I squint at the batter. We're at full count and he's fouled off the last twopitches. He's making me work, which isn't good. In a showcase game likethis, facing a right-handed second baseman with so-so stats, I should'vemowed him down already.

Problem is, I'm distracted. It's been a hell of a week.

Pop's in the stands, and I can picture exactly what he's doing. He'll havetaken his cap off, knotting it between his hands as he stares at the mound.Like burning a hole into me with his eyes is going to help.

I bring the ball into my glove and glance at Luis, who catches for meduring regular season. He's on the Bayview High football team too but gotpermission to miss today's game so he could be here. He signals a fastball,but I shake my head. I've thrown five already and this guy's figured everyone out. I keep shaking Luis off until he gives me the signal I want. Luisadjusts his crouch slightly, and we've played together long enough that Ican read his thoughts in the movement. Your funeral, man.

I position my fingers on the ball, tensing myself in preparation to throw.It's not my most consistent pitch. If I miss, it'll be a big fat softball and thisguy'll crush it.

I draw back and hurl as hard as I can. My pitch heads straight for themiddle of the plate, and the batter takes an eager, triumphant swing. Thenthe ball breaks, dropping out of the strike zone and into Luis's glove. Thestadium explodes in cheers, and the batter shakes his head like he has noidea what happened.

I adjust my cap and try not to look pleased. I've been working on thatslider all year.

I strike the next hitter out on three straight fastballs. The last one hitsninety-three, the fastest I've ever pitched. Lights-out for a lefty. My statsthrough two innings are three strikeouts, two groundouts, and a long fly thatwould've been a double if the right fielder hadn't made a diving catch. Iwish I could have that pitch back--my curveball didn't curve--but otherthan that I feel pretty good about the game.

I'm at Petco--the Padres' stadium--for an invitation-only showcaseevent, which my father insisted I go to even though Simon's memorialservice is in an hour. The organizers agreed to let me pitch first and leaveearly, so I skip my usual postgame routine, take a shower, and head out ofthe locker room with Luis to find Pop.

I spot him as someone calls my name. "Cooper Clay?" The manapproaching me looks successful. That's the only way I can think todescribe him. Sharp clothes, sharp haircut, just the right amount of a tan,and a confident smile as he holds his hand out to me. "Josh Langley withthe Padres. I've spoken to your coach a few times.""Yes, sir. Pleased to meet you," I say. My father grins like somebody justhanded him the keys to a Lamborghini. He manages to introduce himself toJosh without drooling, but barely.

"Hell of a slider you threw there," Josh says to me. "Fell right off theplate."

"Thank you, sir."

"Good velocity on your fastball too. You've really brought that up sincethe spring, haven't you?"

"I've been working out a lot," I say. "Building up arm strength.""Big jump in a short time," Josh observes, and for a second the statementhangs in the air between us like a question. Then he claps a hand on myshoulder. "Well, keep it up, son. Nice to have a local boy on our radar.Makes my job easy. Less travel." He flashes a smile, nods good-bye to mydad and Luis, and takes off.

Big jump in a short time. It's true. Eighty-eight miles per hour to ninety-three in a few months is unusual.

Pop won't shut up on the way home, alternating between complainingabout what I did wrong and crowing about Josh Langley. He winds up in agood mood, though, more happy about the Padres scout than upset aboutsomeone almost getting a hit off me. "Simon's family gonna be there?" heasks as he pulls up to Bayview High. "Pay our respects if they are.""I dunno," I answer him. "It might just be a school thing.""Hat off, boys," Pop says. Luis crams his into the pocket of his footballjacket, and Pop raps the steering wheel impatiently when I hesitate. "Comeon, Cooper, it might be outside but this is still a service. Leave it in the car."I do as I'm told and get out, but as I run a hand through my hat-hair andclose the passenger door, I wish I had it back. I feel exposed, and peoplehave already been staring at me enough this week. If it were up to me I'd gohome and spend a quiet evening watching baseball with my brother andNonny, but there's no way I can miss Simon's memorial service when I wasone of the last people to see him alive.

We start toward the crowd on the football field, and I text Keely to findout where our friends are. She tells me they're near the front, so we duckunder the bleachers and try to spot them from the sidelines. I have my eyeson the crowd, and don't see the girl in front of me until I almost bump intoher. She's leaning against a post, watching the football field with her handsstuffed into the pockets of her oversized jacket.

"Sorry," I say, and realize who it is. "Oh, hey, Leah. You heading out tothe field?" Then I wish I could swallow my words, because there's no wayin hell Leah Jackson's here to mourn Simon. She actually tried to killherself last year because of him. After he wrote about her sleeping with abunch of freshmen, she was harassed on social media for months. She slither wrists in her bathroom and was out of school for the rest of the year.Leah snorts. "Yeah, right. Good riddance." She stares at the scene in frontof us, kicking the toe of her boot into the dirt. "Nobody could stand him,but they're all holding candles like he's some kind of martyr instead of agossipy douchebag."

She's not wrong, but now doesn't seem like the time to be that honest.Still, I'm not going to try defending Simon to Leah. "I guess people want topay their respects," I hedge.

"Hypocrites," she mutters, cramming her hands deeper into her pockets.Her expression shifts, and she pulls out her phone with a sly look. "Youguys see the latest?"

"Latest what?" I ask with a sinking feeling. Sometimes the best thingabout baseball is the fact that you can't check your phone while you'replaying.

"There's another email with a Tumblr update." Leah swipes a few timesat her phone and hands it to me. I take it reluctantly and look at the screenas Luis reads over my shoulder.

Time to clarify a few things.

Simon had a severe peanut allergy--so why not stick a Planters into his sandwich andbe done with it?

I'd been watching Simon Kelleher for months. Everything he ate was wrapped in aninch of cellophane. He carried that goddamn water bottle everywhere and it was all hedrank.

But he couldn't go ten minutes without swigging from that bottle. I figured if it wasn'tthere, he'd default to plain old tap water. So yeah, I took it.

I spent a long time figuring out where I could slip peanut oil into one of Simon'sdrinks. Someplace contained, without a water fountain. Mr. Avery's detention seemedlike the ideal spot.

I did feel bad watching Simon die. I'm not a sociopath. In that moment, as he turnedthat horrible color and fought for air--if I could have stopped it, I would have.I couldn't, though. Because, you see, I'd taken his EpiPen. And every last one in thenurse's office.

My heart starts hammering and my stomach clenches. The first post wasbad enough, but this one--this one's written like the person was actually inthe room when Simon had his attack. Like it was one of us.

Luis snorts. "That's fucked up."

Leah's watching me closely, and I grimace as I hand back the phone."Hope they figure out who's writing this stuff. It's pretty sick."She lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "I guess." She starts to back away."Have a blast mourning, guys. I'm outta here.""Bye, Leah." I squelch the urge to follow her, and we trudge forwarduntil we hit the ten-yard line. I start shouldering through the crowd andfinally find Keely and the rest of our friends. When I reach her, she handsme a candle she lights with her own, and loops her arm through mine.Principal Gupta steps up to the microphone and taps against it. "What aterrible week for our school," she says. "But how inspiring to see all of yougathered here tonight."

I should be thinking about Simon, but my head's too full of other stuff.Keely, who's gripping my arm a little too tight. Leah, saying the kind ofthings most people only think. The new Tumblr--posted right beforeSimon's memorial service. And Josh Langley with his flashy smile: Bigjump in a short time.

That's the thing about competitive edges. Sometimes they're too good tobe true.

Nate

Sunday, September 30, 12:30 p.m.

My probation officer isn't the worst. She's in her thirties, not bad-looking,and has a sense of humor. But she's a pain in my ass about school."How did your history exam go?" We're sitting in the kitchen for ourusual Sunday meeting. Stan's hanging out on the table, which she's finewith since she likes him. My dad is upstairs, something I always arrangebefore Officer Lopez comes over. Part of her job is to make sure I'm beingadequately supervised. She knew his deal the first time she saw him, but shealso knows I've got nowhere else to go and state care can be way worsethan alcoholic neglect. It's easier to pretend he's a fit guardian when he'snot passed out in the living room.

"It went," I say.

She waits patiently for more. When it doesn't come, she asks, "Did youstudy?"

"I've been kind of distracted," I remind her. She'd heard the Simon storyfrom her cop pals, and we spent the first half hour after she got here talkingabout what happened.

"I understand. But keeping up with school is important, Nate. It's part ofthe deal."

She brings up The Deal every week. San Diego County is getting tougheron juvenile drug offenses, and she thinks I was lucky to get probation. Abad report from her could put me back in front of a pissed-off judge.Another drug bust could land me in juvie. So every Sunday morning beforeshe shows up, I gather up all my unsold drugs and burner phones and stickthem in our senile neighbor's shed. Just in case.

Officer Lopez holds out her palm to Stan, who crawls halfway toward itbefore he loses interest. She picks him up and lays him across her arm."How has your week been otherwise? Tell me something positive thathappened." She always says that, as if life is full of great shit I can store upand report every Sunday.

"I got to three thousand in Grand Theft Auto."She rolls her eyes. She does that a lot at my house. "Something else.What progress have you made toward your goals?"Jesus. My goals. She made me write a list at our first appointment.There's not anything I actually care about on there, just stuff I know shewants to hear about school and jobs. And friends, which she's figured bynow I don't have. I have people I go to parties with, sell to, and screw, but Iwouldn't call any of them friends.

"It's been a slow week, goal-wise."

"Did you look at that Alateen literature I left you?"Nope. I didn't. I don't need a brochure to tell me how bad it sucks whenyour only parent's a drunk, and I definitely don't need to talk about it with abunch of whiners in a church basement somewhere. "Yeah," I lie. "I'mthinking about it."

I'm sure she sees right through me, since she's not stupid. But shedoesn't push it. "That's good to hear. Sharing experiences with other kidswhose parents are struggling would be transformative for you."Officer Lopez doesn't let up. You have to give her that. We could besurrounded by walking dead in the zombie apocalypse and she'd look forthe bright side. Your brains are still in your head, right? Way to beat theodds! She'd love, just once, to hear an actual positive thing from me. Likehow I spent Friday night with Ivy League-bound Bronwyn Rojas and didn'tdisgrace myself. But that's not a conversation I need to open up withOfficer Lopez.

I don't know why I showed up there. I was restless, staring at the VicodinI had left over after drop-off and wondering if I should take a few and seewhat all the fuss is about. I've never gone down that road, because I'mpretty sure it'd end with me comatose in the living room alongside my daduntil someone kicked us out for not paying the mortgage.

So I went to Bronwyn's instead. I didn't expect her to come outside. Orinvite me in. Listening to her play the piano had a strange effect on me. Ialmost felt ... peaceful.

"How is everyone coping with Simon's death? Have they held the funeralyet?"

"It's today. The school sent an email." I glance at the clock on ourmicrowave. "In about half an hour."

Her brows shoot up. "Nate. You should go. That would be a positivething to do. Pay your respects, gain some closure after a traumatic event.""No thanks."

She clears her throat and gives me a shrewd look. "Let me put it anotherway. Go to that goddamn funeral, Nate Macauley, or I won't overlook yourspotty school attendance the next time I file an update report. I'll come withyou."

Which is how I end up at Simon Kelleher's funeral with my probationofficer.

We're late and St. Anthony's Church is packed, so we barely find spacein the last pew. The service hasn't started but no one's talking, and when theold guy in front of us coughs it echoes through the room. The smell ofincense brings me back to grade school, when my mother used to take me toMass every Sunday. I haven't been to church since then, but it looks almostexactly the same: red carpet, shiny dark wood, tall stained-glass windows.The only thing that's different is the place is crawling with cops.Not in uniform. But I can tell, and Officer Lopez can too. After a whilesome of them look my way, and I get paranoid she's led me into some kindof trap. But I don't have anything on me. So why do they keep staring atme?

Not only me. I follow their gazes to Bronwyn, who's near the front withher parents, and to Cooper and the blond girl, sitting in the middle withtheir friends. The back of my neck tingles, and not in a good way. My bodytenses, ready to bolt until Officer Lopez puts a hand on my arm. She doesn'tsay anything, but I stay put.

A bunch of people talk--nobody I know except that Goth girl who usedto follow Simon everywhere. She reads a weird, rambling poem and hervoice shakes the whole time.

The past and present wilt--I have fill'd them, emptied them,

And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?

Very well then I contradict myself,

(I am large, I contain multitudes.) ...

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late? ...

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

If you want me again look for me under

your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,And filter and fiber your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,Missing me one place search another,

I stop somewhere waiting for you.

"Song of Myself," Officer Lopez murmurs when the girl finishes.

"Interesting choice."

There's music, more readings, and it's finally over. The priest tells us theburial's going to be private, family only. Fine by me. I've never wanted toleave anyplace so bad in my life and I'm ready to take off before the funeralprocession comes down the aisle, but Officer Lopez has her hand on myarm again.

A bunch of senior guys carry Simon's casket out the door. A coupledozen people dressed in dark colors file out after them, ending with a manand a woman holding hands. The woman has a thin, angular face likeSimon. She's staring at the floor, but as she passes our pew she looks up,catches my eye, and chokes out a furious sob.

More people crowd the aisles, and someone edges into the pew withOfficer Lopez and me. It's one of the plainclothes cops, an older guy with abuzz cut. I can tell right away he's not bush-league like Officer Budapest.He smiles like we've met before.

"Nate Macauley?" he asks. "You got a few minutes, son?"