“It’s getting late. It might not be safe.”
“You’re kidding me, right? What am I, four years old?”
But that wasn’t it. For some reason, Ema wouldn’t show me where she lived. She always just vanished into the woods. We had quickly become close, yes, maybe the closest friends either of us had ever had, but we both still had our secrets.
Ema stopped when she reached the end of the yard. “Mickey?”
“What?”
“About the photograph.”
“Yes?”
She took her time before she said, “I don’t think you’re crazy.”
I waited for her to say more. She didn’t.
“So what then?” I asked. “If I’m not crazy, what am I? Falsely hopeful?”
Ema considered that. “Probably. But there is another side to this whole thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe I’m crazy too,” she said, “but I believe you.”
I stood and walked toward her. I’m six-four, so I towered over her. We made, I’m sure, an odd pair.
She looked up at me and said, “I don’t know how or why, and, yeah, I know all the arguments against it. But I believe you.”
I was so grateful, I wanted to cry.
“The question is, what are we going to do about it?” Ema asked.
I arched an eyebrow. “We?”
“Sure.”
“Not this time, Ema. I’ve put you in enough danger.”
She frowned again. “Could you be more patronizing?”
“I have to handle this on my own.”
“No, Mickey, you don’t. Whatever this is, whatever is going on here with you and the Bat Lady, I’m part of it.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I settled for, “Let’s sleep on it and talk in the morning, okay?”
She turned and started back through the yard. “You know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“This all started with a crazy old lady telling you that your father was still alive. But now, well, I’m not so sure she’s crazy.”
Ema disappeared into the night. I picked up the basketball, lost in the-and, yes, I know how this will sound-Zen-like quality of shooting. After all that had happened, I longed for a little peace and quiet.
But I wouldn’t get it.
I thought that it was bad then, but soon I would learn just how bad it could get.
CHAPTER 3
I was just about to take a jump shot when I heard Uncle Myron’s car pull up.
Myron Bolitar was something of a sports legend in this town. He held every basketball scoring record, won two NCAA Final Four titles in college, and was drafted in the first round by the Boston Celtics. A sudden knee injury ended his NBA career before it really began.
I’d always heard my dad-Myron’s younger brother-talk about how devastating that had been for my uncle. My dad had loved and hero-worshipped Myron-until my mother became pregnant with me. To put it mildly, Myron did not approve of my mother. He let that fact be known with, I guess, very colorful language. The two brothers fought over it, leading to Myron actually punching my father in the face.
They never saw or spoke to each other again.
Now, of course, it was too late.
I know Myron feels bad about this. I know that it breaks his heart and that he wants to make amends through me. What he doesn’t get is, it isn’t my place to forgive him. In my eyes, he was the guy who pushed my parents down a road that would eventually lead to Dad’s death and Mom’s drug addiction.
“Hey,” Myron said.
“Hey.”
“Did you get something to eat?” he asked me.
I nodded and took a shot. Myron grabbed the rebound and threw the ball back to me. The basketball court meant a lot to both of us. We both got that. It was neutral territory, a no-fight zone, our own small land of truce. I took another shot and winced. Myron spotted it.
“Tryouts are in two weeks, right?” he asked.
He was talking about the high school basketball team. My hope, I confess, was that I’d break those old records of his.
I shook my head. “They were moved up.”
“So when are they?”
“Monday.”
“Whoa, soon. Are you excited?”
I was, of course. Very. But I just shrugged and took another shot.
“You’re only a sophomore,” Myron said. “They don’t take many sophomores on the varsity.”
“You started as a sophomore, didn’t you?”
“Touché.” Myron threw me another pass and changed the subject. “Still sore from last night?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Anything more than that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m wondering whether we should take you to a doctor.”
I shook my head. “Just sore.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
I did not.
“Seems to me you put yourself and others in danger,” Uncle Myron said.
I was debating on how to tap-dance around the truth. Myron knew some of it. The police knew some of it. But I couldn’t tell them all of it. They’d probably never believe it anyway. Heck, I didn’t believe it.
“There are always consequences to being a hero, Mickey,” Uncle Myron said in a soft voice. “Even when you’re sure you’re doing the right thing. I’ve learned that the hard way.”
We looked at each other. Myron was about to say something more when his cell phone buzzed. He looked at the caller ID, and something close to shock crossed his face.
“Sorry,” he said to me, “but I need to take this.”
He stepped away, deeper into the yard. He hunched over and started talking.
You put yourself and others in danger…
I could take the risks-that would be on me-but what about my friends? What about the “others”? I stepped away in the opposite direction and took out my cell phone.
Four of us had gone into that evil nightclub to rescue Ashley: Ema and I, of course-and then there had been Spoon and Rachel. Spoon, like Ema and me, was an outcast. Rachel was anything but.
I needed to check up on them.
I texted Spoon first and got the following auto-answer. Spoon: I cannot reply at this time. Due to recent events I am grounded until the age of 34.
And then, because he was Spoon, he added: Abraham Lincoln’s mother died of milk poisoning at age 34.
I couldn’t help but smile. Spoon had “borrowed” his father’s custodial truck in order to help us. His parents were the most caring and overprotective in our little group, so I’d figured that he’d get in the most trouble. Luckily, Spoon was, if nothing else, resourceful. He’d be okay.
I texted the fourth and final member of the gang-Rachel Caldwell. How to describe Rachel…? I will make it simple: Rachel was, for lack of a better phrase, the hottest girl in school. By definition, I guess, every school has one, and, yes, she was much more than super-attractive, so please don’t label me a sexist pig too quickly. The bravery and resourcefulness she’d demonstrated in that horrible place was mind-boggling.
But still, if I am being totally honest here, her hotness was the first thing to pop into my-and almost everyone in school’s-head.
How Rachel ended up joining forces with the looked-down-upon new kid (me), the self-defined goth-emo “fat girl” (Ema), and the janitor’s nerdy kid (Spoon) was still something of a mystery.
I thought hard about what to text Rachel. I admit it-I got nervous and doofy around her. My palms started to sweat. I know that I should have been mature and above it. Most of the time I am. Or maybe not. Anyway, after long consideration about what exactly I should text, I put my fingers to the keypad and went with this charming opener: U OK?
As you can see, I’m very smooth with the ladies.
I waited for Rachel’s response. None came. When Uncle Myron finished his phone call, he stumbled toward me in something of a daze.
Borrowing from my clever text to Rachel, I asked, “You okay?”
“Fine,” Myron said. “Who was that?”
My uncle’s voice was distant. “A close friend I haven’t heard from in a while.”