CONTENTS
Prologue
Chαpter One
Chαpter Tw0
Chαpter Thr3e
Chαpter F0ur
Chαpter fiνe
Chαpter Six
Chαpter Sev3n
Chαpter Eight
Chαpter Nine
Chαpter tεn
Chαpter Eleven
Chαpter Tωelv3
Chαpter Thirte3n
Chαpter Foυrte3n
Chαpter Fifteen
Chαpter Sixteen
Chαpter Seventeεn
Chαpter Eighteen
Chαpter Ninetεen
Chαpter Tωenty
Chαpter twεnty-One
Chαpter tωenty-Two
Chαpter Twen+y-Three
Chαpter Twenty-Four
Chαpter Tωenty-Five
Chαpter Twenty-Six
Chαpter twenty-Seven
Chαpter Twenty-Eight
Chαpter Twenty-Nine
Epilogue: Three and a half years later
+ Author’s Note +
Acknowledgments
About Margaret Peterson Haddix
For the 1982 Miami Trace High School “In the Know” team,
The 2010 and 2011 Dublin Scioto “In the Know” teams,
The Bishop Hall gang,
The New Year’s Eve gang (both those who love the Name Game and those who hate it)
And, of course, the other two-thirds of the Triumvirate of Knowledge.
The answer is still “Up.”
Prologue
KT Sutton swung her arm in a phantom arc. Her hand released a phantom ball.
The perfect pitch.
In reality KT was sitting in the backseat of her family’s SUV. But in her mind she was on the field in the championship game of the Rysdale Invitational, hurling perfect pitch after perfect pitch over the plate, striking out one stunned batter after another.
If you can see it, you can do it.
Her pitching coach’s words echoed in her mind, filling her mind. The whole world shrank to those words and KT’s imagined perfect pitches.
See it; do it. See it; do it. See it—
“You’re not nervous, are you?” her father’s voice came from the front seat. “There’s no reason to be nervous. You’re the best pitcher out there. The scouts will see that.”
KT clenched her fists. The imaginary pitcher she was visualizing in her mind dropped the imaginary ball. Pain shot through her very real muscles. The semifinal game yesterday had been hard-fought and brutal, and KT just hadn’t bounced back like she usually did.
“Dad,” she said, her voice as cutting as one of her perfect pitches. “Stop it.”
“Don’t jinx her,” Mom advised from the passenger seat.
“Mom,” KT said. She gritted her teeth to fight the pain still throbbing in her right shoulder. “Don’t talk about jinxes.”
“It’s just—” Dad shifted in his seat. KT could tell he was trying to catch her eye in the rearview mirror. “This is a really important game. Maybe the most important game of your softball career so far.”
KT bent her neck, avoiding Dad’s gaze. Even that movement hurt. She stared at the mitt cradled in her lap, letting her eyes draw comfort from the familiar pattern of the lacings.
“Why don’t you let us help you get psyched up?” Dad asked. “Like you used to.”
“I’m not eight anymore,” KT said.
She remembered how Dad had prepared her for games back then. He’d have her stand at the top of the stairs in their house and yell, “I’m the best pitcher in the world! I’m the best pitcher in the world!” over and over again—“until you believe it,” he always said.
At eight she’d believed easily. She’d torn through the Ponytail League so dramatically that three ten-and-under travel teams came recruiting her. She’d heard her father brag once that “My daughter could throw strikes with her eyes closed,” so she’d tried it in the next game.
And succeeded.
She’d been eight when she’d written out her goals for life, in lurching little-kid writing:
The University of Arizona will beg me to pitch for them
I will win a gold medal in the Olympics
That list was still tacked up on the bulletin board over her bed at home, right in the center where she could see it every day. Her goals hadn’t changed in the least since then, but just so other people understood, she’d added a few clarifications over the years. She could close her eyes and picture the list as it had looked when she’d stared at it that very morning:
The University of Arizona will beg me to pitch for them. They will give me a full-ride scholarship. I will be their starting pitcher.
I will win a gold medal in the Olympics. I’ll start for TEAM USA, too. After I (and 9 million other players) convince the Olympic Committee to bring softball back! Or, if that doesn’t work, at least I’ll get a gold in the World Cup!
High-school and college scouts always watched the Rysdale Invitational. Maybe the people who would be Olympic coaches someday did too. KT was only in eighth grade, but everyone said this was when the really important people started paying attention. When they started filling slots on the best high-school teams, the ones that brought together girls from hundreds of miles apart. When they began planning who would get which college scholarship. When they mentally began filling lineups for games that wouldn’t be played for years.
This was when KT could start making her dreams come true.
A shiver passed through her that could have been fear, could have been nerves, or could have been another jolt of pain.
KT decided it was just adrenaline. The pure, raw adrenaline that was going to propel her to pitch a perfect game.
In the front seat Mom put a warning hand on Dad’s arm.
“Bill,” she said soothingly. “KT has a professional psych-up routine now. We paid her pitching coach and her visualization coach a lot of money to work up the best approach for her.”
KT heard mumbling beside her—something like, “Should have spent that money on video games.”
KT whipped her head to the side and held back a wince at the pain that flowed from that motion. Somehow she’d managed to forget that her younger brother, Max, was in the car too.
Forgetting him, she’d discovered, was the best strategy with Max. But she couldn’t stop herself from snarling, “What’d you say?”
Max barely bothered to glance up from his Nintendo DS. He darted his eyes nervously toward Mom and Dad in the front seat and mumbled, “Nothing.”
Just looking at Max annoyed KT. How could two kids from the same family be so different? He’d been a cute enough little kid, with wavy blond hair and ears that stuck out in a way that made strangers stop them in the grocery store and gush, “What an adorable little boy!” But now that he was twelve, he’d turned into a pudgy, pasty blob who might as well have had his hands surgically attached to various video and computer games. A human slug, as far as KT was concerned.
Pathetic. Despicable. Disgusting.
“Max, honey, don’t bother your sister,” Mom said, turning around to fix him with one of her stares. Just from her tone, KT could tell this was probably a continuation of some earlier scolding. The “honey” sounded like a threat. “KT is under enough pressure as it is. We all need to support her as a family.”
Thanks a lot, Mom, KT thought. You’re not helping either.
Max waited until Mom turned back around to face the front. Then he muttered, barely loud enough for even KT to hear, “It’s just a game. Who cares?”
KT felt the anger blast through her body. How dare he . . . She actually welcomed the anger, because it washed over the pain, over the fear, over the nerves.
>
Use it, she told herself.
She’d done that in plenty of games, drawing on fury over bad plays, bad calls, or bad sportsmanship to make her own game that much sharper. But somehow today she couldn’t get quite . . . centered. Without exactly realizing it, she’d gone from cradling her mitt in her lap to cradling her right arm.
It doesn’t hurt that much, she told herself. I’ll be fine once I warm up. But . . . there’s nothing wrong with buying myself a little insurance.
Surreptitiously, she sneaked her left hand down into the bag at her feet. She came up with a bottle of Advil. Working one-handed, she popped off the lid and slid two tablets into her mouth, washing them down with a swig from her water bottle.
There, KT thought. Mom and Dad didn’t see, so they won’t be asking annoying questions like, “What’s wrong? Are you going to be okay to pitch? Are you still going to be in top form? You have to be in top form!” And of course Max wouldn’t notice. For once it’s good he’s a video-game-addicted slug!
Moments later they pulled into the parking lot of the sports complex. Maybe it was the Advil kicking in; maybe it was just the excitement finally hitting. But KT didn’t feel like she needed her psych-up exercises anymore. This was it—the big game. She forgot anger, annoyance, pain, fear, nerves. The green grass of the field spread out before her. In the parking lot the bright gold and blue of her teammates’ uniforms glowed as if the sun shone only for them.
My tribe, KT thought. My home.
The field was flat enough that she could see straight out to the pitching circle.
Where I belong, KT thought.
Kerri and Bree, two of her teammates, began pumping their fists at KT as soon as they saw her.
“Woo-hoo!” they screamed. “KT’s here! Time to dominate!”
They slapped their palms against the side of the SUV, letting the sound accelerate and crescendo. Two other teammates, Makenna and Liz, ran over to join in.
“Dad, stop! Let me out here!” KT demanded.
“Um, okay. Good lu—”
KT was out of the car and slamming the door before he finished the last word. But KT knew what it was, and she didn’t need it.
Luck? That’s not what wins games. It’s talent. Training. Hard work. Skill. It’s wanting to win so bad you can taste it.
KT already had that.
It was the top of the fifth inning, and KT’s team was behind 3-2.
Coach Mike sent her out to the pitching circle with a slap on the back and three words: “Shut ’em down.”
KT had been pitching for Coach Mike for two years. She knew exactly what he was asking for: three strikeouts in a row, nine pitches so dazzling and tricky that three of the best fourteen-year-old batters in the country would swing and miss, swing and miss, swing and miss. Boom, boom, boom. You’re out; you’re done; your half of the inning is over. It’s our turn now, baby.
KT knew that if Coach Mike had been sending out one of the other pitchers, Vanessa, he would have said, “Get back our at-bat.” Vanessa liked the drama; she needed that sense of revenge, the suggestion that something that rightfully belonged to her team had been taken away and she needed to take it back.
KT liked keeping things simple.
But as she jogged onto the field, everything behind Coach Mike’s words flashed through her mind. He didn’t want three strikeouts just because it would be quick. He wanted those strikeouts as psychological warfare. Ten or fifteen minutes from now, when the teams switched sides, he wanted the girls from the other team spreading across the field thinking, Maybe we’re not as good as we thought we were. Maybe we deserve to lose. Maybe we’re losers after all.
And he wanted those strikeouts for KT’s sake, to show what she could do. KT didn’t know if there were really scouts there or not—Coach Mike had a policy of not talking about things like that until after a game—but a few people in the stands didn’t seem to be cheering for either side, and that was always a tip-off. KT had done well in the first four innings, but she’d let two runners get on base. She just hoped the scouts noticed that none of them actually scored. All three of the Cobras’ runs had come last inning, when Vanessa was pitching, not KT.
Never mind. KT was back now. She was ready to pitch her best.
KT dug her cleats into the ground, marking her territory. She swung her arm around, loosening it up. It took every ounce of willpower she had not to flinch at the aching protest her arm sent up, but KT managed to keep her expression poker-face smooth. She got into position, and that hurt too.
No pain, no gain, she thought, and hurled the ball toward the catcher’s mitt.
The batter swung so hard KT could almost feel the breeze.
“Strike one!” the umpire hollered.
When she was batting, KT hated those words. She’d tell herself, That’s nothing. Just a warm-up swing. Give me another one like that and I’ll hit it out of the park.
KT could tell that this batter was telling herself the same thing.
Oh, no, you won’t, KT thought, and she threw the next ball.
“Strike two!” the umpire called.
Told you, KT thought.
Two strikes, no balls—it would be easy for a pitcher to get cocky at this point. To start counting her strikeouts before they were pitched, to maybe even look toward the next batter warming up off to the side. But KT’s coaches had all but beaten into her brain: Finish the job. You start celebrating too soon, it’s you who’s going to be finished.
So KT allowed herself only one triumphant nod, a quick jerk of her chin down and back up. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Bree over on first base, nodding back. It was like they were connected telepathically, each one thinking, Don’t tell Coach Mike, but we might as well start celebrating now, because we are going to win this thing.
The batter stepped out of the batter’s box, tried a few experimental swings, and stepped back in.
Losing confidence, are we? KT thought. She threw the next ball.
“Strike three!” the umpire cried.
KT could tell he was trying to hide the admiration in his voice. He was supposed to be neutral, after all. But those had been three beautiful pitches. The Cobras were known for their batting. They never struck out.
The next batter took her time getting to the plate.
Trying to make me cool down my hot arm? KT thought. Uh-uh. Not going to happen.
But the momentary break gave KT a second to feel the throbbing in her arm again.
I thought Advil was supposed to last longer than this, she thought. Guess I won’t be doing any commercials for them after I’m in the Olympics.
The batter was ready now.
So was KT.
The pitch.
The swing.
The umpire’s call: “Strike one!”
And again.
“Strike two!”
And again.
“Strike three!”
Nothing to it, KT thought, even as the stands went wild. KT could hear her parents’ voices loudest of all, calling out: “KT! KT! KT!”
“Just one more strikeout!” her father yelled.
Coming right up, KT thought.
But she knew those last two batters had been the bottom of the Cobras’ lineup—talented girls, probably good enough right now, at fourteen, to star on most varsity high school softball teams in the country. They could probably star on a lot of college teams too. But compared with the rest of the Cobras, they weren’t stars. They were inconsequential specks of dust.
The Cobras’ star batter was coming up next.
Her name was Chelisha, and she was so famous in softball circles that KT had heard rumors about her even though she lived hundreds of miles away. Supposedly, her father had been a record-breaking baseball player in Cuba; her mother had been an Olympic skier. Supposedly, she’d hit her first home run when she was two.
Chelisha, in batting stance, was a portrait of coiled-up power and menace. She looked like a cobra.
Yesterd
ay, watching the Cobras’ semifinal game, KT had been in awe of Chelisha’s elegance, her grace, her speed—and the three runs she batted in during the second inning, the home run she sent sailing over the fence in the fourth, the triple she scored on in the sixth.
“Wouldn’t you love to be the pitcher who struck her out?” Vanessa had whispered to KT.
Oh, yeah, KT thought.
Now was her chance.
Under her batting helmet Chelisha fixed her eyes on KT’s—a trick, KT thought. She’s trying to rattle me.
For just an instant a jab of self-doubt pierced KT’s brain: Who am I to strike out the great Chelisha? She’s amazing. Maybe I’m not as good a pitcher as I thought. Maybe I’ve just been lucky. Maybe, underneath it all, I’m just a loser.
Whoa. Chelisha was good. And all she was doing was standing there.
Oh, no, you don’t, KT thought, narrowing her eyes right back at Chelisha. Who are you to think you can get a hit off the great KT? I just struck out two of your teammates, and now I’m going to strike out you!
KT threw the first pitch.
It was a little . . . erratic. KT had been working so hard to block out the pain radiating through her body that maybe she was ignoring other signals too. Like where her hand was when she let go of the ball.
The ball dipped, then rose, then dipped again. The last time KT had pitched so gracelessly was her first game in the Ponytail League, six years earlier. But the ball crossed the plate in the strike zone.
And—it wasn’t what Chelisha was expecting. She swung a second too late, a millimeter too high.
“Strike one!” the umpire called.
So there! KT thought. Even when I mess up I’m great!
But she didn’t have to turn her head to feel Coach Mike glaring at her. She knew exactly what he was thinking: There’ll be no more of that. Nobody can win with pitches like that. Can you get your act back together, or should I take you out?
“It’s back together,” KT whispered to herself.
She hoped.
She got back into position, her own version of a coiled cobra ready to strike. Or—ready to throw a strike. Her entire being was focused on that one action: every nerve, every muscle, every tendon, every ligament, every brain cell. She whipped her arm around and—boom!