“Who?” I answer my cousin finally, mostly to be a dick.
He punches my arm with the side of his fist.
“Come on, man.”
I scowl at the throb left in the wake of his hit.
“Piss off. You’re lucky I’m left-handed.” I rub the spot and breathe out, overexaggerating the exhale so maybe Zack will finally get it. I don’t have the answers to his questions, and I have my own questions.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you look up their season,” I suggest.
“Smart, yeah.” He’s already got his phone in his palm, his thumbs typing in the search bar.
Eventually, I step out of the car and toss the keys to my cousin at the curb. Zack’s not great at getting up early, so he eats breakfast during our car rides to school. I don’t like how other people drive, and prefer being behind the wheel anyhow.
I miss my truck. Dad’s driving it out here in two or three weeks with a bunch of our stuff, so I’ll have my own wheels soon enough. How we’re all going to fit in Uncle Joel and Aunt Meg’s house until our rental is ready, I have no clue. It’ll be a chaotic two months, and these few weeks before tryouts are going to be painful.
“Can, hey, look at this,” Zack says, slapping at my arm and shoving his phone in my face. He can’t seem to quit swatting me.
I shirk away from him but take his phone and speed read the story he pulled up from some news site.
XAVIER PREP BOARD OF DIRECTORS VOTES 7-1 TO ACCEPT RESIGNATION FROM COACH CREDITED WITH TURNING SCHOOL’S BASEBALL PROGRAM AROUND
I skim through the first few paragraphs, losing interest as it goes into detail about private-school politics and unhappy parents. I wouldn’t call this breaking news. I scroll down to the end to see the comments, noting maybe a dozen, mostly from players’ parents praising the board for making the decision.
“So, he’s a winning coach who doesn’t do politics. He resigned and they told him not to let the door hit him on the way out. Not sure what you want me to take away from this,” I say, handing the phone back to my cousin. I don’t want to entertain his trip down this rabbit hole, but I admit to myself that it is a little odd that a school would be so okay losing a coach like him, especially one with college experience.
It doesn’t matter whether I indulge or not; Zack is going to kick this can around with or without me.
“It means something’s up with him, that’s what it means. Think about it—a coach goes, what, thirty-six and four, two state titles, and he gets shit-canned? Nah, bruh. Something’s off with that, and I bet it has to do with daddy’s little girl.”
Our friends Hayden, Tory and Lucas are sitting on the brick wall by the front office, so I kick my leg over to sit on the end and turn my back to my conspiracy-theory-spinning cousin.
“Who’s daddy’s girl?” Tory nods, lifting a curious brow. He’s taking this in a whole different direction.
“You talkin’ about Abby?” Lucas sticks his tongue out and nudges Tory, who only slaps his friend’s arm away. It gets uncomfortably quiet after Lucas’s ill-timed joke. I haven’t been hanging out with these guys for long, but from the bits I’ve seen the last few weeks, I’m pretty sure Abby moved on to the D’Angelo twins after she and I tried hooking up.
Let’s just say Abby Cortez and I were a bit like oil and water. From what I heard, it was basically one huge love triangle bomb with the twins, too. That girl is all drama. She took off for some acting gig, and all I know is nobody talks about her dating either of them. I have a feeling Tory isn’t telling the whole story, though. He was pretty into her, but his brother is here, and Abby is long gone. Brotherly loyalty and shit, I guess.
I’m glad the bell rings before Zack can bring the conversation back to Hollis. As far as I know, nobody’s aware of the New Year’s kiss. I’m not up on bragging, and now that Hollis is the enemy, I’d prefer not to throw a meaningless kiss into the mix, especially if I’m supposed to throw ninety-mile-per-hour fastballs at her face.
I hold out a fist and pound my knuckles against Zack’s then the other guys’ before heading to the far west end of campus. It took me a while to learn my way around this place. My old school was all inside, three stories with glass windows and stairwells, super modern and spotless. Allensville Public is laid out like a prison, complete with graffiti. The windows don’t even open anymore thanks to years of paint layers. And the brick buildings are scattered so far apart it’s impossible to get to class on time when you have to motor from one end to the other. I quit trying last semester, and other than a few scowls from a very picky biology teacher, nobody cares if you wander in during attendance.
I slip into statistics as the door closes. Nobody notices. The teacher doesn’t even look up. His glasses are pulled down on the tip of his nose and he’s scratching at the back of his neck while struggling to read his tablet.
“Sherman Poo . . . scooter?” There are snickers at his attempt because even though most of us in here are seniors, we also possess third-grade senses of humor. Dude said poo. It’s funny.
“Uh, it’s Sharmaine? And my last name is Poscotier—puh-sca-tee-ay.” The voice comes from
