"Pass the milk, would you, Cooperstown?" Pop jerks his chin at me duringdinner, his eyes drifting toward the muted television in our living room,where college football scores scroll along the bottom of the screen. "Sowhat'd you do with your night off?" He thinks it's hilarious that Luis posedas me after the gym yesterday.

I hand over the carton and picture myself answering his questionhonestly. Hung out with Kris, the guy I'm in love with. Yeah, Pop, I saidguy. No, Pop, I'm not kidding. He's a premed freshman at UCSD who doesmodeling on the side. Total catch. You'd like him.

And then Pop's head explodes. That's how it always ends in myimagination.

"Just drove around for a while," I say instead.

I'm not ashamed of Kris. I'm not. But it's complicated.

Thing is, I didn't realize I could feel that way about a guy till I met him. Imean, yeah, I suspected. Since I was eleven or so. But I buried thosethoughts as far down as I could because I'm a Southern jock shooting for anMLB career and that's not how we're supposed to be wired.

I really did believe that for most of my life. I've always had a girlfriend.But it was never hard to hold off till marriage like I was raised. I onlyrecently understood that was more of an excuse than a deeply held moralbelief.

I've been lying to Keely for months, but I did tell her the truth aboutKris. I met him through baseball, although he doesn't play. He's friendswith another guy I made the exhibition rounds with, who invited us both tohis birthday party. And he is German.

I just left out the part about being in love with him.

I can't admit that to anybody yet. That it's not a phase, orexperimentation, or distraction from pressure. Nonny was right. Mystomach does flips when Kris calls or texts me. Every single time. Andwhen I'm with him I feel like a real person, not the robot Keely called me:programmed to perform as expected.

But Cooper-and-Kris only exists in the bubble of his apartment. Movingit anyplace else scares the hell out of me. For one thing, it's hard enoughmaking it in baseball when you're a regular guy. The number of openly gayplayers who are part of a major league team stands at exactly one. And he'sstill in the minors.

For another thing: Pop. My whole brain seizes when I imagine hisreaction. He's the kind of good old boy who calls gay people "fags" andthinks we spend all our time hitting on straight guys. The one time we saw anews story about the gay baseball player, he snorted in disgust and said,Normal guys shouldn't have to deal with that crap in the locker room.If I tell him about Kris and me, seventeen years of being the perfect sonwould be gone in an instant. He'd never look at me the same. The way he'slooking at me now, even though I'm a murder suspect who's been accusedof using steroids. That he can handle.

"Testing tomorrow," he reminds me. I have to get tested for steroidsevery damn week now. In the meantime I keep pitching, and no, my fastballhasn't gotten any slower. Because I haven't been lying. I didn't cheat. Istrategically improved.

It was Pop's idea. He wanted me to hold back a little junior year, not givemy all, so there'd be more excitement around me during showcase season.And there was. People like Josh Langley noticed me. But now, of course, itlooks suspicious. Thanks, Pop.

At least he feels guilty about it.

I was sure, when the police got ready to show me the unpublished AboutThat posts last month, that I was going to read something about Kris andme. I'd barely known Simon, only talked with him one-on-one a few times.But anytime I got near him I'd worry about him learning my secret. Lastspring at junior prom he'd been drunk off his ass, and when I ran into himin the bathroom he flung an arm around me and pulled me so close Ipractically had a panic attack. I was sure that Simon--who'd never had agirlfriend as far as I knew--realized I was gay and was putting the moveson me.

I freaked out so bad, I had Vanessa disinvite him to her after-prom party.And Vanessa, who never passes up a chance to exclude somebody, washappy to do it. I let it stand even after I saw Simon hitting on Keely laterwith the kind of intensity you can't fake.

I hadn't let myself think about that since Simon died; how the last timeI'd talked to him, I acted like a jerk because I couldn't deal with who I was.And the worst part is, even after all this--I still can't.

Nate

Tuesday, October 16, 6:00 p.m.

When I get to Glenn's Diner half an hour after I'm supposed to meet mymother, her Kia is parked right out front. Score one for the new andimproved version, I guess. I wouldn't have been at all surprised if she didn'tshow.

I thought about doing the same. A lot. But pretending she doesn't existhasn't worked out all that well.

I park my bike a few spaces away from her car, feeling the first drops ofrain hit my shoulders before I enter the restaurant. The hostess looks upwith a polite, quizzical expression. "I'm meeting somebody. Macauley," Isay.

She nods and points to a corner booth. "Right over there."I can tell my mother's already been there for a while. Her soda's almostempty and she's torn her straw wrapper to shreds. When I slide into the seatacross from her, I pick up a menu and scan it carefully to avoid her eyes."You order?"

"Oh, no. I was waiting for you." I can practically feel her willing me tolook up. I wish I weren't here. "Do you want a hamburger, Nathaniel? Youused to love Glenn's hamburgers."

I did, and I do, but now I want to order anything else. "It's Nate, okay?" Isnap my menu shut and stare at the gray drizzle pelting the window."Nobody calls me that anymore."

"Nate," she says, but my name sounds strange coming from her. One ofthose words you say over and over until it loses meaning. A waitress comesby and I order a Coke and a club sandwich I don't want. My burner phonebuzzes in my pocket and I pull it out to a text from Bronwyn. Hope it'sgoing ok. I feel a jolt of warmth, but put the phone back without answering.I don't have the words to tell Bronwyn what it's like to have lunch with aghost.

"Nate." My mother clears her throat around my name. It still soundswrong. "How is ... How are you doing in school? Do you still likescience?"

Christ. Do you still like science? I've been in remedial classes since ninthgrade, but how would she know? Progress reports come home, I fake myfather's signature, and they go back. Nobody ever questions them. "Can youpay for this?" I ask, gesturing around the table. Like the belligerent assholeI've turned into in the past five minutes. "Because I can't. So if you'reexpecting that you should tell me before the food comes."Her face sags, and I feel a pointless stab of triumph. "Nath--Nate. Iwould never ... well. Why should you believe me?" She pulls out a walletand puts a couple of twenties on the table, and I feel like shit until I thinkabout the bills I keep tossing into the trash instead of paying. Now that I'mnot earning anything, my father's disability check barely covers themortgage, utilities, and his alcohol.

"How do you have money when you've been in rehab for months?"The waitress returns with a glass of Coke for me, and my mother waitsuntil she leaves to answer. "One of the doctors at Pine Valley--that's thefacility I've been in--connected me with a medical transcription company. Ican work anywhere, and it's very steady." She brushes her hand againstmine and I jerk away. "I can help you and your father out, Nate. I will. Iwanted to ask you--if you have a lawyer, for the investigation? We couldlook into that."

Somehow, I manage not to laugh. Whatever she's making, it's not enoughto pay a lawyer. "I'm good."

She keeps trying, asking about school, Simon, probation, my dad. Italmost gets to me, because she's different than I remember. Calmer andmore even-tempered. But then she asks, "How's Bronwyn handling allthis?"

Nope. Every time I think about Bronwyn my body reacts like I'm backon the couch in her media room--heart pounding, blood rushing, skintingling. I'm not about to turn the one good thing that's come out of thismess into yet another awkward conversation with my mother. Which meanswe've pretty much run out of things to say. Thank God the food's arrived sowe can stop trying to pretend the last three years never happened. Eventhough my sandwich tastes like nothing, like dust, it's better than that.My mother doesn't take the hint. She keeps bringing up Oregon and herdoctors and Mikhail Powers Investigates until I feel as if I'm about tochoke. I pull at the neck of my T-shirt like that'll help me breathe, but itdoesn't. I can't sit here listening to her promises and hoping it'll all workout. That she'll stay sober, stay employed, stay sane. Just stay."I have to go," I say abruptly, dropping my half-eaten sandwich onto myplate. I get up, banging my knee against the edge of the table so hard Iwince, and walk out without looking at her. I know she won't come afterme. That's not how she operates.

When I get outside I'm confused at first because I can't see my bike. It'swedged between a couple of huge Range Rovers that weren't there before. Imake my way toward it, then suddenly a guy who's way overdressed forGlenn's Diner steps in front of me with a blinding smile. I recognize himright away but look through him as if I don't.

"Nate Macauley? Mikhail Powers. You're a hard man to find, you knowthat? Thrilled to make your acquaintance. We're working on our follow-upbroadcast to the Simon Kelleher investigation and I'd love your take. Howabout I buy you a coffee inside and we talk for a few minutes?"I climb onto my bike and strap on my helmet like I didn't hear him. I getready to back up, but a couple of producer types block my way. "How aboutyou tell your people to move?"

His smile's as wide as ever. "I'm not your enemy, Nate. The court ofpublic opinion matters in a case like this. What do you say we get them onyour side?"

My mother appears in the parking lot, her mouth falling open when shesees who's next to me. I slowly reverse my bike until the people in my waymove and I've got a clear path. If she wants to help me, she can talk to him.