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effing show.” That was when Mick’s father had turned around, and his eyes met Mick’s.
    â€œLet’s talk about this later,” Mick’s father said to the attorney, but the attorney said, “You know, given the money she’s bringing in, we’re gonna get some big-time child support out of her.”
    Mick’s father was still staring at Mick when he said, “No, we’re not. We don’t need her money. Not one penny.” They’d been quiet on the ride home, but after his father parked the car in the driveway, he’d said something. He didn’t look at Mick. He’d stared straight ahead, and in a low voice he’d said, “We’ll be all right, you and me. We’ll be fine.” On the console between them, there was a tube of butterscotch Life Savers, his mother’s favorites. His father peeled back the wrapper and offered Mick one, but Mick had to look away from it to keep from crying. “No, thanks,” he said, and they’d both sat in the car a long time before getting out.
    Tonight, the back door opened and his father stepped inside, unzipping the old green raincoat, which was dripping wet. He grabbed his new red one from the hall tree and grinned at Mick. “O’Doul’s then?” he said, and Mick said, “Sure, Dad,” and followed him out to the car.
    Mick had always figured his father’s being surprised by his mother’s leaving was because his mother had been quiet about her changing feelings or maybe even sly about them, but now Mick wondered something else. He wondered if it wasn’t because his father just hadn’t been paying attention.
    Usually at O’Doul’s, Mick played foosball casually, letting his father win as many as he lost. But that was when things had been normal, and now they weren’t. Tonight something funny had come over Mick. From the beginning, he played intensely and not only won every game, but won decisively. He was trying, he realized suddenly, to get his father’s attention, to make him play harder, maybe even get a little mad, but his father never did. He smiled through every loss, and when they were done he said, “Well, I guess all it takes is a little food poisoning to turn you into a crackerjack foosball player.”

CHAPTER THREE
    Older Boys
    When field hockey practice ended on Friday, Lisa Doyle and Janice Bledsoe headed for the bus loop to wait for Janice’s mother, who was always late.
    â€œI’m sick of field hockey already,” Janice said, zipping her parka. “Why do we have to practice in the off-season?”
    Lisa shrugged. She was tired, too. And cold. The clouds overhead were dark and rumpled, like the sky in a landscape painting. She rubbed her arms inside her sweatshirt and wished she’d changed out of her field hockey shorts. “So how’d you know to wear a coat?” Lisa asked. “It was sunny this morning.”
    â€œWeatherdude,” Janice said. “Very watchable weatherdude on CBS.”
    A fat drop of rain spattered on the sidewalk, then another.
    â€œMother,” Janice said impatiently, jiggling her legs. “Where art thou?”
    From the gymnasium behind them came the dull clunk of a metal door. It was a compact, muscular guy wearing baggy pants, a tight, striped T-shirt, and no coat, in spite of the weather. “I think it’s Popeye the Sailor Man,” Janice said, but Lisa recognized the approaching face.
    â€œIt’s the wrestling guy from three years ago,” she said. “His picture’s all over the trophy case.”
    Lisa looked away, but Janice didn’t. She stared frankly, waited until he got within ten feet of them, and said, “Hey, are you the wrestling guy?”
    He was handsome, Lisa had to admit. Buff and handsome. But older, maybe twenty or twenty-one. He stopped and, smiling, let his eyes settle first on Lisa, then Janice. He seemed to be chewing