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I was the guy no one noticed. case in point: during my freshman year, I went out
for football. It wasn’t difficult to make the team — my hometown high school was so small that they barely cut anyone. I didn’t suck at football, but I wasn’t great at it, either. The only reason I kept playing was because Kinsey Jackson, the girl I’d had a crush on since kindergarten, cheered on the pep squad. Then, as if fate conspired to bring us together, Kinsey drew my locker number for spirit Week.
It was supposed to be a secret, which pep squad girl had drawn our locker number, but Ginny Goodman told me because she knew I had a thing for Kinsey. For days I imagined what Kinsey might do to my locker to psych me up for the Homecoming Game. I even wrote her a
– 6 –
thank- you letter that I planned on slipping into her locker afterward. The letter was three pages long and ended by asking her to the Homecoming Dance. I pictured her run-ning up to me with pages in hand and whispering Yes.
When I got to school the next day, the lockers of all the football players were decorated with glittery red H ’s for Huskies, our mascot. some players, like Dave Mcewan, got four or five H ’s on their lockers, along with bags of homemade cookies. Guys clamored in the halls, bragging about their decorations while stealing treats from each other.
I hurried to my locker, eager to see what Kinsey had done for me, but there was nothing.
no H. no streamers. no cookies. I looked on the floor in case my H had fallen off. Then
I looked around in case someone had taken my cookies as a joke. That’s when I noticed Kinsey flirting with Dave Mcewan at the end of the hall.
It’snobigdeal, I told myself. There are kids who are orphaned, or shipwrecked, or fighting in wars — every story we read in english class focused on someone cop-ing with something big. compared to their problems, not getting an H was definitely not worth talking about. But that was the problem. nothing in my life was worth talking about. I was so unremarkable that no one even noticed I’d been forgotten.
– 7 –
The rest of my freshman year drifted by in pretty much the same way. I didn’t try out for any other sports or write any more letters to girls I liked. I just coasted through my classes, dreaming of a different life. and maybe I would have gone on like that forever if Principal Kay hadn’t called me into her office a few weeks before the school year ended.
she told me to sit and flipped through my file, which didn’t take long. There couldn’t have been much in it to read, other than some test scores, records of my crappy attendance, and an uninspired grade point average.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “am I in trouble?” I asked. “That depends, James. What are you doing here?” “nothing,” I said. “I see that.” she shook her head and frowned. “Your
test scores aren’t bad.” “tests are easy.” “Really?” Principal Kay gave me a long look. I fidgeted, not knowing what she wanted me to say.
Did she think I’d cheated or something? she sifted through a pile of papers on her desk, pulled
out a glossy brochure, and handed it to me. “any chance you might be interested in this?”
I studied the cover. Discoveryourpotential. . . .was written above a picture of a kid pouring liquid into a bea-ker. along the bottom, in large block letters, it said tHe
aMeRIcan scIence anD MatHeMatIcs acaDeMY. according
– 8 –
to the brochure, asMa was “the state’s premier high school for aca demically gifted students.” In other words, a refuge for geeks.
I looked at Principal Kay, confused about why she’d given the brochure to me. science and math weren’t my favorite subjects, and I definitely wasn’t “gifted.” I didn’t consider myself very geeky, either. sure, I’d scored well on standardized tests and I got decent grades, but classes at my small- town high school were a joke.
“You never know what you’re capable of until you try, James,” Principal Kay said.
I shrugged. “no one from this school has applied before,” she
added. That caught my attention. “Why not?” “I suppose other qualified students didn’t want to live
away from home.” I flipped through the brochure again, noticing the
dorms in the background of one of the pictures. The campus was more than two hours away. “I’d have to live there?”
“It’s one of the only public residential high schools in the country,” she said. “Quite a unique opportunity.”
On my way back to class, I walked past the pictures of all the varsity football teams for the past fifty years or so. I stopped at my dad’s picture. He was in the third row, second from the end, not smiling. He might have been trying to look tough, but instead he seemed nervous.
– 9 –
I followed the pictures to the end of the hall, where my team picture would eventually hang. The years blurred together into diluted red and tan squares. Uniforms and hairstyles changed, but the players looked the same. at the beginning of the year, coach Wayne had told us that we should be proud to be part of such a great tradition. The funny thing was, our football team had never been that great. We were barely even average.
and then there was me — among the average, I was no one.
everyone in my town had known me for so long, there was no way to get them to see that they didn’t really know me at all. to them, I was just the quiet guy who sat behind them in math class. The one who didn’t get an H and never said anything about it. The sort of guy no one told stories about.
at least that’s who I used to be. I took home the application and filled it out.
MoMs trIed to help Me decorate my room.
“Honey, you don’t want to put this up,” she said, hold-ing a ripped and faded sid Vicious poster. “Let’s get you something to brighten the place — flowers, or a landscape, or something in a frame.” she looked at the poster and wrinkled her nose. “I’m going to throw this away.”
I rolled my eyes, refusing to lose it in front of Richard, call- me- Dickie, the roommate I’d met only five minutes before. We’d talked once on the phone over the summer, after the administration had sent me a sheet with his phone number on it and the suggestion that we coordi-nate furnishings. all I knew about Dickie was that he’d bring the minifridge.
Dickie stuffed socks into the dresser on his side of the room, pretending not to notice the growing tension.
– 11 –
“It’s his room,” my dad said. “Let him decorate how he likes.”
Moms turned to Dickie. “What do you think, Richard?” she asked, waving the poster around. “Do you want this hanging in your room?”
Dickie looked from Moms to me. “Don’t encourage her,” I said.
“sure, Mrs. turner,” Dickie replied. “I think it adds a certain reckless, down- and- out pastiche.”
Pastiche?Moms smiled at Dickie. “so grunge is in?” “sid isn’t grunge,” I interrupted, embarrassed by her
desperate attempt to sound cool. “He’s punk.” “Whatever. He’s grungy- looking, isn’t he?” she asked,
addressing Dickie again. “Definitely grungy,” Dickie agreed. “But what can you
do? Girls go crazy for that sort of thing.” “Really?” “Oh, yeah, Mrs. turner. It’s all part of the bad- boy
mystique.” Moms smiled, charmed by my blond, blue- eyed
roommate. “I see. Then I guess we’ll have to put it up.” she tacked the poster to the wall and, with Dickie’s
encouragement, arranged some of our other furnishings — stringing up the christmas lights I’d brought and design-ing a study corner with a lava lamp. My roommate complimented her on her sophisticated sense of taste and style.
– 12 –
“You’re too sweet,” Moms said, basking in the praise. Dickie winked at me. even though his schmoozing
annoyed me, I was still relieved to be rooming with him. Most of the other students I’d seen moving in had stunned me with their nerdliness — skinny arms, big glasses, buck teeth, stringy hair . . . the works.
My dad fiddled with the shades on the windows while Moms surveyed the room. “What else should we do?” she asked. “curtains? Do you need curtains? I think there are some stores down the road.”
“I don’t need curtains,” I replied. “What about making your bed?” “I’m almost sixteen. I think I can handle it.” “Hey, James,” Dad called. He snapped a picture as I
turned. The flash stung my eyes. “Got you.” He slid the camera back into his shirt pocket and checked his watch. “Well, it’s getting late.”
“I’ll walk you out,” I offered. Moms sighed, acting dramatic. “Fine. If you don’t
want us here.” “It was wonderful meeting you, Mr. and Mrs. turner,”
Dickie said. she squeezed his hand and gave him one of her radi-
ant fake smiles. “You take care of my boy, now,” she said to Dickie, as if she were giving me up for adoption.
I hurried them through the hall to keep Moms from talking with anyone else. Dad thumped the walls and remarked about the quality of the construction. “You’re
– 13 –
lucky to have a bathroom in every room,” he said. “Most college dorms aren’t this nice.”
I nodded and kept walking. It was always the same with them — Moms needing to be the center of attention while Dad slouched around in his wrinkled work shirts, muttering about p articleboard and car engines.
Outside, the parking lot swarmed with parents car-rying grocery bags full of ramen and soda and other last- minute “necessities” snagged from the store. a few kids, standing with their parents beside a minivan or an sUV, seemed to be crying. Moms dabbed her eyes like she might cry, too, although I doubted she would. she just loved scenes.
“We could get you some snacks,” she said. “Don’t you need snacks?”
“I’m fine.” “Maybe more granola bars?” “I have plenty.” Moms pouted. “I bet other kids would be happy to
have their mom get them snacks.” I stayed silent, trying not to argue with her. Dad jingled the car keys. “Let’s go, Hannah.” she sighed and hugged me good- bye. Then she got in
the car and flipped down the mirror to fix her mascara. Dad paused before opening the driver’s door. “James,”
he called. I met his tired, sagging eyes. We were exactly the
same height, but with his round shoulders and slight
– 14 –
belly, he looked shorter. He rubbed the stubble on his cheek. “James,” he repeated. “Listen. always keep a spare roll of toilet paper in your closet. If the one in the bath-room runs out, it’s good to know where an extra can be found.”
“sure,” I said, not certain how to respond to this gem of fatherly wisdom.
He nodded and shook my hand, then we hugged, awkwardly slapping each other’s backs.
I watched the car pull away. Moms waved, wiggling her fingers. Dad drove slowly out of the parking lot, sig-naled, and turned onto the main road. The drab gray back of the car receded, disappearing behind rows of corn.
and that was it — I was free. I imagined jumping into the air and shouting like at the end of some cheesy high- school flick where a graduate in a robe tosses his cap and the camera freezes on it and no one knows what happens afterward. except I wasn’t graduating. Here I was, only a high- school sophomore, already on my own.
The possibilities seemed endless. I could go back to my room and unpack, or dump my clothes onto the floor and kick them under the bed. swig a two- liter of coke. Wrap myself in toilet paper. Get a tattoo. change my name. . . . all the strings were cut. no one here knew me, so no one could hold me back.
My life had finally started.
It started wIth a lIe. During the first four days, sopho mores were required
to do a variety of orientation activities. There were six dorms at asMa — three girls’ dorms and three boys’. each dorm had four wings, laid out in an X with a kitchen and computer lab in each wing and a commons in the center. all the dorms together looked like a line of chro-mosomes about to divide.
I lived in D wing, otherwise known as Dingo wing. This was written in Magic Marker above the door to our wing. Mike, our Resident counselor — a thirty something bald guy with so much hair on his chest it puffed out his shirt — made us all attend a wing party after the parents left on Thursday so Dingo- wingers could “bond.” He gave
– 16 –
us chips and soda, and interview forms we were supposed to fill out by questioning our roommates.
Dickie encouraged me to introduce him as the ille-gitimate child of Lord scrotium, a famous British politi-cian. Mike frowned while I elaborated on Dickie’s lifelong ambition to be recognized by his father and reclaim the scrotium lands, tower, and title.
“Well done, old chap!” Dickie said in a fake British accent. Then he introduced me as a sid Vicious fan with pyromaniac tendencies. apparently, I’d accidentally burned down my previous school and the principal had fudged my entrance exams so I could be foisted off on asMa. I nodded, coolly going along with the joke.
If Dickie had given a purely factual introduction, it would have gone something like this: James turner grew up in a cornfield, but his parents weren’t farmers. His dad is a tractor parts salesman who fixes tVs in his spare time and pretty much lives in the basement. His mom, an ex–Homecoming Queen, calls herself an independent businesswoman, which means she sells lipstick for avon. James is an only child, or rather, an accidental child, since his parents married out of circumstance (to put it politely). He’s never traveled anyplace except Indiana and Wisconsin, both of which are more interesting than Illinois, but not by much. He once lit a whole matchbook on fire and singed his fingers. Other than that, he hasn’t won any contests, burned down any buildings, or done anything remotely noteworthy.
– 17 –
Dickie’s introduction was far more interesting. a few Dingo- wingers chuckled while stealing glances at me, as if they thought some of it might be real. I did my best to encourage this impression. anything was better than the truth.
Following introductions, chuck, the school counselor, dropped by our wing to talk with us. He was built like a linebacker, with wide, meaty shoulders and a scarred- up face — not the sort of guy you’d normally expect to lead a hug- in. also, he was missing one eye and he didn’t wear a patch or anything. He let the lid hang limp. I wondered what I’d see if he suddenly opened it. a pink, empty socket? a flat, milky eyeball? a hole to his brain? The thought of it grossed me out, but I couldn’t stop staring.
chuck gave this lecture about the pressures we’d encounter at asMa, and the homesickness people might experience, and how we were each other’s family now, so we had to look out for each other. “no one has to go through anything alone,” he said. to illustrate this point, he had everyone do a trust-fall off a chair into the waiting arms of fellow Dingo- wingers. One kid was so floppy it was like catching a Muppet.
When it was my turn, I acted like the whole thing was too dumb to bother me. I fell back without flinching. It wasn’t that I trusted everyone so much. It was that I’d already begun to see myself as a different person.
I closed my eyes and fell away from the dull nobody I used to be.
– 18 –
Orientation activities continued for most of Friday and saturday, ranging from tours of the campus to lectures on maintaining proper hygiene while living away from home. The upperclassmen called it “scorientation” and boasted about how easy sophomore girls were to hook up with. since the school was only a three- year program, sopho mores were the youngest. essentially, we were the freshmen of the place. During breaks between sessions, I watched some of the junior and senior guys circling groups of sophs like hawks, trying to pick out the hotties.
saturday night, we were required to attend a sophomore- only lock- in so our class could meet apart from the desperate upperclassmen. I walked with Dickie and his friend Heinous to the main complex. after signing in and stashing our pillows and toothbrushes in the auditorium, Dickie, Heinous, and I wandered the building looking for something to do. a few guys from our dorm were shoot-ing hoops in the gym while some girls sat on the bleach-ers, talking. The guys tried to slam- dunk and do half- court shots, showing off, except none of them were very good.
“Here we have the rare, speckled pumpkin pusher,” Heinous whispered, imitating the narrator on a wildlife show. “This particular subspecies is of the geekish- jock grouping, commonly known as jeeks. notice how cun-ningly they fondle the ball.”
steve Lacone, a tall, well- built jeek who lived in Boomer wing, glared at us.
– 19 –
“shh . . . we’ve been spotted,” Heinous said. He ducked behind an imaginary shrub. “They’re dangerous when females are present.”
“I say,” Dickie quipped in an exaggerated British accent, “no heckling the athletes.”
“Right- o.” Heinous popped out of the imaginary shrubs. “carry on!” he shouted. “Pushy the pumpkin!”
Heinous and Dickie had known each other before asMa. They both came from southern Illinois and had gone to school together, so they’d had years to polish their routines. In many ways, the two were polar oppo-sites. Where Dickie was a pale- skinned smooth- talker, Heinous was a dark- complexioned, obnoxious spaz. I figured my place in the trio would be to play the quiet, brooding rebel.
Heinous continued his wildlife expedition as we left the gym to see what else was going on. “The yellow- bellied nerdling,” he said, when we approached a group of skinny gamers in the hall. “stay back!” he hissed, throw-ing out his arms. “There’s a peculiar odor to this species.”
One of the gamers rolled some dice and shouted “Yes!” while pumping his fist.
“That’s part of their mating dance,” Heinous whis-pered. “Perhaps, if we’re lucky, they’ll attempt to mount.”
We wandered past the gamers to the art room, but a large number of “red- spotted mathletes” had gathered there for a StarWars marathon. Then, in the photography room, Heinous spied a flock of “lesser poseur vampires,”
– 20 –
a species with an affinity for black, known to play dead when frightened.
In the cafeteria, we found a group of “Barbie wan-nabes” gossiping around a table. at one end sat the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. students at asMa weren’t exactly model material, but even at a normal school, she would have stood out. she looked like she’d stepped off a movie poster, with her waifish figure, wide smile, and blades of straight blond hair brushing her cheekbones.
“Who’s that?” I asked. Dickie raised his eyebrows. “Didn’t you scan your
facebook?” “no,” I said. “I skipped that assignment.” “Well, dear roomie, the supermodel is ellie Frost.” “The Ice Queen,” Heinous added. “Definitely the Ice Queen,” Dickie agreed. ellie glanced at us, then looked away. she didn’t seem
to be talking with anyone at the table. It was more like the other girls had gathered around her, as though simply being near her might make them popular.
“Whatever you’re thinking, forget it,” Dickie said. “It seems that the Ice Queen doesn’t date sopho mores.”
“Really?” “she’s already going out with Mark Watson.” “ah, yes,” Heinous mused as we left the cafeteria, “one
of the golden- crested senior thugs.” We made our way back to the auditorium. The main
lights were off, but dim strings of orange lights ran along
– 21 –
the bottom of each of the aisle steps. a few students huddled like refugees between seat rows, trying to sleep. a few others appeared to be faking sleep so they could make out, sheltered from the prying eyes of Rcs policing the lock- in. I envied the couples, amazed by how quickly they’d hooked up. except for one hurried lip- smooshing during a truth- or- dare game, I’d never even kissed a girl.
Dickie wove through the scattered bodies in the auditorium, cutting a path to the front. The curtain was open, and three girls sat onstage in a semi circle, the dim light barely illuminating their faces. I recognized one of them as sunny Burke. Dickie had talked with her the night before at the ice- cream social while I stood silently nearby.
“The freckled puff,” Heinous said as Dickie strolled toward sunny. Her hair was tied back in two cute pigtails. “notice her fine plumage,” Heinous continued. “Watch as the male approaches, attempting to mount.”
“The lonely wanker,” Dickie replied. “This chattering species can be recognized by his tendency to spank his monkey.”
The girls stopped talking when we approached. all three of them were barefoot and in pajamas.
“Ladies,” Dickie said in true lounge- singer form, “what lovely outfits.”
“Why, thank you,” sunny replied. “It’s flannel — all the rage in Paris this year.”
sunny introduced sage Fisher, her roommate, and
– 22 –
Katy cameron. They scooted back so we could sit onstage with them. after introductions, Dickie and Heinous launched into a story about how they’d superglued everyone’s locker shut at the end of their freshman year. sunny, who had the prettiest laugh you ever heard, found the story hilarious. The cinnamon dash of freckles on her nose crinkled when she smiled.
Heinous’s roommate, cheese, joined our circle, and pretty soon everyone was sharing stories of where they’d come from and what they’d done before asMa.
I sat back, listening, but not part of the group. already things were starting to seem like they had at my old school. The guys tried to impress the girls, and the girls giggled nervously, egging them on, while I hovered around the outskirts, easily overlooked — the extra hired to form a crowd.
“What about you?” sage asked. It took a moment before I realized she meant me. “What?” “Do you miss home?” “no.” everyone looked at me, expecting more of an
answer. “not much to miss. I grew up in a cornfield,” I said. Their attention started to drift, already bored by my lame story. Dickie would have cracked a joke by now.
“That’s why I used to run away a lot,” I added. It wasn’t true, but it could have been.
“You did?” sage’s eyes widened.
– 23 –
“Yup. I’d steal a car and drive all night trying to get to someplace interesting.”
“You stole cars?” “Well, I didn’t really steal them,” I explained. “It was
more like borrowingcars, because I usually returned them.” “Hold on,” cheese said. “You can hot- wire a car?” “nope.” I shrugged, like it was no big deal. “But if you
look around on enough cars, you can usually find a spare key stashed somewhere.”
“That’s true,” Dickie chimed in, saving me. “My par-ents tuck one inside the front bumper if you want to bor-row the BMW.”
“so where would you go?” sage asked. “north, usually, to Wisconsin,” I said, surprised by
how easily everyone seemed to believe me. “and once I tried to go to cal i fornia, but after driv ing six hours, I ran out of gas money and had to hitchhike home.”
“no shit?” Heinous asked. “no shit,” I replied. “There wasn’t anything to do in
my hometown except fight, and I got sick of that.” sage looked concerned. “You used to get in fights?” “not angry fights,” I said, trying to brush it off, but
everyone kept looking at me. all of them were listening now, so I had to keep going — building the story, making it real. “I was part of a full- contact martial arts league.”
“Like ultimate fighting?” sage asked. “a little. except sometimes we used weapons.”
– 24 –
“Dude, you’re so full of crap,” Heinous said. “Fight club, my ass.”
I pulled back my sleeve, exposing a thick, white scar on the inside of my forearm from an oven burn. “That’s how I got this.”
“Bloody hell!” Dickie sounded impressed. “I’ll never take your Pop- tarts.”
sage dragged her finger along the inside of my arm. “Did it hurt?”
“I don’t fight anymore.” I pulled my sleeve down over the scar. “That was the old me. now I’m starting over.”
“Wow,” she said. sage and sunny kept pressing me for details. The more
they listened, the more I lied, laying the groundwork for the new me. James turner: Reckless fighter. Pyroma-niac. Delinquent. troubled runaway who’d stolen cars and lived on the streets of Madison. If they believed only half the things I said, it would be enough.
Details poured out of me, sticking to the few lines of truth like snow on a branch. I may not have really run away, but I’d thought about it plenty of times, and I’d been to Madison. so why not rewrite the past? truth was beauty, and beauty was truth.
The geeks let me be whatever I imagined.
the secret to lyIng is this: believe yourself and oth-ers will believe you, too.
Rumors about me spread, spilling beyond the sopho-more class. I repeated some of the stories I’d told at the lock- in and made up a few new ones, but mostly I acted modest, like my car- stealing, street- fighting past wasn’t something I enjoyed talking about. Instead of bragging, I sounded like the sole survivor of a catastrophe, reluc-tantly giving an interview.
When classes started, I played up my bad- boy image by sitting in the back and perfecting a look of unimpressed boredom. Most of the students at asMa were so used to being the star pupil, raising their hands to answer every question, that being quiet made me seem rebellious.
The one flaw in my plan was physics. somehow, I’d scored well enough on the placement exams to be put in
– 26 –
the advanced section. Only twelve sopho mores were in advanced Physics, so there was little chance of not par-ticipating. The class was populated by hard- core geeks like the tanada twins (who were so freakishly smart that they’d both been recruited by the government to keep them from hacking into military systems), Jesus John (who wore his bathrobe to class and had hair down to his hips), Muppet (the floppy kid from Dingo wing), angie turkle (who announced on the first day that her goal in life was to be a “space surgeon”), ninety (called such because he spoke at least ninety words a minute), Frank Wood (who actually parted his hair with a comb), and cheese (the guy who roomed with Heinous, ate cheetos constantly, and resembled a scruffy koala bear with thick glasses). There were a few other students I didn’t know anything about, and then there was ellie Frost, the Ice Queen.
at first, being in advanced Physics with ellie made me want to puke in my shoe. It went against every prin-ciple of fairness that she could be beautiful and smart to boot, but there she was, sitting at the front of the room, getting the answers right when Dr. choi called on her. all class long, I’d steal glances at ellie, and every time I saw her, my pulse would speed up and my head would spin. Then Dr. choi would call on me, and I’d drop my pen or kick my desk while I stammered out an answer in a shaky voice because I couldn’t stop worrying about what ellie thought of me.
– 27 –
In order to function, I had to pretend that she wasn’t there. I started arriving early to class so I could take the back corner desk, farthest from where ellie sat. she never looked at me when she entered, and I tried not to look at her. Luckily, Frank Wood, the guy with the perfect part in his hair, helped keep me distracted. “Hey, James!” he’d say, practically shouting my name when he saw me. “What’s going on?”
Frank sounded like an announcer from the 1950s. He usually hung out at my desk before class. We weren’t exactly friends. It was more like he admired me. He’d been homeschooled, believed everything he heard, and seemed to think I was the most daring person he’d ever met. I tried not to disappoint.
“Is it true?” he asked one day in his booming, all- american voice.
I raised my head slightly, as if I had far more impor-tant things on my mind but I was willing to humor him. “Is what true?”
“Did you really light a baseball diamond on fire?” Frank’s eyebrows arched.
I glanced toward the front of the room. Fortunately, Dr. choi hadn’t arrived yet. Only a couple other students, including the Ice Queen, were around. a lock of ellie’s hair brushed the corner of her mouth as she pulled her books out of her backpack. she didn’t turn to look at me, but by the way her back stiffened, I suspected she was lis-tening. “Who told you that?” I asked cryptically.
– 28 –
“some guys in my wing were talking about it,” Frank said. “Did it burn down?”
“no. It was beautiful.” Frank gave a nervous chuckle. “Beautiful?” “Yeah.” I glanced at ellie again. she opened a folder
and tapped her pencil against her cheek, pretending to work.
Frank kept asking me questions, so I told him about how my friend Dave Mcewan and I spent weeks swip-ing gas and oil cans from open garages, until one night we mixed it all together and poured it over the baseball fence. Then I ran the bases while pouring gas from two five- gallon cans. Only, right as I rounded second, Dave tossed a match.
“What happened?” Frank asked. ellie stopped tapping her pencil against her cheek. “I kept running,” I said. “Dave shouted, ‘Drop the
cans!’ but I didn’t — not until I touched home plate. Then I chucked the cans against the backstop and the whole thing exploded into this huge fireball that spread around the outfield. It burned so bright everyone in town must have seen it.”
“Holy cow!” Frank said. “Did you get caught?” I shrugged. “Three cop cars and a fire truck came, but
the fence was metal and the baseball diamond was sand, so there was nothing to put out. It was just beautiful.”
at the end of class, Frank retold some of my story to cheese. He sounded like a baseball fan recounting a great
– 29 –
play. even though he got some of the details wrong, I didn’t bother correcting him. I was too distracted by ellie. she gathered her books and headed for the door. Before she left, her eyes flicked over me.
The look she gave me sent a jolt up my spine. It wasn’t interest, or curiosity, or worry. Instead, it was something more intense, like anger.
Who was I to be looking at the Ice Queen?
