“It’s so quiet in here,” Ema said.

She and I were always on the same wavelength.

“Too quiet,” I said, arching a joking eyebrow.

I wasn’t suicidal enough to smile or laugh out loud, but I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. I hated Troy with pretty good reason, and that wasn’t about to change over this. Yes, I understood how painful it must be to lose a season of basketball, especially now, in your last year of playing with your buddies. But then again, some of us had never had a steady group of buddies to play with. Some of us hadn’t been handed those opportunities, just to toss them away.

I didn’t feel sorry for him.

Troy had cheated by taking PEDs—performance-enhancing drugs. I didn’t buy Brandon’s defense. That was what every athlete said when they were caught—it was a mistake, it was a fix, it wasn’t me. I would probably admire Troy more if he just admitted it. Whatever. It wasn’t my business.

Troy’s table was usually full, but the seat next to his, the one where Buck always sat, was empty. I could usually count on Buck to be staring me down, mouthing that I was a “dead man,” emphasizing the point by making a slashing motion across his neck with his finger. Buck would then make fun of Ema in some cruel way, call her “fugly” or moo at her, a classic insecure bully idiot. I wouldn’t miss him either.

But I did find it odd.

Troy and Buck had been best friends since elementary school. Suddenly, within a few days of one another, Troy had been caught up in a drug scandal and Buck had moved away.

I lowered my head to start eating when I realized that the room had suddenly gone even quieter if possible, as though everyone had decided to hold their breath at the same time.

Then I heard Ema said, “Whoa.”

I lifted my head and felt the familiar jolt.

Rachel Caldwell had entered the cafeteria.

The silence was for a few reasons. One, this was her first return to school since the shooting that had left her mother dead and Rachel wounded. That had been our last . . . I don’t know what the word is . . . case, I guess, for the Abeona Shelter. We had solved it, but the answer remained a carefully guarded secret.

I hadn’t even told Ema.

I felt bad about that. Ema and Spoon had risked their lives and done everything anyone could have asked. They were my best friends and I hated the idea of keeping secrets from them, especially Ema, but in this case, the secret wasn’t mine to tell. It was Rachel’s. If I tell Ema, I betray Rachel. But then again, by not telling Ema . . .

In the end, I hoped and believed that Ema would understand. But I could be wrong about that.

I had not seen Rachel since the day I flew to California, when I showed up at her door and blew her world apart.

Reason Two for the cafeteria silence: Rachel was a popular girl. More to the point, she was captain of the cheerleading team, the hottest girl in school, the girl everyone talked about—you get the drift. People paid attention to a girl like that.

Reason Three: Rachel and Troy had been—I start gagging when I even think of it—an item. Rachel made it clear to me that she’d been young and dumb and that it was way, way over, though maybe she should make it a little clearer to Troy.

Still, I couldn’t help but notice that she wasn’t coming over to say hi to Ema or me. She was heading for Troy’s table. She took Buck’s seat—the one next to him—and forced up a sad smile for Troy.

My face felt hot.

“Stop it,” Ema whispered to me.

“What?”

She just frowned at me and shook her head. “Troy was just kicked off the basketball team. She has to show some kind of support for him, don’t you think?”

I didn’t. But that wasn’t the point. Rachel hadn’t so much as glanced in our direction. Ema wouldn’t understand why. But I did. Uncle Myron had warned me that there would be a price for telling the truth, but how had he put it?

The ugliest truth is still better than the prettiest of lies.

She was avoiding me. I don’t know what advice someone would give me about that. Give her time, probably. I had done that already. Not a lot of time. But enough. Besides, I had learned that “giving time” often meant “time to fester.”

I needed to confront Rachel. The sooner, the better.

Chapter 11

I made it my business to walk past Rachel’s locker between classes, hoping to catch her there. Finally, with only one period left in the day, I found her, but she was far from alone. Rachel’s locker was surrounded by cheerleaders and jocks and a potpourri of popular kids, all welcoming her back and showing concern.

I didn’t know them. They didn’t know me.

I was the new kid and so there was some natural curiosity about me. My height also drew attention, I think, and maybe I was starting to get a rep for my basketball. I had, of course, lost a lot of popularity cred by choosing to hang out with Ema and Spoon. So now maybe I was less a curiosity and more an oddity.

Rachel saw me approach and gave a slow shake of her head. I got the meaning. Stay away. I should have respected that, nodded in return and moved on my way.

I didn’t. I stood there and mouthed the word, When?

Her reply was a slammed locker. Rachel shot me one last dagger, turned, and strolled away.

Terrific.

My final period today was health with Mr. Nacht, a class that couldn’t be more snooze worthy if it included Benadryl. When classes ended, I hurried back to Rachel’s locker. No sign of her. I went to my own. I had basketball practice in half an hour, but it would be good to get there early and work on my shooting. I reached into my locker and grabbed my phone. There was a message from Spoon: Got some information on Jared. Stop by tonight.

There was another buzz. Again it was Spoon, the boy who lived for irrelevant factoids: Porcupines float in water.

Good to know, in case I was ever tempted to rescue a water-drenched porcupine.

I was first changed and out on the gym floor. I shot around, enjoying the solo echo of one man dribbling and shooting. The other guys started to sputter out of the locker room. None chose to shoot with me. I was hardly surprised. Normally there was laughter, horsing around, banter, whatever. Not today. The gym was silent as a tomb—or the cafeteria today. The only sounds came from the bouncing balls.

At four o’clock, Coach Grady blew the whistle and shouted for everyone to take a seat. Brandon and some guy I hadn’t met yet pulled out the rickety accordion-like stands. We all climbed up a step or two and found a place to sit.

Coach Grady looked as though he’d aged ten years since last practice. He paced for a few moments. We all sat and watched him. Behind him, Coach Stashower held a clipboard and waited.