My dad pulls up, gets out of the car, and says, “Lewis?”

“This one belong to you, Padric?”

Dad swallows once and nods.

“He busted into the joint and started making demands about his girlfriend, so I straightened him out before the others could. But had I not been around, this story doesn’t end so happily.”

“Thank you,” Dad says, and then extends his hand. Lewis shakes and then pulls Dad in for a man hug. As he pats Dad’s back once, Lewis whispers something into my father’s ear.

“Get in the car, Finley,” Dad tells me. As we pull away, he says, “What were you thinking?”

“What did he whisper in your ear?”

“That I now owe him a favor. Do you know what that means?”

I nod. It means that my father will have to do something for Lewis in the future.

“Lewis is an old friend. We grew up together. So you got damn lucky today. But you have to stop. You can’t keep asking questions. You have to be patient.”

I don’t want to understand any of what he’s saying. I’m just a kid. I’m not part of the Irish mob, or whatever they’re calling themselves these days—or whatever they’re forbidding people to call them.

When we get home, Pop’s wheelchair is parked at the kitchen table. Grandmom’s rosary beads are wound around his fist, but he’s not drinking and looks sober. The old man is shaking his head at me. “Are you crazy?”

“I—”

“You can’t know where Erin is right now!” Pop roars. “Are you fecking stupid, boy? Have you not been lookin’ at these stumps of mine for a decade now? What’s wrong with you? Those men you approached today would slit your throat for a dollar.”

Pop’s never cursed at me like this before. His voice is shaking. I’ve never seen him so angry. His accent’s even coming out. Feck.

Dad puts his hand on Pop’s shoulder and Pop lets out a terrible sigh.

“Listen, Finley,” Pop says, calmer now. “Sometimes a guy can get out of the organization by doing something big. Something that earns him a retirement. If Rod did something big, he might’ve made some powerful enemies that would require him and his family to disappear. Could be that they didn’t disappear fast enough, which maybe explains Erin’s accident. This is all speculation, Finley. Don’t go repeating any of this. You have to be smart. I know Erin. She’ll contact you when it’s safe. But your going around asking questions only makes things difficult for everyone.”

I look at my father and he nods. He thinks Pop’s right.

“So I should just wait for Erin to contact me?” I say. “Do nothing?”

“That’s your best play,” Pop says.

“And your safest,” Dad says. “Our safest.”

How can I do nothing?

35

ONE MORNING, ON OUR WALK TO SCHOOL, Russ asks me to shoot around in my backyard—just the two of us. He says it could be “our thing.” I ask him why we need a “thing” and he says, “You seem different, distant—not yourself. Maybe shooting around once or twice a week would help?”

He stops by later that night after his practice and I tell him I don’t really want to shoot around with him. “I’m done with basketball,” I say.

“Just take ten shots and if you don’t feel like taking an eleventh, I’ll drop it forever, okay?”

I sigh.

“Come on,” Russ says. “Just ten shots.”

I follow him around the house and we find my ball in the garage.

“I feel bad about taking your position,” Russ says. “Especially after what happened to Erin. Her accident—the way she disappeared… it really affected me. Sort of woke me up. I don’t know why, but that night in the hospital something clicked in my mind, and then it was like I started moving forward again and you started moving backward. Now it feels like we’re moving in opposite directions, and I miss having you around all the time. Everything got messed up for you, and yet things are going so well for me now, or better than I thought was possible at the start of the school year. It doesn’t seem fair.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t. He’s right, of course. I’ve been mulling over the unfairness of my situation for weeks, but hearing Russ state it so matter-of-factly hurts. Part of me is jealous. Part of me is simply defeated.

“The thing is—Coach was right,” Russ says. “Playing basketball’s been really good for me. I like the structure. I like playing. It takes my mind off what happened back in L.A. It’s my future too. I want to thank you for seeing me through my transitional phase.”

Is that what he’s calling his outer-space act now? He’s all but forgotten about being Boy21. It’s like basketball was his cure—his return to sanity.

“I think that playing ball could help you too,” Russ says. “I realize you’re done with Coach, I get that—but maybe you and I could—”

“It’s just a game. Maybe it’s your ticket to fortune and fame—and I’m happy for you—but I don’t care about basketball anymore. I really don’t.”

“Just take ten shots. I bet you’ll want to take an eleventh,” Russ says, spinning the ball in his hands.

“Fine,” I say, and then show a target. He hits me in the hands and I shoot. The ball goes in. Russ rebounds, passes to me, and I shoot again. We repeat the process, find a rhythm, and I start to feel my heart beating, my muscles loosening. I miss shots five and seven, and end up eight for ten.

“So?” Russ says.

I think about it. I understand why Russ needs to play ball. I understand that the game is going to provide him with many opportunities. I even understand why it’s helping him mentally—keeping his mind off the bigger questions. But basketball isn’t going to do the same for me. And shooting around is just a painful reminder that Erin’s no longer here.

“Won’t be taking an eleventh shot,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” Russ says. “I don’t want basketball to be a sore spot between us.”

“It’s not.”

“So what now?”

“I’m going to lie on the garage roof and stare up at the few stars I can see,” I say.

“Can I join you?”

“Sure.”

We use the fence to help us climb up onto the garage and then we look up at the three or so stars we can see through the light pollution and smog.

“You ever feel like you’re not the person on the outside that you are on the inside?” Russ asks.

“All the time.”

“Yeah, me too,” he says.

We lie there in silence.

“I’m sorry basketball’s ruined for you,” Russ says.

“I’m glad it’s helping you,” I say, and I really am.

36

THE DAYS PASS VERY SLOWLY and superfast at the same time.

Do you know what I mean?

Maybe it’s like a dream where time takes on a new sort of meaning.

I don’t know.

Life gets blurry, distorted, stretched out, balled up. It’s hard to explain.

I go to school.

I do my schoolwork.

I talk to Pop, Dad, Russ, Mr. Gore.

Things happen, but nothing really sticks in my memory.

Nothing worth mentioning anyway.

I just feel numb all the time.

Empty.

Sad.

Sometimes angry.

Mostly sad.

Kind of pissed.

Hollow.

Tired.

Cheated.

Lonely.

I think about Erin constantly.

Where could she be?

Is she somewhere better?

Will she contact me?

Has she already forgotten about me?

What’s going to happen?

It’s hard not knowing.

It pretty much sucks.

Bellmont is like a prison to me.

I’m here walking around, breathing, existing, but it feels like my life is somewhere else—someplace better.

Wherever Erin is.

I think about Erin every second of every day.

Erin.

Erin.

Erin.

Erin.

Erin.

Erin.

Erin.

Why hasn’t she contacted me?

Why?

37

LATER IN THE BASKETBALL SEASON, Russ and I are sitting on my roof again, trying to look at stars, which is all we do anymore. He usually visits me after every game, although we never talk about b-ball. Sometimes we don’t talk at all, but just look up at outer space. I’ve overheard my classmates talking trash about how well the team’s doing. But I don’t need to know anything more about it.

Russ says, “Okay. Now I’m really worried about you.”

It’s freezer-cold out, but I don’t care. I enjoy the icy burn on my face and hands.

Russ is wrapped up in my comforter.

The sky is overcast, so there are no stars.

“Why?” I say, even though I know why. He’s officially dropped the Boy21 charade for good, and has gone back to being Russ Allen, superstar basketball player. Since he’s leading the conference in all categories, no one seems to mind that he was acting bonkers for most of the school year. Coach was right. Russ needed to play basketball more than I did. It’s almost like I absorbed all of his craziness, like I was his leech, because he seems absolutely fine now, while I walk around school every day like I’m living on another planet.

“You’ve been angry and depressed. You seem to be getting worse.”

“So you’re going to Duke?” I say, trying to change the subject.

There was an official press conference last week. News reporters came and videotaped Russ signing the agreement, accepting a scholarship. Everyone in the world knows he’s going to Duke, so it was a stupid question to ask.

Russ nods. “No word from Erin?”

“Nope.”

“Hasn’t been that long.”

“It’s been more than two months.”

“Already?”

The worst part is that no one else seems to notice Erin’s not around. Her basketball team didn’t win many games without her, and there were whispers at first, but the school keeps on going, as does everything else in Bellmont. It’s like none of us really matter. Anyone could disappear and nothing would change too much. It’s like our lives don’t count.

“I hate Bellmont,” I say. “I really hate it here.”

“Then leave. The world’s a big place, Finley,” says Russ, sounding like Mr. Gore for a moment. “There are many good places in the world. I should know. I traveled around a lot, before I came here.”

“How am I going to leave?”

“Someday an opportunity will come. Think about Harry Potter. His life is terrible, but then a letter arrives, he gets on a train, and everything is different for him afterward. Better. Magical.”

“That’s just a story.”

“So are we—we’re stories too,” Russ says.

“What do you mean?”

“There’re probably people who wouldn’t think our lives are real either, if we wrote exactly what happened to us in a book.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t come to watch you play ball. But I just can’t.”