like this. Not sober. Today, his touch entices me to hold him tighter.

“How did you know?” I mumble against the material of his shirt.

“Figured you’d come out for a smoke at some point. This is the only place anyone has been doing it.”

His heart has a strong, steady rhythm. There were times, in my search for weightlessness, that I pushed too hard. Drank too much. Inhaled more than I should. Became physical with guys who were no good for me. I would go beyond weightlessness as a balloon on a string that had been snapped—left alone in a frightening abyss. With one touch, Isaiah could ground me. Keep me from floating away with his arms as my anchor. His steady beating heart the reminder he would never let go.

With reluctance, I put space between us. “How did you know I’d be at this school?”

“I’ll explain it to you later. Let’s go before we get caught.” He holds his hand out to me.

“Where?” I play along, knowing what my answer will be. I want the fantasy—if only for a second.

“Wherever you want. You once said that you wanted to see the ocean. Let’s go to the ocean, Beth. We can live there.”

The ocean. The scene comes alive in my mind. Me in a pair of old faded jeans and a tank top. My hair blowing wildly in the breeze. Isaiah with his hair buzzed short and shirt off, his tattoos frightening the tourists as they stroll by. I’ll sit barefoot on the warm sand and watch the crashing waves while he watches me. Isaiah always keeps his eye on me.

I wrap my arms around myself and clutch the hem of my shirt to prevent myself from grasping him. “I can’t.”

He keeps his arm extended, but the weight of my words causes it to waver. “Why not?”

“Because if I run away, if I break Scott’s rules, he’ll send my mom to jail.”

Isaiah’s hand clenches into a fist and his arm drops to his side. “Fuck him.”

“My mom!”

“Fuck her too. In fact, why were you even with her Friday night? You promised me you’d stay away from her. She hurts you.”

“No, it was her boyfriend. Mom would never hurt me.”

“She let you take the fall for her bullshit and she sat back while he used you as a fucking piñata. Your mom is a nightmare.”

A car door slams in the parking lot, and we slink to opposite corners by the door.

“We need to talk, Beth.”

I agree. We do. I nod toward the pinewoods. “Let’s go over there.”

Isaiah pokes his head out and scans the area. He waves his hand for me to go. We don’t run. We walk in absolute silence. Once we’re deep enough in, I turn, waiting for the question that has to be tearing him apart.

“You lied to me.” Isaiah shoves his hands into his jeans pocket and stares at the brown pine needles on the ground. “You told me you never knew your dad.”

Okay. Not a question, but an accusation. One I deserve. “I know.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to talk about my dad.”

He keeps looking at those damn needles. A few years ago, I told Isaiah the same lie I gave everyone else regarding my father. Isaiah was so moved that he told me something he’d never told anyone else: that his mother had no idea who his father was. The lie I told Isaiah bonded him to me for life. By the time I figured out what cemented our relationship, that he believed we both had huge question marks on the paternal side, it was too late to tell him the truth.

“You know how people are.” I hate the desperation in my voice. “They love gossip and if there’s a story, they’ll dig, and I never wanted to think about the bastard again. When I told you I never knew who my father was, I had no idea that was your reality. I didn’t know that was the story that would make us friends.”

His eyes shut at the word friends and his jaw jumps as if I said something to hurt him. But we are friends. He’s my best friend. My only friend.

“Isaiah …” I have to give him something. Something that will let him know what he means to me. “What happened with my dad …” It hurts to breathe. “When I was in third grade …” Say it already!

Isaiah’s gray eyes meet mine. The kindness in them fades as they turn a little wild. “Is your dad around?” In the predatory movement of a panther, he takes several steps toward me. “Are you in danger?”

I shake my head. “No. He’s gone. Uncle Scott and Dad hated each other. Scott didn’t even know Dad left.”

“Your uncle?”

“He’s a dick, but he’d never lay a hand on me. I swear.”

He blinks and the wildness fades, but his muscles still ripple with anger. “I trusted you.” His three simple words gut me.

“I know.” I can give him honesty now. “I wish I could go with you.”

“Then do it.”

“She’s my mom. I expected you to understand.” It’s a low blow. I stay silent, unmoving, waiting for him to swallow his demons.

“I get it,” he says in a hard voice, “but it doesn’t mean I agree.”

Good. He’s forgiven me. Guilt still eats at me, but at least my stomach muscles relax while the guilt feasts.

“Nice shirt,” he says, and I smile at his playful tone.

“Fuck you.”

“There’s my girl. I was wondering if they sucked out your personality in first period.”

“You’re not far off.” Time is running short. I’ve lost so much already. I can’t lose him. “What do we do?”

“What are your uncle’s terms?”

“No running away and no more seeing you or Noah.” Scott said he wanted me to completely forget my old life. That the only way I’d have a fresh start was to make a clean break and if I wouldn’t willingly amputate the past, then he’d do it for me.

Isaiah grimaces. “And?”

“No ditching school. No being disrespectful to his wife or teachers or people.”

“You’re screwed.”

“Fuck you again.”

“Love you too, Sunshine.”

I ignore him. “Good grades. No smoking. No drugs. No drinking. And … no contact with Mom.”

“Hmm. I agree with the last one. Can you make it happen this time?”

I glare at him. He flips me off. God, he’s aggravating. “No more cursing. Keep curfew.”

His head pops up. “He’s letting you out?”

“Probably with a GPS stitched under my forehead. I have to clear every second of every outing through him. What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking you’re a bright girl who could manipulate the devil for a passage out of hell. You get out of that house and I’ll come get you. Any day. Any time. And I’ll have you safely home by curfew.”

Hope fills me, yet it’s not enough. I need more than Isaiah. I need something else. I fiddle with the ends of my shirttail. “Will you take me to see my mom?”

He sighs. “No. She’s no good for you.”

“He’ll kill her.”

“Let him. She made her choices.”

I stumble back as if he punched me. “How can you say that?”

The anger returns to his eyes. “How? A few months ago, she let you bleed in front of her. How could she go back to that bastard? How could she let you take the fall for her? Don’t play the sympathy card on me. No one fucks with you. Do you understand me?”

I nod to placate him, but I’ll find another way. Isaiah’s right. I can play Scott, keep Isaiah, and find a way to take care of Mom.

He pulls something out of his back pocket and tosses it to me. I slide open a shiny new gray cell phone. “We saw Scott trash your cell so I bought a new one for you and put you on my plan.”

I quirk up a smile. “You got a plan?”

He shrugs. “Noah and I got a plan and we put you on it. Cheaper that way.”

“How …” Echo inspired. “Grown-up.”

“Yeah. Noah’s been doing a lot of that.”

“How did you know? That I’d be here? In Groveton? At school?”

Isaiah focuses on the trees. “Echo. At the police station, she sat close enough to your uncle and your mom to overhear what was going down. Then Echo talked Shirley into giving us the rest of the information. Scott told Shirley his plans.”

“Great,” I mumble. “I’m in debt to psycho bitch.” The moment I say it, I feel a twinge of remorse. She’s not entirely crazy, but the truth is our relationship is strained. She’s sweet and she’s nice and she makes Noah happy, but she’s brought change … too much change … and how can I like that?

He shifts from one side to another. That’s not good. “What else, Isaiah?”

“Echo sold a painting.”

I raise my eyebrows. “So?” Echo’s been selling her paintings since last spring.

He reaches into his back pocket again and produces a wad of cash. Holy Mother of God, I’m going to start painting. “It was one of her favorites. Something she painted for her brother before he died. Noah was ticked when he found out.” He holds out the money. “She did it for you.”

Pissed. I’m beyond pissed. “I don’t want her charity.” She didn’t do it for me. She did it for Noah and Isaiah, but she mainly did it so I’d have to owe her and she knows that pride is one of the few things I rightfully own.

Isaiah closes the distance between us and shoves the bills in my back pocket before I have a chance to step away. “Take it. I want to know you have cash in case you need to bail quickly. It’s my debt to pay.”

The wad of cash feels heavy in my back pocket. Even though I’m determined to see this year out, I also know that life sucks. It’s best to be prepared.

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. “I gotta go.”

As I walk past him, Isaiah wraps a hand around my arm. “One more thing.” His eyes darken into shadows. “Call me. Anytime. I swear to you, I’ll answer.”

“I know.” It takes a second to work up the courage to say it, but he’s my best friend and worth the words. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you.” Isaiah releases me, and as I walk back to school my fingers trace the area where my skin still burns from his touch. He’s my friend … my only friend.

I pull on the handle of the same door I’d snuck out of and my heart sinks as the door stays shut. No. I broke the cardinal rule of ditching: always make sure you can sneak back in. I wiggle the handle. Nothing. I wiggle the other door’s handle. Same result. The dread sparks deep in my stomach and becomes a flash fire of panic in a heartbeat. I can’t get back in, which means I’ll be busted when I don’t show for next period. When Scott finds out, he’ll burst a blood vessel.

With both hands, I grab the handle again. “Come on!” I yank. The door gives. A hand flies out, snatches my arm, and drags me into the building.

I glance up at my rescuer and my insides become liquid when I see the most beautiful light brown eyes staring down at me. Ruining the moment, their owner speaks. “I’m not sure this is what your uncle meant by showing you around.”

“Damn, my life sucks,” I mutter.

It’s Ryan. I really hate this town.

RYAN

SKATER GIRL IS ON THE losing end of this moment. She snaps her arm out of my hand and glares at me with those unblinking blue eyes. “I don’t want your help.”

Winning feels great. Awesome. Drives me higher than anything else in the world. The twisting and pressure that I so often feel—gone. Winning leaves my muscles loose, makes me lift my head higher, and damn if it doesn’t bring on a smile. “You may not want it, but you need it.”

The second bell rings and Beth slams into my arm as she stalks past. Twenty bucks she thinks she’s late for class. “It’s only second bell.”

She hesitates and her spine goes rigid. “How many are there?”

“After lunch?” I casually walk up to her. This is too much fun. “Three. One to release lunch. A two-minute warning bell. Then the tardy bell.”

She releases a slow stream of air from her perfectly shaped lips, and relief relaxes her cheeks. This girl is sexy, but she’s also a handful. If I hadn’t accepted the dare, I’d toss her into avoid-like-the-plague territory. “What’s your next class?”

“Go to hell.” Beth rushes down the hallway and I pursue her at a leisurely pace.

Lockers lurch open and clang shut. Chatter fills the hallway. People stop and stare as Beth moves. Moves—that’s exactly what the girl does. She holds her head high and owns the middle of the hallway. A few kids have transferred to this school since my freshman year, but they spent their first couple of weeks trying to blend into the paint. Not Beth. Her hips have this easy sway that catches the eye of every guy, including me.

Beth checks out the numbers over the doors, no doubt searching for her fifth-period room. I pick up the pace and fall in step with her as she pulls a badly folded schedule out of her back pocket. Her thumb skims the list until it finds its target: Health/Physical Education.

The odds of winning just increased in my favor. That’s my next class too. “I can show you where it is.”

“Are you stalking me? If so, you’ll get your ass kicked.”

“By who? The guy you made out with in the tree line?” I have a hard time believing that a man as great as Scott Risk would allow his niece to date Tattoo Guy, but maybe that’s why he switched her schools. You gotta love a man who takes care of family. “Sorry to tell you, but I can hold my own.”

Beth wears a scowl that could kill on sight. “Threaten Isaiah again and I’ll kick your ass.”

I chuckle at the thought of the tiny, black-haired threat throwing swings at me. Punches from her would feel like a bunny biting a lion. By the way she pinches her lips together, I can tell my laughter pisses her off. Time to end this bull. “I’m just trying to be helpful.”

“Helpful? You mean you’re trying to help yourself. You’re a walking hard-on for my uncle.”

A muscle near my eye ticks. On rare occasions, bunnies can develop rabies, and Scott did warn me she was rough around the edges. He failed to mention that razor blades are her softest layer. My mouth snaps open to ask what the hell is wrong with her when Lacy sidles between us. She shoots me a warning glare. “I got this.”

“Come on, dawg.” Chris waggles his eyebrows and I realize he sent in Lacy to disturb us, thinking he interrupted me making a play. “Let’s go to class.”

“Yeah.” Class. I want to win the dare, but that won’t happen if I lose my temper. I follow Chris, willing to do anything to get away from Beth.

BETH

THE MOMENT RYAN TURNS his back, I sag against a purple locker. The acrid smell of fresh paint fills my nose. Watch—the damn locker is newly painted and I’ll have purple on my ass.

A hallway full of strange teenagers gawk at me like I’m an animal caged at the zoo. I swallow when two girls giggle as they pass. Both crane their necks to get a better glimpse of the new school freak.

People judge. They’re judging me now.

“Your hair used to be blond,” says Lacy.

What is the deal with the people in this town and my hair? I barely recognize the girl I once claimed as a friend. We sized each other up in English, trying to figure out if the other was really who we thought she was. Lacy has the same chestnut-brown hair as when we were kids. Just as long, but not as stringy. It’s thick now. She nods at Ryan’s friend Chris, indicating that he should follow Ryan into the classroom and he does.

“You used to hang out with cool people,” I say.

The right corner of her lips tilts up. “I used to hang with you.”

“That’s what I just said.”

The bell rings and a few remaining stragglers race to class. Lucky me, I share another class with Ryan. I push off the wall, check for paint, and feel off-balance when Lacy follows.

The cliques split off as fast as cockroaches when a light shines. Ryan and a couple other guys relax at a table near the back as if they’re God’s gift to women. Their expensive jeans and T-shirts that sport their favorite moronic teams scream total jock. I hand my enrollment sheet to a teacher deep in conversation with two more jocks. They discuss baseball, football, basketball. Blah, blah, blah. It must be a male thing to talk about playing with balls.

Lacy plops down at an empty table and kicks out a chair for me to join her. “Ryan says you go by Beth.”

I fall into the chair and glance over at Ryan. He quickly averts his eyes. My blood tingles—was he really staring at me? Stop it. The tingling fades. Of course he was. You’re the freak, remember? “What else did Ryan tell you?”

“Everything. Meeting you Friday night. Yesterday with Scott.”

Fuck. “So the whole damn school knows.”

“No,” she says thoughtfully. Lacy looks me over and I can tell she’s searching for that pathetic girl from a long time ago. “He only told me, Chris, and Logan. The one with dark hair sitting next to Ryan is my boyfriend, Chris.”

“My apologies.”

“He’s worth it.” She pauses. “Most of the time.”

For four classes, people have ignored me. I helped the situation by sitting in the back of each room and glaring at anyone who looked at me for longer than a second. Lacy drums her fingers against the table. Two thin black ponytail holders wrap her wrist. She wears low-rider jeans and a green retro T-shirt imprinted with a faded white four-leaf clover.

“How many people have you told?” I ask her.

The drumming stops. “Told what?”

I lower my voice and pick at the remaining black paint on my nails. “Who I am and why I left town.” I’m fishing. Because of the enrollment slip, no one has called my name out in class and no one’s mentioned my uncle. For today, I’m anonymous, but how long will that last? I’m also testing the waters for the town gossip. Lacy’s dad was a police officer and he was the first one to walk into the trailer that night.

“No one,” she says. “You’ll tell people about your uncle when you’re ready. It’s sickening. No one gave a crap about Scott until the World Series. Now everyone worships him.”

A group of girls break into laughter. The same type of purse rests on the table in front of each perfectly manicured girl. Sure, the colors and sizes of the purses are different, but the style is the same. The blonde laughing the loudest catches me looking and I toss my hair over my shoulder as a shield. I know her, and I don’t want her to remember me.

“Gwen’s still staring,” Lacy says. “It might take a few days for the hamster wheel turning her brain to make the full circle, but she’ll figure you out soon enough.”

I might appreciate her sarcasm if I wasn’t distracted by the blonde. Gwen Gardner. The summer before kindergarten, Lacy’s mom suggested to Scott that I go with Lacy to Vacation Bible School. I put on my favorite dress, one of two that I owned, pinned as many ribbons as I could in my hair, and skipped into the room. A group of girls in beautiful fluffy dresses surrounded me as I introduced myself. To the tune of giggles and whispers from the other girls, Gwen proceeded to point out every hole and stain on my beloved dress.

That was the high point in my relationship with Gwen. From there, it went downhill.

“She still a bitch?” I ask.

“Worse.” Lacy’s tone drops. “Yet everyone believes she’s a saint.”

“And I thought third grade sucked.”

Lacy snorts. “Imagine what middle school and training bras were like with her. I swear the girl blossomed into a C-cup between fifth and sixth grade. Thank God Ryan finally broke up with her last spring. I couldn’t stand being within a foot of her a moment longer.”

Of course Ryan dated Gwen. I’m sure the break-up is temporary and they’ll marry soon and create tons of other little perfect spawns of Satan in order to torture further generations of people like me.

We lapse into an awkward silence. It’s strange talking to Lacy. It used to be the two of us against the world. Then I left. I assumed, in my absence, she’d become one of them—the girls who were perfect. She had the potential to be one. Her parents had money. Her mom would have bought her the clothes. Lacy was pretty and fun. For some insane reason, she stuck with me—the girl who had two outfits and lived in the trailer park.

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