“Allen, Niles, and Jones.”

Chris tilts his head back and moans. “Damn HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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science.”

I snap the towel at him. “Have fun.” Nothing can lower this mood. I finally got the better of Beth. And it’s about damn time. No one has bested me this long.

“Screw you, Ryan.” Without another glance, Chris leaves the room.

“Stone!” calls Coach.

“Yeah?”

Coach stares at me oddly and hitches a

thumb in the direction Chris just went. “Study hall.”

“For what?” My grades are fine.

He shrugs. “Your English teacher requested you.”

Back talk will get me push-ups or laps, so I suck up any commentary and head out of the room and down the empty hallways. When I

finally reach study hall, I’m immediately greeted by Chris’s chuckles. He leans back in his chair, ignoring the science book in front of him. “My life just got better.”

If it weren’t for the tutors and teachers in the room, I’d tell him where to shove it.

“Over here, Ryan.” Mrs. Rowe waves at me

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tint today. I acknowledge her with a

movement of my chin and walk over to her

desk.

I slide into the chair next to her. “I passed the quiz and I’ve turned in my papers.”

Her hand flutters in the air. “Oh, you’re not here because of your grades.”

My eyes narrow as my muscles tighten.

“Then why am I here?”

She shuffles through a stack of papers,

searching for something. Possibly her mind.

“Your coach said we could request you for any academic reason. It doesn’t have to be a bad reason. Stop being so pessimistic.”

Pessimistic? “I’m missing weight training.”

“So you are,” she says as she pulls my

George the zombie tale out of the stack. “You haven’t turned in your paperwork for the

writing competition. What you should be

worried about is missing your opportunity at a college scholarship. If you win this

competition, you’ll receive money toward any Kentucky school of your choice. It’s not a full scholarship, but it’s something.”

“I’m not going to college,” I say plainly.

She freezes and stares at me as if I’d

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announced her impending death. “Why

not?”

I gesture at my shirt. Is this lady for real?

“I’m a ballplayer. I’m going to play ball.”

“You can play ball at college. Ryan.…” She falters, then places my story in front of me.

“This is the most magnificent piece of writing I’ve seen from a high school student. Ever.

Have you considered that you’re more than a ballplayer?”

My mouth opens to respond, but absolutely nothing comes out and that shocks me into closing it. My mind’s blank. I’m a ballplayer. A damn good one. Isn’t that enough?

“Did you even read the information I gave you about the state competition? For three years I’ve watched you obsess over winning.

Aren’t you interested in winning this too?”

I say nothing as my face reddens. Mrs.

Rowe just called me out and she has a right to.

I didn’t read the paperwork. I haven’t even considered the competition since the other night when she first told me I finaled.

“I have a feeling you enjoyed writing this.

It’s too good for you not to have.”

She’s right again. I did enjoy it. Finding HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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those words, being in George’s head…I

stare down at the printed-out pages…it felt freeing. Just like when I step on the pitcher’s mound before the game and the pressure

begins. The moment when it’s just me, a ball, and a mitt to throw into.

And he wondered what

happened to the world around

him. Did it also collapse into

chaos? Had everything ceased

to exist as it was, just like how his life spiraled into

nothingness? Or had the rest of

the world continued on like

normal, because in the end his

position within it never really

mattered?

The words I wrote glare at me in accusation.

A nagging ache pulls at my insides. I’m proud of those words and denying the competition is like denying part of me. In front of my

computer, there were no secrets, no

complications—just a world that I could

control.

“In order to be considered for the award,”

Mrs. Rowe continues, “you need to complete a short story and turn it in a week prior to the HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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event. Your attendance is still required that day, however, as that’s when you’ll get

critiques of your work and meet with faculty members from universities across the state. It’s one day. Just one Saturday.”

I hear my dad in my head. “I have games

Saturdays.” And I glance over at Chris, who’s eyeing me warily. How much of this

conversation can he hear? “My team’s

depending on me.”

She pats the pages resting in front of me.

“Let’s start off small, okay? Turn this four-page beginning into a true short story. I can yank you out of every weight training, or you can promise me that you’ll write it in your free time at home. The choice is yours.”

And it’s a no-brainer. “I’ll do it in my free time.”

“Good.” Her eyes light up. “But I’m still keeping you for the next hour. I want you to get started now.”

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Beth

ALLISON OWNS A MERCEDES. Leather interior.

Jet-black on the outside. Isaiah would get all hot and bothered about the junk under the hood. She drives fast on the backcountry roads and a couple of times my stomach drops like we’re on a roller coaster.

“You smell like smoke.” Allison wears a red business suit and black stilettos. She’s slicked her blond hair into a painfully tight bun.

Maybe that’s why she’s uptight.

While waiting for Allison to drag herself away from the Ladies’ Planning Committee, I smoked one of the cigarettes I bummed from a stoner boy before the incident in Calculus. I hoped it would help me get over the fight I had with Ryan. I don’t know why, but yelling at him made me feel like crap. Kind of like I do after I fight with Isaiah. “Must be in your HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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head.”

“You smell like smoke when you come

home from school. Scott may choose to ignore it, but he’s not ignoring your little stunt in class.” Allison pulls into the massive driveway surrounded by woods and notices when I

glance at her. “That’s right. Your teacher called.”

Crap. I don’t have any idea how to get

myself out of this.

Scott and Allison live in a two-story white house with a wraparound porch. It resembles something you’d see in a Civil War movie full of rich plantation owners. Part of the house is surrounded by woods. The other part faces an open pasture with a barn.

Allison parks the car outside the four-car garage and grabs my wrist before I have a chance to bolt. “Do you have any idea how embarrassed I was to leave the meeting

because you called? This is a small town. Your teachers belong to our church. How long do you think it will be before everyone knows what a menace you are? I won’t permit you to ruin our life.”

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from her fingers on my wrist to her eyes.

No one touches me.

She drops my wrist like she was handling

fire. “Why don’t you leave? Even Scott knows you’re miserable.”

I bet Scott knows she’s miserable too. I’d never have imagined him with someone like her. Manicured. Polished. Heartless. “Were you surprised he wasn’t hard to trap?”

“What?”

“When you—” I do the mock quotation