Someone should give this girl an Oscar.

“Where’s Ashley?”

The smile fell off Rachel’s face like an anvil. She tried to get it back, but now it only stayed on in flickers. “What do you mean?”

“You opened her locker, and you took everything out of it. Why?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Boy, how did I not see through her before? She wasn’t even a convincing liar.

“I saw you,” I said.

“That’s impossible.”

“On the surveillance camera. I saw you open Ashley’s locker and clear it out.”

Her eyes shot to the right, then to the left. “I have to go to class.”

Rachel started away from me. Working more on instinct than reason, I reached out and grabbed her arm, holding her in place.

“Why did you lie to me?”

“Let go of me.”

“Where’s Ashley?”

“Mickey, you’re hurting me!”

I let go then. She pulled her arm back and rubbed where I’d grabbed near the elbow. People walked past us, whispering.

“I’m sorry,” I said to her.

“I have to get to class.”

She started to walk away.

“I’m not going to let this go, Rachel.”

She stopped and looked at me again. “I can explain.”

“I’m listening.”

“Meet me after school. Alone. No Ema or Spoon. I’ll tell you everything.”

And then she was off again.

Chapter 18

THE REST OF THE SCHOOL DAY went by slowly. I kept staring at the clock, but it felt as though the minute hand were bathed in syrup. I tried to figure out how Rachel could be involved, but nothing came to me. Then I reminded myself that it was pointless to speculate, that in just a few more hours I would know.

There were only five minutes left before the end of school—five minutes until I could get back to Rachel and hear her explanation—when the intercom in Mr. Berlin’s physics class beeped. He picked it up, listened, and then said, “Mickey Bolitar? Please report to Mr. Grady’s office.”

The class gave me a collective “ooo.”

I hadn’t met Mr. Grady yet, but I knew who he was. First and foremost in my mind, Mr. Grady was the school’s varsity basketball coach. He was a man I hoped to soon know quite well. But the reason for the class’s “ooo” had to do with his real job: vice principal in charge of discipline—in short, the school’s disciplinarian.

I collected my things and started for the front office. I wasn’t nervous. My firm belief, immodest as this might sound, was that Mr. Grady wanted to welcome me to the school. Yes, I had worked hard to keep my game under wraps, but what with my height, my pedigree as Myron’s nephew, and the way the guys down at the pickup games in Newark gossiped, it would be surprising if Mr. Grady hadn’t at least heard about me.

That, I hoped, was the reason for calling me down to his office.

Or was it?

Had I done anything wrong? I didn’t think so. I thought about grabbing Rachel in the hallway. Suppose someone had seen that. Nah, that couldn’t be it. What would a witness do? Go to Grady’s office and tell him? And then what? He’d contact Rachel and she would tell him it was nothing.

Or would she?

I got to his office and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

I opened the door. Mr. Grady sat at his desk and peered at me over his reading glasses. His suit jacket was off. He wore a short-sleeve dress shirt that probably fit a few years ago, but now it worked like a tourniquet around his neck and torso. He stood and hoisted his belt up. His pants were olive green. His hair was heavily thinning, pulled back and plastered to his scalp.

“Mickey Bolitar?”

“Yes.”

“Sit down, son.”

I glanced at the clock behind him. I really didn’t have time for this now. School let out in two minutes—two minutes until I confronted Rachel again. He saw my hesitation and said, “Sit down,” with a little more authority. I sat.

“Do you play ball?” he asked.

Ah. So I was right. “Yes.”

“Your uncle was some player.”

“Yes, so I’ve heard.”

Grady nodded. He put his hands on his stomach. I wanted to move this along but I wasn’t sure what to say.

“When are tryouts?” I asked, just to say something.

“In two weeks,” he said. “The varsity—that’s for my juniors and seniors—will be on Monday. The JV—that’s for the sophomores and freshmen—will be on Tuesday.” He met my eye and said, “I don’t believe in playing sophomores on varsity, except in very rare instances. In fact, in the twelve years I’ve been coaching here, I haven’t had a sophomore on varsity yet, and with so many returning starters . . .”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. I had learned a long time ago that you shouldn’t talk about your game—your game should do the talking for you. So I nodded and said nothing.

The final bell rang. I started to stand, figuring we were done, when Mr. Grady said, “But that’s not why I called you down here. I mean, this isn’t about basketball.”

He waited for me to respond, so I said, “Oh?”

“I received a report that you got into a physical altercation with another student.” I must have looked confused. “Troy Taylor. In the school parking lot.”

Oh boy. I debated going with the he-started-it defense, but beginning a relationship with a new basketball coach by going after his captain seemed an unwise move. I went with silence.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“It was nothing,” I said. “A misunderstanding. We moved past it.”

“I see.” He sat back down and fiddled with his pen. “I don’t know where you went to school before here, Mickey, but at this school, we have a strict no-fighting rule. If you lay a hand on another student, it’s automatic suspension with a possibility for expulsion. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

I couldn’t help it. My eyes glanced at the clock. Grady saw it.

“Someplace to go, son?”

“I’m supposed to meet a friend after school.”

“That’s not going to happen today.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m letting you off easy with this one. Detention. Today.”

“It can’t be today,” I said.