I knew what she meant. Nothing here had been accidental. A secret group called the Abeona Shelter had somehow recruited us—Ema, Spoon, Rachel, me—to help them rescue children and teens. This was never stated. We never applied for the job, and it wasn’t as though they had come to us. It just sort of . . . happened.
“I ask myself that every day,” I said.
“And?”
“I don’t know.”
“There has to be a reason,” Ema said. “First Ashley, then Rachel, and now—”
“Now what?”
“Someone else is missing,” she said.
My grip on the phone tightened. “Who?”
“You don’t know him.”
Silly, but I had thought that I knew everyone Ema knew. Maybe it was because she always played the big-girl-outcast-loner to perfection. The other kids made fun of her weight and her all-black clothes. Ema always sat by herself at lunch in the cafeteria. She had taken sullen and raised it to an art form.
“But you do?” I said.
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“He’s . . . well, he’s kind of my boyfriend.”
CHAPTER 6
Man, I hadn’t expected that answer.
How could I not know Ema had a boyfriend? How could she keep something like that from me? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I thought it was great. Ema was so awesome. She deserved somebody.
So why was I annoyed?
Because we told each other everything, didn’t we? Now I wasn’t so sure. I told her everything, but maybe it was just a one-way street. Clearly Ema hadn’t been equally forthcoming.
How could she not tell me that she had a freakin’ boyfriend?
Then again, had I told her about Rachel and me, about how there just might be something more between us?
No.
Why not? If Ema was just my friend—if it didn’t matter that she was a girl or whatever—why wouldn’t I tell her about Rachel?
“You okay?” Uncle Myron asked.
We were on the plane now, crammed next to each other in the last row. We are both tall, and the legroom in coach is designed for someone about two feet shorter.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“So now what?” Uncle Myron asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You asked me to help get your father’s grave exhumed, right?”
“Right.”
Uncle Myron tried to shrug, but the seat was too small for it. “So now that we’ve done that, what’s your next step?”
I had wondered that myself, of course. “I don’t know yet.”
• • •
As soon as we landed, I called Ema. No answer. I tried Rachel’s phone. No answer. I texted them both that I was back in New Jersey. I placed a call to the hospital again, trying to get through to Spoon’s room, but the operator wouldn’t patch the call through.
“No calls allowed to that room,” the operator explained.
I didn’t like that.
We had landed on time, which meant that I could still make basketball practice. I had missed the past few days because of this trip. That would set me back with the team, and it worried me a little. I hadn’t actually practiced with the varsity, and I knew that I would be way behind.
Kasselton High, my new school, has a varsity and junior varsity team. The varsity is for juniors and seniors. Freshmen and sophomores play JV, and so far, in Coach Grady’s dozen years of coaching the Kasselton Camels, he has never had a freshman or sophomore on the varsity.
Humble-brag alert: I, a lowly sophomore, have been invited to try out for the varsity team.
I couldn’t wait to get on the court, but as Uncle Myron pulled his car to a stop in front of the school, I felt the butterflies start flying around my stomach. Myron must have seen the look on my face.
“You nervous?”
“What, me?” I shook my head firmly. “No.”
Uncle Myron put his hand on my shoulder. “It may take a while to warm up after a long flight,” he went on, “but once you get on the court and the ball is in your hand—”
“Right, thanks,” I said, not really wanting to hear it.
It wasn’t worrying about my performance that stirred those butterflies.
It was my teammates. In short, they all hated me.
None of the seniors and juniors liked the idea of a lowly sophomore crashing their party.
I could hear laughter coming from the locker room, but as soon as I pushed open the door, all sound stopped as though someone had flicked a switch. Troy Taylor, the senior captain, glared at me. To put it mildly, Troy and I had issues. I looked away and opened a locker.
“Not there,” Troy said.
“What?”
“This row is for lettermen.”
Everybody else was in this row. I looked at the other guys. Some had their heads lowered, tying their shoes too carefully. Some glared with open hostility. I looked for Buck, Troy’s best friend and a total jerk, but he wasn’t there.
I waited for someone to stick up for me or, at least, comment. No one did. Troy smirked and made a shooing gesture in my direction with his hand. My face reddened in embarrassment. I wondered what I should do, whether I should fight or back down.
Not worth it, I decided.
I hated giving Troy the satisfaction, but I remembered something my father told me: Don’t win the battle and lose the war.
I took my stuff, moved into the next row, and changed into shorts and a reversible practice jersey. After I laced up my sneakers, I headed out to the gym. That sweet echo of dribbling basketballs calmed me a bit, but as soon as I opened the door, all dribbling stopped.
Oh, grow up.
There were four or five guys at each of three baskets. Troy shot at the one on the far right. His glare was already in place. I looked again for Buck—he was always with Troy, always following Troy’s lead—but he wasn’t here. I wondered whether Buck had gotten injured and, cruel as it sounded, I really hoped that was the case.
I looked toward the guys standing around the basket in the middle. If those faces were windows, they were all slammed shut with shades lowered. At the third basket, I spotted Brandon Foley, the team center and other captain. Brandon was the tallest kid on the team, six foot eight, and in the past, he had been the only one to acknowledge my existence. As I stepped toward him, he met my eye and gave his head a small shake.