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watching your speed on that rocket sled Dad bought you.”
    â€œI keep a line of grannies riding up my tail,” Marcus promised.
    â€œHow did you break this man’s window, anyway?”
    Marcus shrugged uncomfortably. “Playing football in the park.”
    â€œWhy would you throw a football at a parked car?”
    â€œAnother guy threw it,” Marcus admitted. “It went through my hands.”
    â€œ Another guy? ” she repeated. “You’re moaning and groaning about how the team hates you, and all this time you’ve been meeting a friend to play football?”
    â€œHe’s not a friend,” Marcus said quickly. “He’s just some guy I ran into in the park. I really don’t know much about him.”
    She digested this. “Well, if he threw the pass, shouldn’t his mother be writing the check?”
    A mirthless smile twitched Marcus’s lips at the thought of Charlie’s mother, undoubtedly a little old lady in her seventies or eighties, paying for her son’s share of the damage.
    â€œWe’ll split it,” he decided. “Fair enough?”
    She put an arm around his shoulder. “Fair enough. Do you want me to call over to his house, or can you handle it?”
    â€œI’ll handle it.”
    But could he? Never once had he seen Charlie handing over money—not even for a lousy bag of ice or a bottle of Gatorade. Could Marcus get him to pay for half a car window that had been broken more than a week ago?
    And more important, if Charlie stonewalled him, what did that mean for the workouts in Three Alarm Park?
    The blond cocker spaniel jumped off the porch and bounded over to greet Charlie, tail wagging.
    He reached down to pet the animal. “How’re you doing, Boomer? Good boy.” He followed the dog to the screen door.
    A teenage girl was there to let them in. “Hi, Daddy,” she said, kissing Charlie on the cheek. “What did you do today?”
    â€œThrew a ball around,” her father replied.
    â€œWith who?”
    Charlie shrugged. “The cops came and arrested him.” He headed into the kitchen.
    Fifteen-year-old Chelsea turned to her brother. “Troy, did you hear that?”
    Troy looked away from the Aldrich Raiders playbook. “I try not to listen to Dad anymore.”
    She looked worried. “Do you think it’s getting worse?”
    Troy’s All-American features tightened. “Worse than going crazy?”
    â€œHe’s not crazy. You understand exactly what’s happening to him. It’s not his fault.”
    Troy turned back to his playbook. “Like that makes any difference.”
    Chelsea sighed. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” She filled a bowl with dry dog food and whistled for the spaniel. “Come on, Silky. Here’s your dinner, girl.”

CHAPTER FIVE
    T he classroom numbers at David Nathan Aldrich High School defied the laws of science.
    Marcus followed the progression: 238 … 239 … 240… B-611? Confused, he stared from the schedule in his hand to the number over the door and back to the schedule again. History was supposed to be meeting in room 241. Where was that? Up on the roof?
    â€œVery hot—kind of Lost Puppy meets Dumb Jock.”
    Alyssa appeared at his elbow, all sympathy.
    Her presence brought out a definite nervousness in Marcus. What could you make of a girl who could flirt with you one minute and criticize the cadence of your snap count the next? He could still feel her arms around his midsection from their Vespa ride—or was that just wishful thinking?
    â€œI’m having a little trouble with the layout of the building,” he admitted.
    She nodded in understanding. “All the new kids stall out at B-611. I figured I’d find you here sooner or later.”
    â€œAre you going to tell me where to go or what?”
    She laughed. “I’ll leave that to Troy. He’s dying for the