Dad picks up an envelope off his desk and tosses it at me. “A two-hundred-dollar-a-month car payment so you can make practices and games.”

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tightens.

“Your insurance on the car, the booster fees, the uniforms, the travel costs, the league fees—

”

“Dad—” I want him to stop, but he won’t.

“Gas for the Jeep, the private coaching

lessons…I have supported you for seventeen years!”

The anger inside me snaps. “I told you I’d get a job!”

“This is your job!” Dad pounds his fist

against the desk, exactly how a judge ends all discussion in court. A stack of papers resting on the edge falls to the floor.

Silence. We stare at each other. Unblinking.

Unmoving. A thick tension fills the air.

Dad’s eyes sweep over his desk and he

inhales deeply. “Do you want to waste four years of your life going to school when you could be out on that field playing baseball for money? Take a look at Scott Risk. He came from nothing and see what he’s become?

You’re not starting with nothing. You have a jump on opportunities he never had. Think of what you can make of your life.”

My fist tightens around the enrollment

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papers in my hand and they crackle. Is it fair? Is it fair of me, even if it’s just for one game, to walk away from something that my parents have sacrificed and worked so hard for?

Besides, it’s baseball. Baseball is my life—

by my choice. Why are we even arguing?

“Ryan…” Dad’s voice breaks and he rubs

his hand over his face. “Ryan…I’m sorry. For yelling.” He pauses. “Things at work…things with your mom…”

My Dad and I—we’ve never fought.

Strange, I guess. I know plenty of guys who go rounds with their fathers. Not me. Dad’s never given me a curfew. He believes I’m

responsible enough to decide what trouble I want to get in and says if I go too far, I’m smart enough to dig myself out. He’s

encouraged me every step of the way with

baseball. More than most parents ever would.

Dad watches out for me and this… this is him looking out for me again.

I nod several times before speaking,

agreeing to something, but I don’t know what.

Anything to make this confusion stop. “Yeah.

It’s okay. This was on me.” I crumple the HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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papers in my hand. “You’re right. This…” I lift the wadded paper. “It’s nothing. Stupid, even.”

Dad forces a smile. “It’s all right. Go in and tell your mom. She’ll be thrilled.”

I stand to leave and try to ignore the

emptiness in my chest.

“Ryan,” says Dad. At the door, I turn to face him.

“Do me a favor—don’t tell your mom about

the last round of competition. She’s been on edge lately.”

“Sure.” What would be the point of telling her? Mom has a way of knowing when I’m

untruthful, and I’m not eager to discover that the words I just uttered to Dad are a lie.

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Beth

THE CLOCK READS NINE FORTY-FIVE and Isaiah gets off work at ten. My finger, paused against the speed dial button, goes numb. The sun set a while ago, leaving the room dark. I haven’t moved from my spot on the bed. Scott hasn’t come in. Neither has Allison. Not to lecture me on school or to scold me for yelling at Allison or to call me to dinner.

I’ve dry heaved twice. Scott’s going to send Mom to jail. He probably already called the police. The ironic part of this whole

nightmare? I tried. I tried and I failed. Imagine that.

At ten, I’ll call Isaiah and tell him to come and get me. We’ll go to the beach. We’ll run away. Too bad I can’t convince Mom to go

with us. Isaiah and I could get her before the cops do.

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I raise my head and a wave of hope

floods my body, making me dizzy. I could

convince Mom to go. We could go away—

together.

Someone knocks on the door. I slip the

phone under the covers. “Yeah.”

Scott enters the room and turns on the light.

He wears a black T-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. For the first time, I see a hint of the kid that took care of me when I was younger and, foolishly, my heart responds. I move off the bed. I have to tell him I’m sorry. “Scott…”

Focusing on the carpet, he cuts me off. “I’m not in the mood to hear you bitch. If you ever talk to Allison like that again, I’ll make sure you regret it. She’s my wife and I love her.”

I nod, but Scott doesn’t look at me to see it.

He pulls his wallet out and slaps a card onto the dresser. The name and number belong to Mom’s probation officer. “I talked to him this evening. Nice guy. Did you know your mom

will serve a ten-year sentence if she screws up probation? Ten years. That’s not even counting what they’ll charge her with when I tell them what I know. Your choice, Elisabeth. Either way you’re living here until you turn eighteen.

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Your actions decide if your mom goes to

jail.”

The relief sweeping through my body makes me weak. He hasn’t sent my mom to jail. Not yet. I still can make this work. The possibilities have my mind racing. I’ll have to find a way into Louisville, to convince Mom to leave with me, and then get Isaiah on board.…

“Last chance.” Scott breaks into my

thoughts. “I want perfection this time.”

He smacks his hand against the dresser and the last cigarette I bummed rolls out of a folder and onto the floor. Shit.

Scott crouches and stares at the cigarette before picking it up. He acts like it’s a joint instead of tobacco. Crap. It might as well be a needle full of heroin. “I can explain.” Actually, I can’t. But I heard Noah use that phrase with Echo once and it bought him time.

As he stands, his hand shakes. Dad’s hands used to shake. “This is bullshit. I bring you to my home.” He falters and I can see him trying to rein in the anger. It scares me that he won’t look at me. “I give you a home and you don’t even have the decency to try to follow my rules.”

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Quiet anger frightens me. The drunks, the idiots, the ones that rage easily—them I can handle. I know when to step out of their way.

It’s the ones that hold the anger in, the men that think about what they do and how they do it, that scare me. They’re the ones that cause damage. A small voice, a voice that sounds a lot like me when I was a child, sweetly

murmurs that Scott would never hurt me. That he was our protector. Once. I don’t know this man.

“I tried,” I whisper.

“Bullshit!” Scott yells so loudly that the crystals on the lampshade tinkle. I flinch and step back. “You’ve done everything you can to make Allison and me miserable.”

I swallow. Mom’s boyfriend, Trent, started this way. He walked into the apartment all calm and cool, with anger seething underneath.

Then he yelled. Then he hit.

Dad had this anger too. So did Grandpa. My heart beats wildly in my chest as Scott crushes the cigarette in his hand. For the first time, he looks at me. “Jesus, you’re shaking.”

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fly out, searching for something—

anything—to protect myself with. “Get out.”

The anger—it’s gone, calls the little girl in my head, but I ignore her. She died along with my love of ribbons and dresses and life. She’s nothing but a ghost.

“I’m sorry,” he says slowly and places space between us. “I didn’t realize I scared you. I was mad. Allison was upset. I hate to see her cry and your teacher called…but I’m calm. I swear.”

I tried. Really, I did. I tried and this is where it got me. Trapped in a room full of windows with a man who resembles my father. Dad also used to say he was calm, but he never was.