Mrs. Rowe is always looking for a book

convert. She even started a literary club at school last year. My name isn’t on that roster.

“I’ve got a friend waiting for me.”

She glances over her shoulder toward

Chris’s truck. “Please tell Mr. Jones that his paper is also due on Monday.”

“Sure.”

Again I wait for her to leave. Again she

doesn’t. She just stands there. Uncomfortable, I mumble a goodbye and head for the parking lot.

I try to shake off the irritating itch embedded in my neck, but I can’t. That moment on the mound is hallowed ground. A need. A must.

My mother calls it a superstition. I’ll call it HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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whatever she wants, but in order for me to win the next game, I have to stand on that mound again—by myself—and figure out the

mistake I made with my curveball.

If not, it means bad mojo. For the team. For my pitch. For my life.

With his head tilted back and eyes closed, Chris sits in his old black Ford. His door hangs wide open. Chris worked his ass off for that truck. He plowed his granddaddy’s cornfield this summer in return for a leaky truck that rolled off the line when we were seven.

“I told you to head home.”

He keeps his eyes closed. “I told you to let the bad throw go.”

“I did.” We both know I didn’t.

Chris comes to life, closes the door, and turns over the motor. “Hop in. We’ve got a party to go to that will make you forget.”

“I’ve got a ride.” I motion to my Jeep,

parked next to his truck.

“My goal is to make sure you ain’t gonna be fit to drive home.” He revs the engine to keep it from stalling out. “Let’s go.”

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Beth

OFFICER MONROE PUSHES OFF THE WALL the

moment I slip out of the girls’ bathroom.

“Beth.”

I don’t want to talk to him, but I’m not real giddy for the long-lost uncle reunion either. I pause, folding my arms over my chest. “I

thought I was free.”

“You are.” Officer Monroe has clearly

mastered the Johnny Depp puppy-dog eyes.

“When you’re ready to tell me what happened last night, I want you to call.” He holds out a card.

Never going to happen. I would rather die than send Mom to jail. I brush past him and walk into the lobby. Hurting my eyes, the sun glares through the windows and the glass

doors. I blink away the brightness and spot Isaiah, Noah, and Echo. Isaiah leaps to his feet, HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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but Noah puts a hand on his shoulder and

whispers something to him, nodding to the left.

Isaiah stays still. His steely-gray eyes implore me to come to him. I want to. More than

anything.

Two people cross in front of Isaiah, and pain slices my chest. It’s my mom. Like some sort of deranged baby monkey, she clings to her asshole boyfriend. Her eyes are desperate. She sucks her cheeks in as if she’s trying to hold back tears. That bastard has engulfed her in his disgusting life. I swear to God, I’m going to drag her back out.

Trent yanks her out the door. It’s not over, asshole. Not even close.

I’m about to step toward Isaiah when I hear it. “Hello, Elisabeth.” A shiver snakes down my spine. That voice reminds me of my father.

I turn to face the man who’s hell-bent on destroying my life. He resembles my father in looks as well: tall, dark brown hair, blue eyes.

The main difference is that Scott’s built like an athlete, whereas my father had the body mass of a meth head.

“Leave me alone.”

He gives Isaiah the judgmental once-over. “I HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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think you’ve been left alone for too long.”

“Don’t pretend to care. I know your

promises are worth shit.”

“Why don’t we get out of here, now that

you’re free to go. We can talk at home.”

Scott puts a hand on my arm and is unmoved when I jerk away. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Yes,” he says in an annoyingly even tone.

“You are.”

The muscles in my back tense as if I’m a cat arching its back to hiss. “Did you just tell me what to do?”

Fingers wrap around my wrist and gently

pull me to the left. Isaiah hovers over me and speaks in a hushed tone. “Do you need a

reminder you’re in a police station?”

I sneak a peek and notice Officer Monroe

and another cop watching our dysfunctional family reunion. My uncle regards Isaiah and me with interest, but keeps his distance.

My body is nothing but anger. Rage. It beats at my lungs, wreaks havoc with my blood. And Isaiah is standing here telling me to rein it in? I have to let it go because it’s consuming me.

“What do you want me to do?”

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Isaiah does something he’s never done

sober. He touches his hand to my cheek. His palm feels warm, strong, and safe. I lean into it as the anger drains from his simple touch. Part of me craves that anger. I don’t care for the frightening emptiness left behind.

“Listen to me,” he whispers. “Go with him.”

“But—”

“I swear to God I’m going to take care of you, but I can’t do it right here. Go with him and wait for me. Do you understand?”

I nod as I finally comprehend what he’s

attempting to tell me without saying the words.

He’s going to come for me. A shimmer of hope breaks through the emptiness and I fall into the safety of Isaiah’s protective arms, our bodies pressed tight to one another.

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Ryan

IN THE BACK FIELD that borders three farms, a field party rages without me, Logan, and Chris.

Parties are great. They have girls, girls who drink beer, dancing, girls who like dancing, and guys who hate dancing but do it anyway in the hope of laying the girls who drink beer.

Lacy’s in the mood to dance, Chris is in the mood to avoid dancing, I’m still burnt from Skater Girl last night, and Logan’s always game for the stupid and insane. Ten minutes into the party, Lacy was dancing and the three of us took on a dare. Actually, I took on a dare.

I lost last night and I don’t lose. Chris and Logan are along for the ride.

“You can’t pull this one off.” Chris walks beside me as we head toward the cars parked neatly in a line. The full moon gives the field a silver glow and the scent of bonfire smoke HC TITLE-AUTHOR

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hangs in the air.

“That’s because you have no imagination.”

Thankfully, I have plenty and I know a few guys who get a kick out of screwing with

friends.

“This is going to be sweet,” Logan says

when I change course and head toward a group of defensive linemen enjoying their own

private party.

Tim Richardson owns a mammoth-size,

ozone-killing truck, which is good, because the four guys sitting on lawn chairs on the back of it easily weigh 275 pounds each. Tim liberates a can of beer from his cooler and tosses it to me. “What’s going on, Ry?”

“Nothing.” I put the cold can on the tailgate.

No drinking for me. I’ve got business to take care of. “Not in the mood for the party?”

His truck is one of the few that can make it over the hill into the back field. “A girl over there is pissed at me,” Tim mutters. “Anytime I go near her, she won’t keep her mouth shut.”

Logan snorts and Chris smacks him on the

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sister. Tim throws a warning glare at Logan before focusing on me. “How’s your brother?

The team’s ticked at him. He promised he’d help with summer practice while he was home from college.”

Hating these kinds of questions, I shift my stance and shove my hands in my pockets. Dad made it clear that we tell no one what