Lowen went directly from the soccer field to the Cornish Eatery. To his dismay, Sami had planned to meet her mother there, so she followed him, all the while telling him about the consignment store her mother was going to open. “We’ve done the business plan,” she said, “and it seems that given the distance of other clothing stores, the price of gas, and the need for folks around here to earn a little extra money — they get money for the clothes they bring in that we sell — it should be a sure bet. My mom wants me to study the psychology of store displays. You know, what kinds of things to put in the front of the store to lure people in, what types of things to put near the cash register to get people to buy more.”

Lowen didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Sami carried the conversation all the way to the shop.

“How did it go, love?” Mum asked when he walked through the door. The shop was closed, but Mum always stayed until the end of the workday. She and Rena were sitting at the table, an assortment of pasties spread out in front of them. Sami’s sisters were sitting in the front window playing some sort of clapping game.

“Terrible.” Lowen chose a juice from the cooler. He grabbed a second drink for Sami.

Mum got up and went over to him, ruffled his hair, and then recited the usual mother stuff about being proud of him and how he’d get better with practice. She led him back to her chair. “You must be famished. Try one of these.”

Lowen took a bite of “chicken pot pasty.” “It’s good . . . really good,” he said with a full mouth, and it was true.

“I’ve noticed,” Mum said, “that people around here like things that are, well, familiar and fear they won’t fancy foreign pasties. So I’ve decided to make pies that Millvillians have probably tasted before. Here, try this one.”

The one Mum handed him was similar to the beef pasty she usually made, but it was made with hamburger rather than chunks of steak. And there was something soft. . . .

“I used ground beef, mashed the potatoes, and added corn.”

“Shepherd’s pie pasty,” Lowen said, smiling.

“Try this one, Sami,” said Mum.

Sami took a bite of her individual pie. “Yum!” she said. “It tastes like a sweet potato burrito!”

“Exactly,” said Mum.

“But how are you going to get the word out?” Lowen asked. “If no one comes into the shop, how will they know about the new flavors?”

Mum smiled. Even though her shop had only had a few customers each day since it opened, and even though most of her customers were out-of-towners passing through on Highway 27, she still looked happier after a day in her own restaurant than she ever did after a long day of working as an assistant chef at Sonny’s.

“You and Sami can take menus door to door,” she said.

Sami shot Lowen an Is she kidding? look.

Lowen sure hoped so. Enduring soccer practice was humiliation enough.

Suddenly the door of the eatery opened and a man in a flannel shirt and a baseball cap came in. He was carrying a stack of papers.

“I’m sorry,” Mum said. “We’re closed. I’ve already turned the oven off for the day.”

“That’s OK ma’am,” he said. “I was just wondering if I could post a community notice on your bulletin board.”

He was referring to an old board that was adhered to the outside of the building.

“Sure,” Mum said. “What’s the event?”

He held out the paper and she glanced down.

Mum went white in the face.

“No. No,” she said, flustered. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t allow it.”

The man looked taken aback. “You can’t allow a notice about an upcoming class?”

“Not if it involves guns,” she said.

“But this is a gun safety class.”

“I know,” she said. “You don’t understand —”

The man turned. “You’re right, I don’t. Believe me, I won’t bother you again.” As he opened the door to leave, he muttered, “I doubt that many in this town will bother you at the” — he looked up at the sign — “at the Cornish Eatery.” The last three words were said in a snobby English accent.

In every class Lowen had ever been in, one kid was treated as the mark. Maybe the kid did something to be singled out. But maybe he didn’t. Ganging up on one kid made everyone else feel normal, secure in the group. It was like Sami said: tribal impulse.

Up until his arrival, Lowen figured, Dylan had been the outsider. He’d been the one who others jibed — either to his face or behind his back. But even though Dylan sometimes acted as if he were out to lunch, or followed others around like a puppy, he was darn good at soccer.

And Lowen was not. Not by a long shot.

He had already overhead Kyle saying to Joey, “Why does that kid talk so formal?”

And Joey had responded with a toity accent: “His mother is British.”

Now that Lowen had made a total fool of himself, in a place where probably every kid was born with ball-handling talent, he’d basically given his classmates a pass to ridicule him. He was the mark, and he had no one else to blame.

Trudging to school the day after practice, he kicked a bottle cap and tried to predict the type of teasing that would come his way.

The closer he got to school, the slower he walked, hoping to arrive just as the bell rang. Then he wouldn’t have to join the other kids waiting outside the door of the middle-school wing.

No such luck.

“Hey, Grover, don’t they have soccer where you come from?” Joey called out the moment Lowen set foot onto school property.

Lowen took a deep breath, determined not to show weakness. “What’s it to you?” It was a retort often used by Globber Dog.

“Just wondering,” said Joey, undeterred.

“Those were some moves,” piggybacked Kyle, who was usually pretty quiet. Things were definitely bad if the quiet kid was joining in.

Lowen shifted his backpack and feigned a look of surprise. “Don’t tell me you guys have never heard of distraction moves.”

“Distraction moves?” asked Kyle, who turned to Joey as if to ask, Is there such a thing?

“Oh, come on!” said Lowen with a slight smile. “The point was to surprise the other team, giving you a chance to run with the ball, Kyle.”

“You meant to wipe out?” Kyle asked.

Lowen rolled his eyes. “Duh! But you missed your chance. You could have gone all the way. Scored a goal.” He glanced at Joey.

Joey smiled. Shazam!

Lowen smiled back.

“It was good of you to take one for the team, Grover,” said Joey.

Lowen knew that Joey saw through his lies but appreciated his wit. It was probably the best possible outcome.

An outcome that he couldn’t take full credit for, he thought while he was tossing his backpack into his locker. Because it hadn’t been his voice in his head that had come up with the “distraction technique” comeback. It had been Abe’s. Abe was quick like that, always taking the challenge, knocking others off guard.

And at that moment, Lowen turned away from his classmates, his eyes stinging.