“You aren’t ready to know me.”

There was nothing light about the way he said it. In fact, his expression was razor sharp.

“I looked in your student file.”

My words hung in the air a moment before Patch’s eyes aligned with mine. “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal,” he said calmly.

“Your file was empty. Nothing. Not even an immunization record.”

He didn’t even pretend to look surprised. He eased back in his seat, eyes gleaming obsidian. “And you’re telling me this because you’re afraid I might cause an outbreak? Measles or mumps?”

“I’m telling you this because I want you to know that I know something about you isn’t right. You haven’t fooled everybody. I’m going to find out what you’re up to. I’m going to expose you.”

“Looking forward to it.”

I flushed, catching the innuendo too late. Over the top of Patch’s head, I could see Vee weaving her way through the tables.

I said, “Vee’s coming. You have to go.”

He stayed put, eyeing me, considering.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I challenged.

He tipped forward, preparing to stand. “Because you’re nothing like what I expected.”

“Neither are you,” I countered. “You’re worse.”

CHAPTER 6

THE FOLLOWING MORNING I WAS SURPRISED TO SEE Elliot walk into first­hour PE just as the tardy bell sounded. He was dressed in knee­length basketball shorts and a white Nike sweatshirt. His high­tops looked new and expensive. After handing a slip of paper to Miss Sully, he caught my eye. He gave a low wave and joined me in the bleachers.

“I was wondering when we’d bump into each other again,” he said. “The front office realized I haven’t had PE for the past two years. It’s not required in private school. They’re debating how they’re going to fit four years’ worth of PE into the next two. So here I am. I’ve got PE first and fourth hours.”

“I never heard why you transferred here,” I said.

“I lost my scholarship and my parents couldn’t afford the tuition.”

Miss Sully blew her whistle.

“I take it the whistle means something,” Elliot said to me.

“Ten laps around the gym, no cutting corners.” I pushed up from the bleachers. “Are you an athlete?”

Elliot jumped up, dancing on the balls of his feet. He threw a few hooks and jabs into the air. He finished with an uppercut that stopped just short of my chin. Grinning, he said, “An athlete? To the core.”

“Then you’re going to love Miss Sully’s idea of fun.”

Elliot and I jogged the ten laps together, then headed outdoors, where the air was laced with a ghostly fog. It seemed to clog my lungs, choking me. The sky leaked a few raindrops, trying hard to push a storm down on the city of Coldwater. I eyed the building doors but knew it was to no avail; Miss Sully was hard­core.

“I need two captains for softball,” she hollered. “Come on, look alive. Let’s see some hands in the air!

Better volunteer, or I’ll pick teams, and I don’t always play fair.”

Elliot raised his hand.

“All right,” Miss Sully said to him. “Up here, by home plate. And how about … Marcie Millar as captain of the red team.”

Marcie’s eyes swept over Elliot. “Bring it on.”

“Elliot, go ahead and take first pick,” Miss Sully said.

Steepling his fingers at his chin, Elliot examined the class, seemingly sizing up our batting and fielding skills just by the look of us. “Nora,” he said.

Marcie tipped her neck back and laughed. “Thanks,” she told Elliot, flashing him a toxic smile that, for reasons beyond me, mesmerized the opposite sex.

“For what?” said Elliot.

“For handing us the game.” Marcie pointed a finger at me. “There’s a hundred reasons why I’m a cheerleader and Nora’s not. Coordination tops the list.”

I narrowed my eyes at Marcie, then made my way over beside Elliot and tugged a blue jersey over my head.

“Nora and I are friends,” Elliot told Marcie calmly, almost coolly. It was an overstatement, but I wasn’t about to correct him. Marcie looked like she’d had a bucket of ice water flung at her, and I was enjoying it.

“That’s because you haven’t met anyone better. Like me.” Marcie twisted her hair around her finger.

“Marcie Millar. You’ll hear all about me soon enough.” Either her eye twitched, or she winked at him.

Elliot gave no response whatsoever, and my approval rating of him shot up a few notches. A lesser guy would have dropped to his knees and begged Marcie for any attention she saw fit to toss.

“Do we want to stand out here all morning waiting for the rain to come, or get down to business?” Miss Sully asked.

After divvying up teams, Elliot led ours to the dugout and determined the batting order. Handing me a bat, he pushed a helmet on my head. “You’re up first, Grey. All we need is a base hit.”

Taking a practice swing, and almost nailing him with it, I said, “But I was in the mood for a home run.”

“We’ll take one of those, too.” He directed me toward home plate. “Step into the pitch and swing all the way through.”

I balanced the bat on my shoulder, thinking maybe I should have paid more attention during the World Series. Okay, maybe I should have watched the World Series. My helmet slipped low on my eyes, and I pushed it up, trying to size up the infield, which was lost under ghoulish wisps of mist.

Marcie Millar took her place on the pitcher’s mound. She held the ball out in front of her, and I noticed her middle finger was raised at me. She flashed another toxic smile and lobbed the softball at me.

I got a piece of it, sending it flying into the dirt on the wrong side of the foul line.

“That’s a strike!” Miss Sully called from her position between first and second bases.

Elliot hollered from the dugout, “That had a lot of spin on it— send her a clean one!” It took me a moment to realize he was talking to Marcie and not me.

Again the ball left Marcie’s hand, arching through the dismal sky. I swung, a pure miss.

“Strike two,” Anthony Amowitz said through the catcher’s mask.

I gave him a hard look.

Stepping away from the plate, I took a few more practice swings. I almost missed Elliot coming up behind me. He reached his arms around me and positioned his hands on the bat, flush with mine.

“Let me show you,” he said in my ear. “Like this. Feel that? Relax. Now pivot your hips—it’s all in the hips.”

I could feel my face heat up with the eyes of the entire class on us. “I think I’ve got it, thanks.”

“Get a room!” Marcie called to us. The infield laughed.

“If you’d throw her a decent pitch,” Elliot called back, “she’d hit the ball.”

“My pitch is on.”

“Her swing is on.” Elliot dropped his voice, speaking to me alone. “You lose eye contact the minute she lets go of the ball. Her pitches aren’t clean, so you’re going to have to work to get them.”

“We’re holding up the game here, people!” Miss Sully called out.

Just then, something in the parking lot beyond the dugout drew my attention. I thought I’d heard my name called. I turned, but even as I did, I knew my name hadn’t been said out loud. It had been spoken quietly to my mind.

Nora.

Patch wore a faded blue baseball cap and had his fingers hooked in the chain­link fence, leaning against it. No coat, despite the weather. Just head­to­toe black. His eyes were opaque and inaccessible as he watched me, but I suspected there was a lot going on behind them.

Another string of words crept into my mind.

Batting lessons? Nice … touch.

I drew a steadying breath and told myself I’d imagined the words. Because the alternative was considering that Patch held the power to channel thoughts into my mind. Which couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. Unless I was delusional. That scared me more than the idea that he’d breached normal communication methods and could, at will, speak to me without ever opening his mouth.

“Grey! Head in the game!”

I blinked, jerking to life just in time to see the ball rolling through the air toward me. I started to swing, then heard another trickle of words.

Not … yet.

I held back, waiting for the ball to come to me. As it descended, I stepped toward the front of the plate.

I swung with everything I had.

A huge crack sounded, and the bat vibrated in my hands. The ball drove at Marcie, who fell flat on her backside. Squeezing between shortstop and second base, the ball bounced in the out­field grass.

“Run!” my team shouted from the dugout. “Run, Nora!”

I ran.

“Drop the bat!” they screamed.

I flung it aside.

“Stay on first base!”

I didn’t.

Stepping on a corner of first base, I rounded it, sprinting toward second. Left field had the ball now, in position to throw me out. I put my head down, pumped my arms, and tried to remember how the pros on ESPN slid into base. Feetfirst? Headfirst? Stop, drop, and roll?

The ball sailed toward the second baseman, spinning white somewhere in my peripheral vision. An excited chanting of the word “Slide!” came from the dugout, but I still hadn’t made up my mind which was hitting the dirt first—my shoes or my hands.

The second baseman snagged the ball out of the air. I dove head­first, arms outstretched. The glove came out of nowhere, swooping down on me. It collided with my face, smelling strongly of leather. My body crumpled on the dirt, leaving me with a mouthful of grit and sand dissolving under my tongue.

“She’s out!” cried Miss Sully.

I tumbled sideways, surveying myself for injuries. My thighs burned a strange mix of hot and cold, and when I raised my sweats, to say it looked like two cats had been set free on my thighs would be an understatement. Limping to the dugout, I collapsed on the bench.

“Cute,” Elliot said.

“The stunt I pulled or my torn­up leg?” Tucking my knee against my chest, I gently brushed as much of the dirt away as I could.

Elliot bent sideways and blew on my knee. Several of the larger bits of dirt fell to the ground.

A moment of awkward silence followed.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

Standing, I demonstrated that while my leg was a mess of scratches and dirt, I still had the use of it.

“I can take you the nurse’s office if you want. Get you bandaged,” he said.

“Really, I’m fine.” I glanced at the fence where I’d last seen Patch. He was no longer there.

“Was that your boyfriend standing by the fence?” Elliot asked.

I was surprised that Elliot had noticed Patch. He’d had his back to him. “No,” I said. “Just a friend.

Actually, not even that. He’s my bio partner.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Probably windburn.”