School hardly felt like school. It felt more like the arts day camp Lowen attended at the Flintlock elementary school the summer he was nine. Like then, the Millville Central School halls were mostly empty and echoey. All of the old wooden desks had been washed over the summer, and since most were not in use, the school never lost that wet-wood and disinfectant smell. There was only one classroom for each grade, but since the teachers could pick the classroom they wanted, kids were spread out all over the building. Lowen’s classroom was the farthest from the entry to the middle-school wing — his teacher, Mrs. Kachanowski, explained that she wanted a room that received sunlight in the early morning only.

Ms. Duffey had been correct: there were eight kids in his class — four boys and four girls — whose desks formed a semicircle at the front of the room. He and Sami were the only newcomers. And here was the weird thing: whenever one of their teachers told them to choose a partner, or to pair-share, he ended up with Sami.

“Again?” Lowen said when they buddied up for a brain break on the second day of school. They stood side by side, waiting for instructions. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said quickly. “I just figured I’d be paired with Dylan.”

Sami nodded. “I’d predicted the same thing. And I figured I’d be with whichever girl was on the outs with Taylor, who is clearly the alpha girl. But Amber nabbed Dylan instead.” She shrugged. “Tribal impulse, I suppose.”

Lowen raised his eyebrows. “You and I are from a different tribe from the others?”

Sami nodded. She had a resigned look on her face. “There are the Millvillians and then there are the Dollar Kids.”

The same segregation happened at lunch. Because the school was so small, elementary and middle school ate together, but the Millville kids sat with the kids they’d known all their lives. They joked about Fourth of July parties, and snow days, and the time that practically the whole town had come down with the flu together.

That left one table for the Dollar Kids. While Diego Muñoz and Lily Grey entertained the table with silly stories, Lowen and Sami ate the food the younger kids refused to eat. Sometimes Dylan would pop over to their table for a moment and grab one of Meera’s discarded sandwiches. “Hey!” Meera yelled every time, but they could tell she loved it. She probably left food just so Dylan would steal from her. Other than Dylan’s sandwich stealing, though, no one crossed the Millville / Dollar Kid line — except Anneth. She sat between Corrine and Ruby, the two Millville girls who had befriended her after she’d been rescued from her room.

Sami was jealous of Anneth’s ability to join in. She spent half the time glancing over at the Millville kids.

“Did you have lots of friends in your old school?” Lily asked Sami.

Sami sighed. “Not really. I didn’t fit in very well. I guess I thought Millville would be different.” And then, under her breath to Lowen, she said, “At least here, though, they think we’re all bizarro.”

Lowen nodded, surprised by his own longing to be on the other side of the room. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to be friends with Joey and Kyle — and certainly not with Dylan — but he didn’t like being excluded, either. He realized that in the past, his drawing had been his superpower, his ticket to acceptance. Kids admired it. Without it, he didn’t have anything to offer. No cool juice at all.

Not only that, but the longer he and Sami were pushed aside, the more she counted on his friendship. And the more she looked to him for support, the more he felt like a poser. Again.

The same week school started, Lowen had his first soccer practice. It was one of those strikingly beautiful fall days; the sky was somewhere between cornflower and cobalt blue, and a light breeze carried the scent of sun-dried grass. Lowen, in a pair of Clem’s hand-me-down shorts, congregated with the other boys on the soccer sidelines.

The middle-school team included kids in sixth, seventh, and eighth grades. A few of the eighth-graders seemed to be pointing Lowen out. One of them he recognized from that day he and Anneth were taunted coming home from Dollar Mart. He couldn’t tell if they were making fun of him now or if they were just remarking on his height. Either way, it made him wish he were anywhere but there.

He tried to remember everything he learned by watching How to Become Great at Soccer fourteen times and practicing that one time in the parking lot, and hoped that his brain and muscles would cooperate. Perhaps he’d discover that he wasn’t half bad after all.

Coach divided all of the kids into two teams, and Lowen put on a blue pinny as directed. It didn’t take long on the field before he realized that it’s one thing to dribble and kick a ball by yourself, and another thing entirely to race up and down a field for forty minutes with twelve other kids who are showing off their stopping, tapping, dribbling, juggling, passing, and power-shooting skills.

At one point the ball came at him with the speed of a bullet. By the time he registered its approach and got himself in position to kick it, it was stolen by an opposing player.

“Pass it to Grover again,” Coach called.

The kid gave the ball one bounce, and then, after a couple of taps, dutifully kicked it in Lowen’s direction.

As Lowen dashed toward the ball, a memory flashed: he and Abe racing home from the elm tree. As usual, he’d given Abe a twenty-count head start and then bolted. But when he turned the corner onto the street where they lived, Abe was nowhere in sight. Had he fallen? Hurt himself? How had he missed him? Lowen had turned and started to jog back toward school when he heard a gleeful “Ha! Ha!” Turning back around, he saw Abe sprinting, way ahead. He must have hidden behind a tree. Cheeky kid, as his mother would say.

“Grover!” Coach yelled.

An eighth-grader with red cleats had stolen the ball.

Coach blew his whistle. “Pass it to Grover. Again.”

The eighth-grader rolled his eyes and passed the ball in Lowen’s direction.

Lowen shook his head. Concentrate! This time, he ran at the ball, turned his foot in, and kicked with as much force as he could muster. As Lowen’s foot flew up, slicing the sky, the rest of him followed: a rapid ascent, and a faster landing.

He had only one thought before he hit the ground: he had completely missed the ball.

Lowen opened his eyes to clouds, his ears ringing. Unfortunately, the clouds were quickly replaced by concerned faces that wanted to know if he was OK.

Hands were held out to help him up, but Lowen didn’t take them. Instead, he rolled over and pulled himself to standing. As was typical in this town, adults who didn’t work all the time had begun to gather on the sidelines. They applauded when he stood.

Which made him feel doubly ridiculous.

Coach motioned for him to take a seat on the bench.

That’s when he noticed Clem, on the sidelines, surrounded by his buds. His friends were laughing. Clem was not.

When practice ended and the other kids gathered around Coach for a post-practice pep talk, Lowen jogged off the field and planned to keep right on going toward home. No way Coach would make him play now.

“Hey, Grover!” Coach yelled. “Where do you think you’re going? Get back here!”

Lowen hesitated. The last thing he wanted to do was go back.

Everyone turned his way, watching, wondering what he was going to do.

The air was still.

Lowen took a breath and jogged back onto the field. He could feel all his frustration and embarrassment pressing against the backs of his eyeballs. Determined not to lose it, and thereby shame his brother further, he closed his ears to Coach. He did what he used to do in boring classes in Flintlock: he imagined the next scenes of his comic book. The limbo sequence with Abe and his killer immediately came to mind.

Limbo.

What would Abe do if he were face-to-face with the kid who shot him?

He’d say something. That’s what Abe would do. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself. He always had something to say.

But what? What would Abe say?

Lowen’s lip curled at Abe’s wisecracking remark. He couldn’t help it. It was exactly the sort of thing Abe would say.

Unfortunately, Lowen’s brain wasn’t able to come up with anything after that, and so Coach’s words started to penetrate.

“You know that I can’t make any of you play. It’s your choice. But we’re counting on everyone. Without you, we don’t have a team.” Lowen could swear Coach was looking right at him.

“And we need to appreciate anyone who shows up to be part of this team,” Coach continued. “If you’ve played on this team before — or on any team, for that matter — I expect you to help those that are new to the sport.”

Lowen didn’t need to look around to know that eyes were rolling. And it was the same message: he couldn’t quit. If he did, he would jeopardize the program for everyone.

He was completely miserable.

As Lowen dragged himself off the field, Sami, who was as good as any eighth-grader on the team, caught up to him.

“I can help you, you know.”

“Huh?”

“We could practice together.”

“Thanks, but my brother’s offered to teach me,” he said.

A total lie, but he was saying it for her own good.