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Brock opened his mouth, but he knew if he let one more word escape, there would be a flood. Instead, he nodded his head and jumped down off the porch, hurrying away into the night and toward the empty house that waited for him.

  36

  Brock studied hard all day Saturday, thankful for the rain that poured down outside and made it much easier to sit at the kitchen table surrounded by books and worksheets. He took it as a sign that, as he mopped up the last bit of mashed potatoes and gravy with a hunk of Salisbury steak from the tin pan, a beam of light filled the kitchen. Brock stuffed the food in his mouth and stood from the table, following the thick golden beam down the front hall and peeling aside the curtains covering the glass on the front door to peak outside. Purple clouds churned overhead, shedding the last scraps of gray rain as the lip of the sun dropped below their fringe. A rainbow filled the sky, dropping a pot of gold directly into the trees behind Coach’s house, the place where he threw.

  Brock laughed out loud, and wondered if Coach would believe him, or if he should even tell. He wondered about Coach’s son and heaven and his own mom.

  He recalled the notes he’d just been studying for the science final, and recited them aloud. “A rainbow is an optical and meteorological phenomenon that causes a spectrum of light to appear in the sky when the sun shines onto droplets of moisture in the earth’s atmosphere.”

  Was that a rainbow? Or, was it just magic, like heaven? Brock sighed and let the curtain fall. He cleaned up the kitchen and got his glove. His feet splashed along the street, avoiding the deeper puddles. He rang Coach’s doorbell. Mrs. Hudgens opened the door, but only enough for him to see her face, sagging with worry and exhaustion.

  “Mrs. Hudgens? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, Brock. It’s not a good night. Coach said—”

  A howling noise erupted from inside the house. Mrs. Hudgens winced and glanced over her shoulder. “Maybe you can make it to practice tomorrow? They start at four on the ball field at school. I’m sorry, Brock.”

  Before he could ask another question, the door closed.

  Brock trudged back up the street, sick with disappointment and loneliness. He looked over his shoulder. The sun had passed through the gap between clouds and horizon, the rainbow long gone.

  He took out his phone and thought about texting Nagel, but Brock knew his father—wherever he was—would see any incoming texts he received, and he had no idea how Nagel would reply. So he pocketed his phone and dumped his baseball mitt in the garage. He surveyed the neighborhood from the top of his driveway, then dashed across the street between two of his neighbors’ houses. He struggled to climb the fence without the bucket, but made it over and dropped down into the apartments. The wet grass soaked his feet right through, and they squeaked as he walked down the line of poplars. When he came to a spot where he could see the front door to Nagel’s apartment, he stopped, then took out his phone and sent a text.

  dont txt me bk, just come outside if u can im across the street

  It wasn’t more than two minutes before Nagel’s front door swung open and he bounced down the steps heading toward Brock’s hiding place like he knew exactly where to go. When Nagel waved, Brock waved back, but waited until Nagel crossed the street before he spoke.

  37

  “That was crazy, with your brother,” Brock said.

  Nagel laughed. “He got it good, though, didn’t he? What a jerk.”

  “What did your parents say?”

  “Ha! You think he told them? He’s in enough trouble, but you should see his back. He’s got a bruise this big.” Nagel made a circle with his thumbs and fingers the size of a small pizza. “I wasn’t sure if I was gonna see you again.”

  “That whole thing was bad,” Brock said.

  “I didn’t think they’d throw rocks,” Nagel said. “I guess I was just mad because it’s like you went over to the other side.”

  “I’m a baseball player, Nagel. He’s a good coach. Did you know he coached Barrett Malone?”

  “Who’s Brian Malone?”

  “Barrett. The Detroit Tigers? Don’t you know anything about baseball?”

  “I’m telling you, Huggy’s teams stink. Everyone knows that. I don’t know Barrett Malone, but I know Huggy’s a nut ball. I mean, my brother deserved what he got, but what sane teacher whips a baseball at a kid?”

  “Your brother’s not a kid.”

  “He’s a high school kid. You know what I mean.”

  “Let’s not argue about it. You wanna hang out? Keep the stuff with Coach out of this. Is that all you got to do around here?”

  “It’s Saturday night. I could swipe some beer from my brother and we could build a fire.” Nagel looked at him hopefully.

  Brock shook his head. “Nah. You want to watch a movie or something?”

  Nagel shrugged. “Like, rated R?”

  Brock studied his face, the broken teeth, the mischievous hazel eyes. “Does everything you do have to be wrong?”

  “Being good is boring. Look at you.”

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “You got a black eye for starters.” Nagel grinned.

  Brock made a fist. “I ought to . . .”

  Nagel ducked his fake punch. “What movie?”

  “I don’t know. We got the, like, total premium cable package. My dad’s on a trip. We can rent whatever we want. Well, not whatever; my dad sees that too. We can rent anything that’s PG-13, though. Come on.” Brock trudged off toward his neighbor’s fence.

  Nagel caught up. “Your dad, he’s like a real spy, huh?”

  “He’s strict. Not much gets by him.” Brock grabbed the white bucket like an old pro and turned it over next to the fence.

  “But some things do?”

  Brock stood up on top of the bucket, grabbed the top of the fence, and stopped. “If I bend the truth, sometimes I get away with it, but you can’t outright lie with him. He sniffs it out like a police dog.”

  Brock climbed over the top and dropped down into the neighbor’s yard.

  Nagel followed. “Not my parents. My brother’s so bad, they barely notice what I do. Lying is like . . . like drinking soda at breakfast.”

  “Soda?”

  “Yeah. You’re not supposed to, but after a while they get tired of telling you and it’s just the way things are done.”

  Brock didn’t know if Nagel was trying to make him feel better about having a strict father, but whether he intended it or not, he realized he preferred rules, even if they seemed harsh at times. They crossed the street and went in through the garage.

  Before he entered, Nagel looked back at the empty garage. “So, if your dad surprises you again, I got to run out the back?”

  “Do you care?” Brock asked.

  “Nah. Just wondering is all.”

  “At least you know the way.” Brock forced a smile.

  As they sat down, Nagel scooped the TV remote up off the coffee table and expertly turned on the different components, then located the movie rental menu, which he began scrolling through.

  “Hey,” Nagel said, “we can watch Thor’s Revenge. That’s PG-13.”

  “See? That’ll be fun, right?” Brock brightened.

  “I guess.”

  “You want a soda?” Brock asked.

  “Is that allowed?”

  Brock could tell Nagel was poking fun at him. “My dad’s not a bad guy, he’s just . . . a little strict.”

  “Sorry. I’ll stop bugging you. I don’t care,” Nagel said. “Heck, if I had a kid, I wouldn’t want him hanging around with me either.”

  They both laughed as Brock took two sodas from the fridge and they watched the movie. Brock thought back to his life as Tommy Rust, about Luke Logan, and their tree fort. Nagel was no Luke Logan, but he did have an easygoing manner that let Brock relax and enjoy just sitting there watching without being alone.

  It felt normal, for a change. It was fun.

  38

  Sunday morning meant doing chores around the
house. Brock’s dad said Sunday was for church, but since they couldn’t join a church, they’d quietly do what work they needed to around the house to keep things nice and think about how lucky they were. Even when he was alone, Brock did what was expected, and the morning passed and the house was neat and clean by lunchtime. After throwing away the paper plate he used for his sandwich and putting away the bread and mayonnaise, he hid his bat and glove in the bushes outside the house.

  If his dad came home—whether Brock found a local team to meet his father’s requirements or not—Brock planned to sneak off to the school and practice with Coach’s team. The idea of working with a travel team of serious baseball players—even just to practice—made him jittery and his palms even began to sweat.

  Three thirty came, though, and his father was nowhere to be seen. Brock breathed a sigh of relief, retrieved his equipment from the bushes, and headed off down the street, walking the long curving length of Blackberry Circle until he saw the school. The ball field off to the side was empty, and Brock looked at his phone to check the time. Disappointment grew heavy in his stomach. It didn’t take a huge imagination to figure that whatever tailspin Coach had been in last night might have carried over into today.

  Brock walked out onto the ball field and stood by himself.

  “Rats,” he said aloud, and turned for home, disappointed not only that he wouldn’t get to play some baseball, but because Coach was so obviously unreliable, an emotional powder keg ready to blow at the slightest bump.

  He was rounding the corner of the school when a white Suburban raced into the entrance and around the front circle. In the front seat was a boy wearing a baseball cap. Brock could see the tip of a bat he held in front of him. When the SUV went around the other side of the school, Brock’s spirits rose. He scooted that way, breaking out into an easy jog. He had no idea there was another baseball field, but when he rounded the corner he saw it, and it was covered with players tossing baseballs and warming up in pairs.

  In the midst of them all was Coach Hudgens, barking and growling and calling all the players out to the pitcher’s mound so he could address them. Brock dropped his bat beside the bench, keeping his mitt, and took a knee in the back of the group. Coach saw him, winked, and gave a small smile before returning to his scowl. Brock felt an elbow in his ribs. He brushed it away and glanced over at the player next to him.

  Who he saw made his mouth drop open.

  39

  Eyes hiding behind sunglasses and hair tucked up under a Liverpool Elite cap with one long braid hanging down her back was Bella Peppe.

  “You’re a girl.” They were the only words that came into Brock’s mind.

  “Nickerson!” Coach shouted.

  It took Brock a second to remember his last name was Nickerson, and Coach’s angry glower confused him.

  “No one talks when I talk.” Coach stared him down.

  Bella nudged him again, tugged her glasses down on her nose, winked, and smiled, and Brock felt like he was having a dream.

  Coach seemed more like the gym teacher Brock first met than the man who’d been tutoring him on pitching in his own backyard for the past week, but then Coach smiled.

  “Men, some of you may have seen Brock Nickerson around school. He’s the new kid and he might be joining us this summer.”

  “If he’s good enough.” The voice came from somewhere in the middle of the group, but Brock couldn’t tell who.

  Coach glared again. “Oh, he’s good enough. He’s better than good enough.”

  The whole group stiffened and several of the boys stole looks at Brock, who felt his face blush.

  Coach continued. “This is Coach David Centurelli.” Coach patted the back of a man Brock hadn’t even noticed. The slender man had brown hair, hazel eyes, and a crooked grin. He wore a red Liverpool Elite cap with a big L on it like Coach and some of the other players. “He’s also Officer Centurelli; in case you got a notion to mouth off, he’ll toss you behind bars.”

  Coach Centurelli tipped the brim of his cap and nodded. “Men.”

  “Also, Bella will be with us again this summer as well.” Coach beamed at her like sunshine in a mirror. “I know there are a couple new faces besides Brock’s, and you should all know that Bella is my niece.”

  Brock blinked and his mouth fell open again. He now felt uneasy about the dodgeball he’d slung at her head last week, but Coach hadn’t seemed to care.

  “She’ll work hard keeping our stats book.” Coach spoke in a gruff tone that suggested Bella was practically one of the guys. “In return, she gets to practice with us to keep her skills sharp for softball. You treat her with respect, just like any other teammate because she is a part of this team.”

  Brock couldn’t help just continuing to stare at Bella, who seemed to find his surprise amusing.

  Coach let that sink in, then continued, “As I was saying, we are going to work hard. The competition is always tough. Whether we win or lose, you will become better baseball players. Now, let’s get loose. We’ll run the bases, then have a long toss. Bring it in for a break, then everyone line up at home plate.”

  Coach held up a bat and everyone who couldn’t put their hand directly on it touched another player’s hand.

  “Liverpool on three,” Coach barked. “One, two, three . . .”

  “LIVERPOOL!”

  They broke apart and jogged to home plate. The experienced kids immediately took off, running the bases. Brock hung in the back and found himself behind Bella.

  She looked back at him. “I guess the silent treatment is over. Like Coach said, this is a team. You know how that goes, right?”

  40

  Before Brock could answer, Bella grinned and took off around the bases. He followed, rounding each bend and accelerating as fast as he could to keep up. Bella was crawling up the back of the guy in front of her, showing off her speed.

  When they finished running, Bella grabbed his arm. “Come on, I’ll long toss with you. These guys won’t want to partner with a new kid.”

  “I can’t believe you’re his niece,” Brock said. “When one of the kids told me good job for beaning you and that nobody beaned you, I didn’t know what he even meant.”

  “You think they don’t bean me because Coach is my uncle?” Bella twisted her lips and raised an eyebrow. “They don’t bean me because they’re afraid, Brock. They don’t want any of this.”

  Bella pointed to her arm.

  Brock smiled and said nothing more, and the two of them lined up opposite each other way down on the first-base line, all the way out in right field. On Coach’s whistle, they began to throw, with Bella taking a step back after each toss until she was way out in center field and having to take a hop step just to get the ball to him. Brock kept firing, even after he’d have to retrieve her throws on a bounce and roll. She didn’t balk, though, but only kept moving back and doing her best to get it back to him. Bella had gone well beyond any of the other players before Brock’s arm couldn’t reach her—far out into left field. Brock sensed the other players watching him, and he couldn’t help but glow with pride.

  Coach gave a shout and brought them all back in before splitting them up to work on offense with Coach Centurelli. Coach Hudgens focused on defense. Brock went with Coach Centurelli and was surprised to see how knowledgeable the man was. He learned from Bella that David Centurelli had actually played triple-A ball for Rochester before becoming a cop.

  “He’s been with my uncle for as long as I can remember,” Bella said.

  They did batting drills in small groups supervised by Coach Centurelli for nearly an hour before switching over to work on field skills with Coach Hudgens. By the time they were ready to end practice with a fast-paced scrimmage, Brock’s hat band was stained with sweat. Brock got put on the team that was first to bat. He started to sit on the end of the bench closest to home plate when he felt a jab in his shoulder.

  “That’s my seat.” A boy as tall as Brock, though not as thick, with strin
gy black hair that hung past his collar gave Brock an evil look.

  Brock shrugged and let the rest of the guys sit before he took an empty spot on the far end of the bench next to Bella.

  “Who is that guy?” Brock whispered to her.

  Bella kept her eyes out on the field and didn’t flinch. She was chewing gum and she snapped it in her mouth before she spoke. “Dylan Edwards. He’s a rat.”

  “With a cherry on top,” Brock said.

  “A what?” She turned to look at him.

  “It’s a saying. From Ok—Ohio. You know, like an ice cream sundae? If it’s really good, you put a cherry on top, so he’s a supreme rat.”

  She looked back out at the field. “Definitely with a cherry on top.”

  She then broke out into a grin. “Kid can play, though.”

  Brock huffed.

  When Dylan Edwards got up to bat, Brock silently rooted against him, but Edwards put one over the fence.

  “See?” Bella blew a bubble, let it hang from her lips, then popped it.

  When it was Brock’s turn, he couldn’t help whispering to her. “Watch this.”

  He got up to bat, let the first pitch go by, then slammed the next one, also over the fence, clearing the bases. Brock jogged around the diamond and slapped a few of the guys’ hands, but when he passed Edwards on the bench he heard the tall boy muttering.

  “Won’t get a hit like that against a real pitcher.”

  Brock just passed him by and sat back down beside Bella. She blew a bubble and held out her hand for him to slap her five. He did, and they shared a smile.

  When Brock’s group took the field, Dylan bounded up onto the mound until Coach ordered him to head to second base and make way for Brock.

  “Coach?” Dylan whined.

  “That’s right. I’m the Coach,” Coach bellowed. “You take second.”

  Dylan kicked the dirt and slinked off. As he passed Brock, Dylan checked to see if Coach was looking before spitting at Brock’s feet.

  Brock glanced at Bella, who was on third. She wore a curious look that told him Coach hadn’t said anything to her about their pitching sessions or Coach’s high opinion of his arm. Brock tried to contain his smile, but it broke free when he stood atop the mound, surveying the field around him. Coach Centurelli acted as umpire behind the plate while Coach Hudgens sat on the bench with the other half of the team and squinted his eyes at Brock, then gave him a slight nod.