"Well," she said, staring up at the tree toward which Troy had thrown his ball, "at least you can afford to buy yourself another ball."
"What?" Troy said, following her gaze.
"That thing never came down," she said.
"It had to," Troy said, starting for the big pine tree.
"I didn't hear it," she said, following him.
"Me neither," he said, mumbling and searching the ground beneath the tree.
Tate stared up and said, "It's stuck."
"I got that signed by the entire Falcons offense," he said. "I need to get it."
Tate sighed and spit on her hands, heading for the trunk of the enormous pine tree.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'll get it," she said, annoyed.
Troy watched her shinny up the trunk and scramble into the tree's branches. She shook one branch wildly, and the ball came tumbling down. It landed with a thump before bouncing crazily around and rolling down into the ditch beside the tracks. The branches shook as Tate moved into sight, then hung from the lowest branch and dropped down beside him as easy as if she were a cat.
"How'd you do that?" he asked.
Tate just shrugged and said, "A woman of many talents."
"You're like a lemur, Tate," Troy said, retrieving the ball from the ditch before climbing up onto the tracks, "but thanks. I wouldn't want to run away without this."
Troy turned to go, but Tate stopped him, and he could see her dark eyes glinting, even in the faintest light. "You just said you 'ran away.' That's what little kids do, not grown men."
"My father was a grown man," Troy said, swatting her hand away. "She says he ran away. I guess I'm like him. Anyway, I want to find him. If she doesn't want me, I can go live with him."
CHAPTER SEVEN
" WHOA," SHE SAID. "I know you took some shots in that game, but I didn't know it scrambled your brains completely."
"Why couldn't I?" Troy asked. "He seemed like a good guy."
"Troy, you met the man for about three minutes," Tate said.
"He had a pretty nice car," Troy said, then quickly added, "and he got into Cotton Wood because he said he had a client there. He must be pretty legit to have a client in Cotton Wood. Those people are all rich."
"You know what I'm saying," Tate said, stopping on the tracks. "Where are we going, Troy?"
"I don't know," Troy said. "The bridge?"
"It's pitch-black," Tate said with a shiver. "And it's cold. I don't want to go far. You should go home. Really, you can't just run away. Think about it. I know you're mad. I know you want to see your dad."
"I will see my dad," Troy said.
Tate nodded her head. "I think so, too."
"You do?"
"Yes," Tate said. "He's your dad, Troy. He looks like you, and if he acts anything like you at all, then he's not just going to disappear. But you go home now, Troy. Trust me."
Troy gripped Tate's arm. "I do trust you, Tate. I know that no matter what, I can count on you. Best friends?"
"Best friends forever," Tate said, grinning.
Suddenly there was a noise in the bushes along the tracks: snapping branches and a guttural growling. Troy felt his heart jump into his throat.
"Oh my God," Tate said. "What is it?"
A figure burst out of the underbrush and bolted up the railway bed.
"Sheesh," Nathan said, swiping sweat from his brow. "Talk about a third wheel. All this best-friends stuff and I'm not even in on it?"
Then Nathan laughed to show he wasn't serious, and they joined him.
"You scared the stuffing out of me," Tate said. "Why are you crawling through the bushes?"
"My dad stayed late to help Seth pick up after the party, and I saw you guys disappearing around the building when we pulled in," Nathan said. "I had to go out through my bedroom window, and I took the shortcut to catch you. What's up?"
Troy told Nathan what had happened. He nodded and agreed that Troy should go home.
"We all should," Tate said. "You okay, Troy?"
Troy nodded, and they all said good-bye. By the time he slipped in through the front door, the clock on the wall showed that it was just before one. He took a deep breath and tiptoed across the floor. With his mom, it was always best to work through things in the morning. Without putting on the lights, Troy crept down the short hall to his bedroom, eased the door shut behind him, then flipped on the light. He breathed easier, smug with his strategy.
Then he turned around, and screamed.
CHAPTER EIGHT
" MOM, WHAT ARE YOU doing!" Troy yelled, the blast of fear still burning through his veins.
His mom sat upright against the headboard of his bed with her arms folded and her legs crossed, wearing a robe over her pajamas. She uncrossed her legs and swung them over the side, standing, but keeping her arms folded tight as if against some unknown chill.
"Waiting," she said, the word dropping from her lips like a stone.
"Well," Troy said, turning to his Xbox controller and winding up its cord, something he never did.
His mom brushed past him and left the room. From the hall she said, "I left two more of those pain pills for your finger on the table next to your bed. One for tonight and one for tomorrow, and don't forget to brush your teeth."
Then he heard her bedroom door close.
Troy shook his head and took the pain pill, brushed his teeth and went to bed. He lay awake. At first his finger throbbed out the rhythm of his heartbeat, but then the gentle wave of the pain pill softened the ache in his finger and his heart. He dropped off to sleep thinking of Tate's words about his father.
Troy ached more in the morning than he could ever remember. His whole body felt stiff and sore from the rough game they'd played, and his finger had blown up like a deli pickle. For a moment the whole thing-the championship, the agents who'd approached him in the parking lot, and even his father's appearance at Seth's house-all seemed like a dream. He took the second pain pill his mom had laid out with a glass of water beside his bed. Then he heard the sound of his grandfather's voice from the kitchen, and he jumped up and nearly tripped pulling on his pants as he swung open the door.
"Gramps!" Troy said, hugging his grandfather where he sat at the kitchen table. "Where were you last night?"
"I was there for the game, are you kidding?" Gramps said. "But I'm too old for parties. Besides, that was for your team. No, I just went home afterward and had a cup of tea on my porch to celebrate."
His grandfather, tough and straight as an old stick, wore wire-rimmed glasses that highlighted his blazing pale blue eyes. His hair was mostly gone, and on his chin he had a white stubble that could leave a raspberry on Troy's skin. As Troy stepped back, Gramps held out one iron hand.
"Give me the grip," he said, then he looked at Troy's swollen finger. "Ouch. Better not. I saw them messing with you on the sideline and that last pass that looked like a dead duck, but I didn't know you messed yourself up this bad."
"I'm okay," Troy said.
Troy's mom turned away from the stove with platters of eggs, grits, and sausages, setting them out on the table before taking a pitcher of orange juice from the fridge and then pouring herself and her father cups of steaming hot coffee.
"The doctor said the finger isn't broken," Troy's mom said, blowing on her coffee and looking from Troy to Gramps over the rim of the mug. "It's his heart I'm worried about, Dad."
Gramps shoveled some food onto his plate and said, "Sounds serious. Girl trouble? That Tate McGreer turned him down?"
"Gramps," Troy said, nearly choking on his juice, "Tate's my friend. I don't have a girlfriend."