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I wanted to
go
back to the Bat Lady’s house that night, but here was the problem: I had too much homework. I’d been blowing it off for days now, and if I didn’t start working on the essay for history and study for the math quiz, I’d be in huge trouble. I turned off my mobile phone, sat at the kitchen table, and got to work.

First thing Tuesday morning, I had history with my favorite teacher, Mrs. Friedman. Rachel’s desk was empty. I didn’t know what to think, but it really wasn’t a huge surprise. There had been a shooting at her house. Her mother ended up dead, and Rachel ended up hospitalized with a bullet wound. The wound ended up being minor. Physically she was okay. Mentally, well, that was another story.

I had been the one to tell Rachel the truth. I had been warned by her father not to, but Uncle Myron had given me other advice, warning me that if you lie, it never leaves the room. It haunts the relationship forever. That made sense to me, so I ended up listening to Myron.

Rachel and I hadn’t communicated since, and yet if I had to do it all again . . . I don’t know.

The vibe in the school cafeteria was decidedly somber today. Ema and I sat at our usual table in what is often dubbed “Loserville.” Our table could sit twelve, but today there were just the two of us. Usually we were three, and staring at the spot where Spoon normally sat made my chest hurt.

“I’m worried about him too,” Ema said. “But he wouldn’t want us moping around about it.”

I nodded. I had met Spoon in this very cafeteria. He had walked up to me and offered me his spoon for reasons I still didn’t get. In my mind I had started thinking of him as “that spoon kid,” which had been shortened to Spoon. Spoon loved the nickname and insisted that we use it always and forever. If someone called him Arthur now, he ignored them.

The tables with the kids we deem more popular for whatever dumb reasons were usually an active beehive of varsity jackets, blond highlights, loud voices, big laughs, and enthusiastic high fives. But not today. Troy was still there, at the head of the table as usual, but he was quiet. The rest of the table followed his mood. In fact, it seemed as though the whole cafeteria were in silent mourning over the recent fate of their fallen leader.

“It’s so quiet in here,” Ema said.

She and I were always on the same wavelength.

“Too quiet,” I said, arching a joking eyebrow.

I wasn’t suicidal enough to smile or laugh out loud, but I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. I hated Troy with pretty good reason, and that wasn’t about to change over this. Yes, I understood how painful it must be to lose a season of basketball, especially now, in your last year of playing with your buddies. But then again, some of us had never had a steady group of buddies to play with. Some of us hadn’t been handed those opportunities, just to toss them away.

I didn’t feel sorry for him.

Troy had cheated by taking PEDs—performance-enhancing drugs. I didn’t buy Brandon’s defense. That was what every athlete said when they were caught—it was a mistake, it was a fix, it wasn’t me. I would probably admire Troy more if he just admitted it. Whatever. It wasn’t my business.

Troy’s table was usually full, but the seat next to his, the one where Buck always sat, was empty. I could usually count on Buck to be staring me down, mouthing that I was a “dead man,” emphasizing the point by making a slashing motion across his neck with his finger. Buck would then make fun of Ema in some cruel way, call her “fugly” or moo at her, a classic insecure bully idiot. I wouldn’t miss him either.

But I did find it odd.

Troy and Buck had been best friends since elementary school. Suddenly, within a few days of one another, Troy had been caught up in a drug scandal and Buck had moved away.

I lowered my head to start eating when I realized that the room had suddenly gone even quieter if possible, as though everyone had decided to hold their breath at the same time.

Then I heard Ema said, “Whoa.”

I lifted my head and felt the familiar jolt.

Rachel Caldwell had entered the cafeteria.

The silence was for a few reasons. One, this was her first return to school since the shooting that had left her mother dead and Rachel wounded. That had been our last . . . I don’t know what the word is . . . case, I guess, for the Abeona Shelter. We had solved it, but the answer remained a carefully guarded secret.

I hadn’t even told Ema.

I felt bad about that. Ema and Spoon had risked their lives and done everything anyone could have asked. They were my best friends and I hated the idea of keeping secrets from them, especially Ema, but in this case, the secret wasn’t mine to tell. It was Rachel’s. If I tell Ema, I betray Rachel. But then again, by not telling Ema . . .

In the end, I hoped and believed that Ema would understand. But I could be wrong about that.

I had not seen Rachel since the day I flew to California, when I showed up at her door and blew her world apart.

Reason Two for the cafeteria silence: Rachel was a popular girl. More to the point, she was captain of the cheerleading team, the hottest girl in school, the girl everyone talked about—you get the drift. People paid attention to a girl like that.

Reason Three: Rachel and Troy had been—I start gagging when I even think of it—an item. Rachel made it clear to me that she’d been young and dumb and that it was way,
way
over, though maybe she should make it a little clearer to Troy.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice that she wasn’t coming over to say hi to Ema or me. She was heading for Troy’s table. She took Buck’s seat—the one next to him—and forced up a sad smile for Troy.

My face felt hot.

“Stop it,” Ema whispered to me.

“What?”

She just frowned at me and shook her head. “Troy was just kicked off the basketball team. She has to show some kind of support for him, don’t you think?”

I didn’t. But that wasn’t the point. Rachel hadn’t so much as glanced in our direction. Ema wouldn’t understand why. But I did. Uncle Myron had warned me that there would be a price for telling the truth, but how had he put it?

The ugliest truth is still better than the prettiest of lies.

She was avoiding me. I don’t know what advice someone would give me about that.
Give her time,
probably. I had done that already. Not a lot of time. But enough. Besides, I had learned that “giving time” often meant “time to fester.”

I needed to confront Rachel. The sooner, the better.

I made it
my business to walk past Rachel’s locker between classes, hoping to catch her there. Finally, with only one period left in the day, I found her, but she was far from alone. Rachel’s locker was surrounded by cheerleaders and jocks and a potpourri of popular kids, all welcoming her back and showing concern.

I didn’t know them. They didn’t know me.

I was the new kid and so there was some natural curiosity about me. My height also drew attention, I think, and maybe I was starting to get a rep for my basketball. I had, of course, lost a lot of popularity cred by choosing to hang out with Ema and Spoon. So now maybe I was less a curiosity and more an oddity.

Rachel saw me approach and gave a slow shake of her head. I got the meaning.
Stay away.
I should have respected that, nodded in return and moved on my way.

I didn’t. I stood there and mouthed the word,
When?

Her reply was a slammed locker. Rachel shot me one last dagger, turned, and strolled away.

Terrific.

My final period today was health with Mr. Nacht, a class that couldn’t be more snooze worthy if it included Benadryl. When classes ended, I hurried back to Rachel’s locker. No sign of her. I went to my own. I had basketball practice in half an hour, but it would be good to get there early and work on my shooting. I reached into my locker and grabbed my phone. There was a message from Spoon:
Got some information on Jared. Stop by tonight.

There was another buzz. Again it was Spoon, the boy who lived for irrelevant factoids:
Porcupines float in water.

Good to know, in case I was ever tempted to rescue a water-drenched porcupine.

I was first changed and out on the gym floor. I shot around, enjoying the solo echo of one man dribbling and shooting. The other guys started to sputter out of the locker room. None chose to shoot with me. I was hardly surprised. Normally there was laughter, horsing around, banter, whatever. Not today. The gym was silent as a tomb—or the cafeteria today. The only sounds came from the bouncing balls.

At four o’clock, Coach Grady blew the whistle and shouted for everyone to take a seat. Brandon and some guy I hadn’t met yet pulled out the rickety accordion-like stands. We all climbed up a step or two and found a place to sit.

Coach Grady looked as though he’d aged ten years since last practice. He paced for a few moments. We all sat and watched him. Behind him, Coach Stashower held a clipboard and waited.

“We have our work cut out for us,” Coach Grady said. “As most of you know by now, Troy has been suspended from the team. He has the right to appeal, which he has taken, but in the meantime he will not be allowed to practice or play with the team. Troy had been our co-captain. During his absence, which will last the entire season if it’s not overturned on appeal—and frankly I don’t know anyone who has ever won an appeal—Brandon will serve as our solo captain.”

All eyes turned to Brandon. Brandon kept his head up, his face set.

“On top of that, Buck’s family has decided that he would be better off living with his mother, so he won’t be with us for the season. That means two seniors, both starters and leaders on last year’s team, won’t be playing with us this season. I don’t think I have to tell you what a big blow this is for our program.”

Coach Grady adjusted the cap on his head and let loose a long sigh. “But victory often comes out of adversity. We can give up, or we can rise to the challenge. For many of you, there is an opportunity here to step up. For us as a team, we can either let these setbacks tear us to shreds—or make us more cohesive. We can either come together or come apart.”

He put his foot up on the lowest bench, leaned onto his knee, and took a few seconds to scan our faces. “I believe in all of you. I believe in this team. And I believe we can still achieve great things this season.”

Absolute silence.

“Okay, boys, take three laps and start the three-man weave. Let’s go.”

He clapped his hands, and we were off.

The practice did not go well. If I’d hoped that Troy being vanquished would help me, I was very sadly mistaken. If anything, the rest of the guys seemed extra angry with me, as if it were my fault. They froze me out. They threw passes at my feet. Someone hit me with a dirty elbow. I fought through it and played hard, but part of me wanted to just quit.

When practice ended, I was a sweaty mess, but I didn’t want to hang around these guys one second longer than necessary. I was about to head out when Brandon ran up behind me.

“Mickey?”

I turned toward him.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Uh, okay. Now?”

He came a little closer. “Let’s wait for the other guys to leave. I don’t want them to see us. Shower, get dressed, take your time.”

So I did. Again everyone avoided me, except to give me death stares. Half an hour later, Brandon and I were the only ones left in the locker room.

“So talk,” I said to him.

Brandon looked left, then right. “Not here,” he whispered. “Follow me.”

“Where?”

“Just follow me.”

He held open the door, inviting me out into the still corridor. I didn’t like it. The players and coaches were gone now. So were all the teachers. Our footsteps echoed down hallway.

“You get what’s going on, right?” Brandon said.

“About?”

“About why the guys on the team are mad at you.”

“No.”

“Think about it.”

I did. I still didn’t get it.

“You join the team,” Brandon said, “and suddenly Troy comes up with a positive drug test.”

“So?” Then: “Wait, are you saying people think I had something to do with it?”

Brandon nodded. “We’ve all known Troy for years. He’s a lot of things. But he’s not a drug cheat.”

“So, what, they think I spiked his urine or something?”

Brandon stopped and looked at me. “Did you?”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Did you?”

“Of course not. Seriously, even if I wanted to, how would I?”

Brandon shrugged. “You have access to the school.”

“What are you talking about?”

“People know you’re friends with the janitor’s weird kid.”

He meant Spoon. I was about to defend Spoon, to snap back that Spoon wasn’t weird, but then I remembered something: Spoon was weird. Wonderfully so. But he was weird.

“He’s got keys, right? He could sneak you into places.”

“To alter drug tests?” I said. “That’s insane.”

“Is it? Heck, you guys were in here with drug dealers last week. The janitor’s kid got shot, right?”

“Right, but—”

“There’s been a lot of crazy stuff happening in this town since you moved in,” Brandon said, “and somehow, Mickey, you seem to always be in the middle of it.”

We were in a dark corridor now. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like any of this.

“Where are we going, Brandon?”

“Almost there.”

When we reached the end of the corridor, I heard a familiar voice say, “Hello, Mickey. Thanks for coming.”

I turned.

It was Troy.

I took two
steps
back and debated how to play this.

I could make a run for it. I could stand and fight. I wasn’t afraid. I was pretty good with my fists, but then again it was two against one, at the very least. There might be more of them somewhere nearby. I could also go after one, make a quick strike, and sprint down the corridor.

But neither Troy nor Brandon moved toward me. They just stood there, both looking at each other nervously, then back at me.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“We need to talk,” Brandon said. “That’s all. Just talk.”

“Are you going to start up again with that nonsense about me setting up Troy?”

It was Troy who replied. “No. I didn’t believe it for a second.”

I looked at him. For the first time since we’d met, Troy Taylor wasn’t looking at me with naked hostility. He wasn’t telling me I was a dead man. He wasn’t mooing at Ema. He looked like a real, live human being.

“I need your help, Mickey.”

“Me?”

Brandon stepped forward. “All that stuff I said before. About how you could break into the school. About all that stuff you’ve been involved with.”

“What about it?”

Troy and Brandon exchanged another look. “You’re good at stuff like that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Mickey,” Troy said. “My dad is the chief of police here, remember?”

Boy, did I know. Chief Taylor probably hated me more than his son did.

“He told me how you were doing your own investigation when that girl Ashley disappeared. He told me that you drove a car and broke into a nightclub down in Newark. I know you helped Rachel figure out who shot her and her mom. You were actually here, in this school, when those bad guys shot up the place, and you came out on the winning end.”

Winning end, I thought. Spoon lay partially paralyzed in the hospital and Rachel was devastated. Some winning end.

“I still don’t see your point,” I said.

Troy looked at Brandon. Brandon nodded at him to continue.

“You’re like some kind of kid detective,” Troy said. “I don’t know. But I need your help.”

“Help with what?”

“I need you to help me prove that I didn’t take steroids.”

“Me?” I glanced at Brandon and then back at Troy. “You’re kidding, right?”

Brandon said, “Just hear him out.”

“I didn’t do it, Mickey. I swear.”

I still couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “First off, Troy, I don’t believe you. But even if I did, you’ve been nothing but a bully to me since I arrived. You pick on my friends. You tried to hurt me at practice.”

“I know that. And I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Mickey?”

“What?”

Troy spread his arms. “We’re teammates, right?”

I said nothing.

“This is what teammates do. We help each other. Like family. And, yeah, Mickey, maybe you’ll be the star this year. Maybe you’ll even score more points than me. I don’t know. But you know the team will have a better chance of winning the state championship if I’m on it.”

I shuffled my feet. “This isn’t my business,” I said.

“Mickey, look at me for a second. Okay? Just look at me.”

I did.

“I’m sorry,” Troy said again. “I was getting on your case because you’re new to the school and you’re only a sophomore and, okay, maybe I was jealous. I mean, you just came to this school and you’re this hotshot basketball star and, well, already my girl is spending more time with you than me.”

I was about to comment on that, but Brandon just shook his head at me, signaling for me to let it go.

“So here I am,” Troy said, “asking for your help.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. I took a step back. “As you pointed out, your father is the chief of police,” I said. “Let him help you.”

“He can’t do this.”

“Sure he can.”

“I need someone with your skills. I need someone who gets it, who’s part of the team.”

I almost bought into it right then—the idea of team. But then I remembered it all. Troy’s threats, the way he bullied Spoon and grabbed Ema’s laptop, how he had set me up and almost got me thrown off the team, the way he yelled “moooo” and cackled whenever Ema walked by him in the cafeteria.

“I’m sorry,” Troy repeated. He stuck out his hand. “Can’t we start again?”

“I have to go,” I said.

Brandon said, “Mickey . . .”

“This isn’t my battle, Brandon. You kept saying how I get in the middle of these things. This time I’m staying out of it.”

I turned and started down the corridor.