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  "Be­ca­use you can't go out on a scho­ol night, or be­ca­use you're sca­red of be­ing alo­ne with me?"

  "Both." The con­fes­si­on just slip­ped out.

  "Are you sca­red of all guys… or just me?"

  I rol­led my eyes as if to say / am not ans­we­ring such an ina­ne qu­es­ti­on.

  "I ma­ke you une­asy?" His mo­uth held a ne­ut­ral li­ne, but I de­tec­ted a spe­cu­la­ti­ve smi­le trap­ped be­hind it.

  Yes, ac­tu­al­ly, he had that ef­fect on me. He al­so had the ten­dency to wi­pe all lo­gi­cal tho­ught from my mind.

  "I'm sorry," I sa­id. "What we­re we tal­king abo­ut?"

  "You."

  "Me?"

  "Yo­ur per­so­nal li­fe."

  I la­ug­hed, un­su­re what ot­her res­pon­se to gi­ve. "If this is abo­ut me… and the op­po­si­te sex… Vee al­re­ady ga­ve me this spe­ech. I don't ne­ed to he­ar it twi­ce."

  "And what did wi­se old Vee say?"

  I was pla­ying with my hands, and slid them out of sight. "I can't ima­gi­ne why you're so in­te­res­ted."

  He softly sho­ok his he­ad. "Inte­res­ted? We're tal­king abo­ut you. I'm fas­ci­na­ted." He smi­led, and it was a fan­tas­tic smi­le. The ef­fect was a ratc­he­ted pul­se-my ratc­he­ted pul­se.

  "I think you sho­uld get back to work," I sa­id.

  "For what it's worth, I li­ke the idea that the­re's not a guy at scho­ol who matc­hes up to yo­ur ex­pec­ta­ti­ons."

  "I for­got you're the aut­ho­rity on my so-cal­led ex­pec­ta­ti­ons," I scof­fed.

  He stu­di­ed me in a way that had me fe­eling trans­pa­rent. "You're not ca­gey, No­ra. Not shy, eit­her. You just ne­ed a very go­od re­ason to go out of yo­ur way to get to know so­me­one."

  "I don't want to talk abo­ut me any­mo­re."

  "You think you've got ever­yo­ne all fi­gu­red out."

  "Not true," I sa­id. "For examp­le, well, for ins­tan­ce, I don't know much abo­ut… you."

  "You aren't re­ady to know me."

  The­re was not­hing light abo­ut the way he sa­id it. In fact, his exp­res­si­on was ra­zor sharp.

  "I lo­oked in yo­ur stu­dent fi­le."

  My words hung in the air a mo­ment be­fo­re Patch's eyes alig­ned with mi­ne. "I'm pretty su­re that's il­le­gal," he sa­id calmly.

  "Yo­ur fi­le was empty. Not­hing. Not even an im­mu­ni­za­ti­on re­cord."

  He didn't even pre­tend to lo­ok surp­ri­sed. He eased back in his se­at, eyes gle­aming ob­si­di­an. "And you're tel­ling me this be­ca­use you're af­ra­id I might ca­use an outb­re­ak? Me­as­les or mumps?"

  "I'm tel­ling you this be­ca­use I want you to know that I know so­met­hing abo­ut you isn't right. You ha­ven't fo­oled every­body. I'm go­ing to find out what you're up to. I'm go­ing to ex­po­se you."

  "Lo­oking for­ward to it."

  I flus­hed, catc­hing the in­nu­en­do too la­te. Over the top of Patch's he­ad, I co­uld see Vee we­aving her way thro­ugh the tab­les.

  I sa­id, "Vee's co­ming. You ha­ve to go."

  He sta­yed put, eye­ing me, con­si­de­ring.

  "Why are you lo­oking at me li­ke that?" I chal­len­ged.

  He tip­ped for­ward, pre­pa­ring to stand. "Be­ca­use you're not­hing li­ke what I ex­pec­ted."

  "Ne­it­her are you," I co­un­te­red. "You're wor­se."

  CHAPTER 6

  THE FOL­LO­WING MOR­NING I WAS SURP­RI­SED TO SEE El­li­ot walk in­to first-ho­ur PE just as the tardy bell so­un­ded. He was dres­sed in knee-length bas­ket­ball shorts and a whi­te Ni­ke swe­ats­hirt. His high-tops lo­oked new and ex­pen­si­ve. Af­ter han­ding a slip of pa­per to Miss Sully, he ca­ught my eye. He ga­ve a low wa­ve and jo­ined me in the ble­ac­hers.

  "I was won­de­ring when we'd bump in­to each ot­her aga­in," he sa­id. "The front of­fi­ce re­ali­zed I ha­ven't had PE for the past two ye­ars. It's not re­qu­ired in pri­va­te scho­ol. They're de­ba­ting how they're go­ing to fit fo­ur ye­ars' worth of PE in­to the next two. So he­re I am. I've got PE first and fo­urth ho­urs."

  "I ne­ver he­ard why you trans­fer­red he­re," I sa­id.

  "I lost my scho­lars­hip and my pa­rents co­uldn't af­ford the tu­iti­on."

  Miss Sully blew her whist­le.

  "I ta­ke it the whist­le me­ans so­met­hing," El­li­ot sa­id to me.

  "Ten laps aro­und the gym, no cut­ting cor­ners." I pus­hed up from the ble­ac­hers. "Are you an ath­le­te?"

  Elli­ot jum­ped up, dan­cing on the balls of his fe­et. He threw a few ho­oks and jabs in­to the air. He fi­nis­hed with an up­per­cut that stop­ped just short of my chin. Grin­ning, he sa­id, "An ath­le­te? To the co­re."

  "Then you're go­ing to lo­ve Miss Sully's idea of fun."

  Elli­ot and I jog­ged the ten laps to­get­her, then he­aded out­do­ors, whe­re the air was la­ced with a ghostly fog. It se­emed to clog my lungs, cho­king me. The sky le­aked a few ra­ind­rops, trying hard to push a storm down on the city of Cold­wa­ter. I eyed the bu­il­ding do­ors but knew it was to no ava­il; Miss Sully was hard-co­re.

  "I ne­ed two cap­ta­ins for soft­ball," she hol­le­red. "Co­me on, lo­ok ali­ve. Let's see so­me hands in the air! Bet­ter vo­lun­te­er, or I'll pick te­ams, and I don't al­ways play fa­ir."

  Elli­ot ra­ised his hand.

  "All right," Miss Sully sa­id to him. "Up he­re, by ho­me pla­te. And how abo­ut… Mar­cie Mil­lar as cap­ta­in of the red te­am."

  Mar­cie's eyes swept over El­li­ot. "Bring it on."

  "Elli­ot, go ahe­ad and ta­ke first pick," Miss Sully sa­id.

  Ste­ep­ling his fin­gers at his chin, El­li­ot exa­mi­ned the class, se­emingly si­zing up our bat­ting and fi­el­ding skills just by the lo­ok of us. "No­ra," he sa­id.

  Mar­cie tip­ped her neck back and la­ug­hed. "Thanks," she told El­li­ot, flas­hing him a to­xic smi­le that, for re­asons be­yond me, mes­me­ri­zed the op­po­si­te sex.

  "For what?" sa­id El­li­ot.

  "For han­ding us the ga­me." Mar­cie po­in­ted a fin­ger at me. "The­re's a hund­red re­asons why I'm a che­er­le­ader and No­ra's not. Co­or­di­na­ti­on tops the list."

  I nar­ro­wed my eyes at Mar­cie, then ma­de my way over be­si­de El­li­ot and rug­ged a blue jer­sey over my he­ad.

  "No­ra and I are fri­ends," El­li­ot told Mar­cie calmly, al­most co­ol­ly. It was an overs­ta­te­ment, but I wasn't abo­ut to cor­rect him. Mar­cie lo­oked li­ke she'd had a buc­ket of ice wa­ter flung at her, and I was enj­oying it.

  "That's be­ca­use you ha­ven't met an­yo­ne bet­ter. Li­ke me." Mar­cie twis­ted her ha­ir aro­und her fin­ger. "Mar­cie Mil­lar. You'll he­ar all abo­ut me so­on eno­ugh." Eit­her her eye twitc­hed, or she win­ked at him.

  Elli­ot ga­ve no res­pon­se what­so­ever, and my ap­pro­val ra­ting of him shot up a few notc­hes. A les­ser guy wo­uld ha­ve drop­ped to his kne­es and beg­ged Mar­cie for any at­ten­ti­on she saw fit to toss.

  "Do we want to stand out he­re all mor­ning wa­iting for the ra­in to co­me, or get down to bu­si­ness?" Miss Sully as­ked.

  After div­vying up te­ams, El­li­ot led ours to the du­go­ut and de­ter­mi­ned the bat­ting or­der. Han­ding me a bat, he pus­hed a hel­met on my he­ad. "You're up first, Grey. All we ne­ed is a ba­se hit."

  Ta­king a prac­ti­ce swing, and al­most na­iling him with it, I sa­id, "But I was in the mo­od for a ho­me run."

  "We'll ta­ke one of tho­se, too." He di­rec­ted me to­ward ho­me pla­te. "Step in­to the pitch and swing all the way thro­ugh."

  I ba­lan­ced the bat on my sho­ul­der, thin­king may­be I sho­uld ha­ve pa­id mo­re at­ten­ti­on du­ring the World Se­ri­es. Okay, may­be I sho­uld ha­ve watc­hed th
e World Se­ri­es. My hel­met slip­ped low on my eyes, and I pus­hed it up, trying to si­ze up the in­fi­eld, which was lost un­der gho­ulish wisps of mist.

  Mar­cie Mil­lar to­ok her pla­ce on the pitc­her's mo­und. She held the ball out in front of her, and I no­ti­ced her mid­dle fin­ger was ra­ised at me. She flas­hed anot­her to­xic smi­le and lob­bed the soft­ball at me.

  I got a pi­ece of it, sen­ding it flying in­to the dirt on the wrong si­de of the fo­ul li­ne.

  "That's a stri­ke!" Miss Sully cal­led from her po­si­ti­on bet­we­en first and se­cond ba­ses.

  Elli­ot hol­le­red from the du­go­ut, "That had a lot of spin on it-send her a cle­an one!" It to­ok me a mo­ment to re­ali­ze he was tal­king to Mar­cie and not me.

  Aga­in the ball left Mar­cie's hand, arc­hing thro­ugh the dis­mal sky. I swung, a pu­re miss.

  "Stri­ke two," Ant­hony Amo­witz sa­id thro­ugh the catc­her's mask.

  I ga­ve him a hard lo­ok.

  Step­ping away from the pla­te, I to­ok a few mo­re prac­ti­ce swings. I al­most mis­sed El­li­ot co­ming up be­hind me. He re­ac­hed his arms aro­und me and po­si­ti­oned his hands on the bat, flush with mi­ne.

  "Let me show you," he sa­id in my ear. "Li­ke this. Fe­el that? Re­lax. Now pi­vot yo­ur hips-it's all in the hips."

  I co­uld fe­el my fa­ce he­at up with the eyes of the en­ti­re class on us. "I think I've got it, thanks."

  "Get a ro­om!" Mar­cie cal­led to us. The in­fi­eld la­ug­hed.

  "If you'd throw her a de­cent pitch," El­li­ot cal­led back, "she'd hit the ball."

  "My pitch is on."

  "Her swing is on." El­li­ot drop­ped his vo­ice, spe­aking to me alo­ne. "You lo­se eye con­tact the mi­nu­te she lets go of the ball. Her pitc­hes aren't cle­an, so you're go­ing to ha­ve to work to get them."

  "We're hol­ding up the ga­me he­re, pe­op­le!" Miss Sully cal­led out.

  Just then, so­met­hing in the par­king lot be­yond the du­go­ut drew my at­ten­ti­on. I tho­ught I'd he­ard my na­me cal­led. I tur­ned, but even as I did, I knew my na­me hadn't be­en sa­id out lo­ud. It had be­en spo­ken qu­i­etly to my mind.

  No­ra.

  Patch wo­re a fa­ded blue ba­se­ball cap and had his fin­gers ho­oked in the cha­in-link fen­ce, le­aning aga­inst it. No co­at, des­pi­te the we­at­her. Just he­ad-to-toe black. His eyes we­re opa­que and inac­ces­sib­le as he watc­hed me, but I sus­pec­ted the­re was a lot go­ing on be­hind them.

  Anot­her string of words crept in­to my mind.

  Bat­ting les­sons? Ni­ce… to­uch.

  I drew a ste­ad­ying bre­ath and told myself I'd ima­gi­ned the words. Be­ca­use the al­ter­na­ti­ve was con­si­de­ring that Patch held the po­wer to chan­nel tho­ughts in­to my mind. Which co­uldn't be. It just co­uldn't. Un­less I was de­lu­si­onal. That sca­red me mo­re than the idea that he'd bre­ac­hed nor­mal com­mu­ni­ca­ti­on met­hods and co­uld, at will, spe­ak to me wit­ho­ut ever ope­ning his mo­uth.

  "Grey! He­ad in the ga­me!"

  I blin­ked, jer­king to li­fe just in ti­me to see the ball rol­ling thro­ugh the air to­ward me. I star­ted to swing, then he­ard anot­her trick­le of words.

  Not…yet.

  I held back, wa­iting for the ball to co­me to me. As it des­cen­ded, I step­ped to­ward the front of the pla­te. I swung with everyt­hing I had.

  A hu­ge crack so­un­ded, and the bat vib­ra­ted in my hands. The ball dro­ve at Mar­cie, who fell flat on her back­si­de. Squ­e­ezing bet­we­en shorts­top and se­cond ba­se, the ball bo­un­ced in the out-fi­eld grass.

  "Run!" my te­am sho­uted from the du­go­ut. "Run, No­ra!"

  I ran.

  "Drop the bat!" they scre­amed.

  I flung it asi­de.

  "Stay on first ba­se!"

  I didn't.

  Step­ping on a cor­ner of first ba­se, I ro­un­ded it, sprin­ting to­ward se­cond. Left fi­eld had the ball now, in po­si­ti­on to throw me out. I put my he­ad down, pum­ped my arms, and tri­ed to re­mem­ber how the pros on ESPN slid in­to ba­se. Fe­et­first? He­ad­first? Stop, drop, and roll?

  The ball sa­iled to­ward the se­cond ba­se­man, spin­ning whi­te so­mew­he­re in my pe­rip­he­ral vi­si­on. An ex­ci­ted chan­ting of the word "Sli­de!" ca­me from the du­go­ut, but I still hadn't ma­de up my mind which was hit­ting the dirt first-my sho­es or my hands.

  The se­cond ba­se­man snag­ged the ball out of the air. I do­ve he­ad­first, arms outst­retc­hed. The glo­ve ca­me out of now­he­re, swo­oping down on me. It col­li­ded with my fa­ce, smel­ling strongly of le­at­her. My body crump­led on the dirt, le­aving me with a mo­uth­ful of grit and sand dis­sol­ving un­der my ton­gue.

  "She's out!" cri­ed Miss Sully.

  I tumb­led si­de­ways, sur­ve­ying myself for inj­uri­es. My thighs bur­ned a stran­ge mix of hot and cold, and when I ra­ised my swe­ats, to say it lo­oked li­ke two cats had be­en set free on my thighs wo­uld be an un­ders­ta­te­ment. Lim­ping to the du­go­ut, I col­lap­sed on the bench.

  "Cu­te," El­li­ot sa­id.

  "The stunt I pul­led or my torn-up leg?" Tuc­king my knee aga­inst my chest, I gently brus­hed as much of the dirt away as I co­uld.

  Elli­ot bent si­de­ways and blew on my knee. Se­ve­ral of the lar­ger bits of dirt fell to the gro­und.

  A mo­ment of awk­ward si­len­ce fol­lo­wed.

  "Can you walk?" he as­ked.

  Stan­ding, I de­monst­ra­ted that whi­le my leg was a mess of scratc­hes and dirt, I still had the use of it.

  "I can ta­ke you the nur­se's of­fi­ce if you want. Get you ban­da­ged," he sa­id.

  "Re­al­ly, I'm fi­ne." I glan­ced at the fen­ce whe­re I'd last se­en Patch. He was no lon­ger the­re.

  "Was that yo­ur boyf­ri­end stan­ding by the fen­ce?" El­li­ot as­ked.

  I was surp­ri­sed that El­li­ot had no­ti­ced Patch. He'd had his back to him. "No," I sa­id. "Just a fri­end. Ac­tu­al­ly, not even that. He's my bio part­ner."

  "You're blus­hing."

  "Pro­bably wind­burn."

  Patch's vo­ice still ec­ho­ed in my he­ad. My he­art pum­ped fas­ter, but if anyt­hing, my blo­od ran col­der. Had he tal­ked di­rectly to my tho­ughts? Was the­re so­me inexp­li­cab­le link bet­we­en us that al­lo­wed it to hap­pen? Or was I lo­sing my mind?

  Elli­ot didn't lo­ok fully con­vin­ced. "You su­re not­hing's go­ing on bet­we­en the two of you? I don't want to cha­se af­ter an una­va­ilab­le girl."

  "Not­hing." Not­hing I was go­ing to al­low, any­way.

  Wa­it What did El­li­ot say?

  "Sorry?" I sa­id.

  He smi­led. "Delp­hic Se­aport re­opens Sa­tur­day night, and Jules and I are thin­king abo­ut dri­ving out. We­at­her's not sup­po­sed to be too bad. May­be you and Vee want to co­me?"

  I to­ok a mo­ment to think over his of­fer. I was pretty su­re that if I tur­ned El­li­ot down, Vee wo­uld kill me. Be­si­des, go­ing out with El­li­ot se­emed li­ke a go­od way to es­ca­pe my un­com­for­tab­le at­trac­ti­on to Patch.

  "So­unds li­ke a plan," I sa­id.

  CHAPTER 7

  IT WAS SA­TUR­DAY NIGHT, AND DO­ROT­HEA AND I WE­RE IN the kitc­hen. She had just pop­ped a cas­se­ro­le in­to the oven and was si­zing up a list of tasks my mom had han­ging from a mag­net on the frid­ge.

  "Yo­ur mot­her cal­led. She won't ar­ri­ve ho­me un­til la­te Sun­day night," Do­rot­hea sa­id as she scrub­bed Aj­ax in­to our kitc­hen sink with a vi­gor that ma­de my own el­bow ac­he. "She left a mes­sa­ge on the mac­hi­ne. She wants you to gi­ve her a call. You've be­en cal­ling every night be­fo­re bed?"

  I sat on a sto­ol, eating a but­te­red ba­gel. I'd just ta­ken a hu­ge bi
­te, and now Do­rot­hea was lo­oking at me li­ke she wan­ted an ans­wer. "Mm-hmm," I sa­id, nod­ding.

  "A let­ter from scho­ol ca­me to­day." She flic­ked her chin at the stack of ma­il on the co­un­ter. "May­be you know why?"

  I ga­ve my best in­no­cent shrug and sa­id, "No clue." But I had a pretty go­od idea what this was abo­ut. Twel­ve months ago I'd ope­ned the front do­or to find the po­li­ce on the do­ors­tep. We ha­ve so­me bad news, they sa­id. My dad's fu­ne­ral was a we­ek la­ter. Every Mon­day af­ter­no­on sin­ce then, I'd shown up at my sche­du­led ti­me slot with Dr. Hend­rick­son, scho­ol psycho­lo­gist. I'd mis­sed the last two ses­si­ons, and if I didn't ma­ke amends this we­ek, I was go­ing to get in tro­ub­le. Most li­kely the let­ter was a war­ning.

  "You ha­ve plans to­night? You and Vee ha­ve so­met­hing up yo­ur sle­eves? May­be a mo­vie he­re at the ho­use?"

  "May­be. Ho­nestly, Dorth, I can cle­an the sink la­ter. Co­me sit and… ha­ve the ot­her half of my ba­gel."

  Do­rot­hea's gray bun was co­ming un­do­ne as she scrub­bed. "I am go­ing to a con­fe­ren­ce to­mor­row," she sa­id. "In Port­land. Dr. Me­lis­sa Sanc­hez will spe­ak. She says you think yo­ur way to a se­xi­er you. Hor­mo­nes are po­wer­ful drugs. Un­less we tell them what we want, they back­fi­re. They work aga­inst us." Do­rot­hea tur­ned, po­in­ting the Aj­ax can at me for emp­ha­sis. "Now I wa­ke in the mor­ning and ta­ke red lips­tick to my mir­ror. 'I am sexy,' I wri­te.

  'Men want me. Sixty-fi­ve is the new twenty-fi­ve.'"

  "Do you think its wor­king?" I as­ked, trying very hard not to smi­le.

  "It's wor­king," Do­rot­hea sa­id so­berly.

  I lic­ked but­ter off my fin­gers, stal­ling for a su­itab­le res­pon­se. "So you're go­ing to spend the we­ekend re­in­ven­ting yo­ur sexy si­de."

  "Every wo­man ne­eds to re­in­vent her sexy si­de-I li­ke that. My da­ugh­ter got imp­lants. She sa­id she did it for her­self, but what wo­man gets bo­obs for her­self? They are a bur­den. She got the bo­obs for a man. I ho­pe you do not do stu­pid things for a boy, No­ra." She sho­ok her fin­ger at me.