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

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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, HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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Ry, and you need to get your ass up to

answer.”

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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.

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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 HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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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

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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 HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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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 HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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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, Branflakes, 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.