At night, inside the quiet of his room, he wrote the truth.

January 12. Graham shoved me into the wall. He said I sulked through dinner and didn’t show my appreciation. I asked Micah’s dad not to tell anybody he was showing me how to lift weights, that I wanted it to be a surprise. He doesn’t talk to Graham anyway. I don’t think he likes Graham very much. He said not to “sir” him every five minutes because it makes him feel like he’s back in the army, and since we’re working out together I should call him Dave. He’s nice.

March 2. I’m getting stronger!!! I can curl 15 pounds, 12 reps, 3 sets. And today I bench-pressed 75 pounds and did 36 push-ups. I’ve gained 5 pounds. Dave says it’s lean muscle mass. We have our first preseason game tomorrow, and Coach said my arm’s a rocket! I think that’s lean muscle mass, too. I got a single and a triple in practice, two RBIs. We’re so totally going to trash the Eagles tomorrow! Eliza said to empty the dishwasher. I said sure. Graham slapped me. You don’t say “Sure” you say “Yes, Ma’am,” you Worthless Little Fuck. Then he slapped her because she didn’t correct me and called her Stupid Bitch. I saw how Britt was maybe going to cry and gave her a look so she wouldn’t. No point in her getting slapped.

He wrote every night, detailing his ball games, his progress in the gym, his father’s abuse.

He wrote of his pride and the thrill when the Lakeview Wildcats took the championship. Of how proud his father acted during the game, and how casually he criticized Zane’s base running, his fielding on the way home. Of how Dave Carter gave him a high five and called him champ.

By his fifteenth birthday that summer, he stood at five feet eleven, weighed in at 128. When Dave called him a lean, mean fighting machine, he didn’t know that’s what Zane aimed for.

On the night of December 23, he woke from a nightmare in a cold sweat. He’d dreamed his father found his notebooks and beat him to death.

But nothing happened, and the holidays came and went.

He got his first real girlfriend in Ashley Kinsdale, a laughing-eyed blonde, honor student, soccer star, and his first real date when he invited her to the end-of-school dance in May.

Since they doubled with Micah and his date—fellow gamer and nerd-with-an-attitude Melissa—Mel—Riley—Dave volunteered to drive them to and from.

He had to get a new suit, new shoes, which he tried to pretend was bogus—but secretly he liked duding it up. Plus, he’d gained another two inches, not only in height, but in his feet.

He hated his hair—his father had decreed he wear it in a military cut, always reminding him military school loomed as an option. But otherwise, he thought he looked pretty damn good. He hoped to reach six-three by graduation, and maybe he would. That would put him eye to eye with Graham. Graham, who called Ashley “Zane’s Mick slut” when she wasn’t around.

His belly was still sore from the punch when he’d made the mistake of looking up the last time Graham had goaded him with that.

Two years, two months, he reminded himself. He’d be eighteen and free. They thought he’d go to UNC at Chapel Hill, study medicine. But no way. He aimed for USC. Not only was it on the other side of the damn country, but they had a solid baseball program.

He’d apply there, and at Cal State Fullerton, and Arizona State. Hey, if Arizona State was good enough for Barry Bonds, it was good enough for Zane Bigelow.

He’d use Emily’s address, and when he got that close, he’d tell her. She’d keep it zipped—he was pretty sure. He didn’t want to be a doctor; she’d understand. If he could get a scholarship, he could make it work. No way Graham would pay unless he toed the line, so he had to get scholarships.

He had a good shot. With the weighted courses he had a 4.2 GPA, and he knew his coach would get behind him on the baseball end. Math and science killed him, but he managed to hold the grades up.

He’d owe Micah for the rest of his life for that.

He’d gotten 190 on the PSATs. Only 50 in math, and the math score had earned him a backhand and a gut punch. He had to take it again the next spring, had to bring the math up, but he’d be better prepared.

He ordered himself to stop thinking about it. He had a date!

The knock on his door tensed his shoulders, then he remembered neither of his parents ever knocked. He opened the door to Britt.

“Jeez, look at you.”

“Pretty smooth, right? Except for the dork hair.”

“At least you don’t have to wear it in a ponytail every day, or pin it into a bun for dance class. Chloe got to get hers cut and punked up. It’s so cute. I’m thirteen now, and I have to wear it like I’m eight.”

“Micah and Mel got matching blue streaks for tonight.”

“Well, they’re weird.” She plopped down to sit on the side of his bed. “So … do you know Major Lowery?”

“Yeah, sort of. Freshman, basketball player. Made varsity. Why?”

She twirled the end of her ponytail around her finger. “No reason, just wondered.”

“Give me a break.” Zane snorted it out. “He’s in high school. You’re not.”

“I will be next year.”

“Aww, you got a crush on Maj.” Now he snickered. “Gonna practice kissing the mirror so you—”

“Shut up.”

As was his obligation as big brother, he made kissy noises. Then suddenly stopped, spun around. “Jesus, Britt, lay off there.”

“It’s none of your business.”

When, chin up, she started to rise, he waved her down. “Major’s black.”

Her eyes fired up. “If you’re going to be a racist, I’m—”

“Come on, Britt, you know better.”

Her chin inched higher. “I thought I did.”

“Do you hear how he talks about Ashley just because her grandparents came over from Ireland? Think about it, think about what he’d say, maybe even do, if he saw you hanging out with a black kid.”

She dropped back on the bed again. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like he even knows I exist.”

If Graham even got a hint of it … “You’ve got to be careful. Smart and careful. Five more years. I know it’s forever, but it’s really not.”

“Mom’s saying I have to do all this stuff so I’ll be invited to the debutante ball when I’m sixteen. The ballet, the grades, how I dress, how I talk. At least you get to play baseball. White dresses and pearls—screw it, Zane.”

She jumped up again, throwing her hands in the air. “It’s not me. I don’t want it to be me.”

“You think this is me?” He tapped a finger on his hair. “Just be smart, be careful. When I go to college, especially.” He glanced toward the door. “I’ve been thinking about telling Emily before I go.”

“You can’t.” Fear jumped into her eyes, her voice. “He’d go crazy.”

“That’s just it. He’s going to go crazy when he realizes I’m not going to Chapel Hill, when he realizes I’m out of here. He could take it out on you. You need somebody here. Emily would help.”

“What could she do?”

“I don’t know, but something.” It gnawed at him, like a dog on a bone, constantly. “I’m not going to leave you without knowing somebody will help.”