as a student at Laurelhurst High.
When I got up, the house was silent. Mr. Thurman was off doing his investment job, whatever that was. Ian had a free first period, so he was still sacked out in his room upstairs. Mrs. Thurman had gone to her gym or was out running. I ate a breakfast burrito and slipped out the front door.
The walk took about fifteen minutes. As I neared Laurelhurst, I expected the sidewalks to crowd up like they did around North Central, but it never happened, not even on the final block. Instead, the streets filled with cars, creating a traffic jam around the school.
Before heading up the main stairway, I took a few deep breaths, preparing myself to be the unknown new guy. I was surprised when a burly kid came up beside me. “Hey, I’m Hadley Welsh. You’re our new pitcher, right? The kid from North Central High?”
“Yeah, I g-guess. But how d-did you know?”
“Ian told us. I’m your catcher.” His cell pinged. He read a text and looked up. “Got to go, Laz. That’s your name, right? Cool name, by the way. See you around.”
Nobody else actually spoke to me, but some guys—baseball players, probably—nodded in my direction. I tried to nod back without looking like an idiot.
My first three classes—English, Spanish, history—were about the same as classes at North Central. Maybe the kids were a little less rowdy, the teachers a little more relaxed. Definitely everybody was better dressed. Fourth period was algebra. Here goes nothing, I thought as I pushed open the door and found a seat in the third row by the window.
The teacher was Mr. Marsh, an older guy with wild gray eyebrows and tiny ears. I was the only new kid in the class; he knew everyone else from the first semester. When the period ended, he asked me to stay behind. “I heard from your counselor at North Central that math isn’t your strong point,” he said once we were alone.
“You t-talked to my c-counselor?”
“You bet I did. And I talked to your former math teacher. I want you to start on the right foot. ‘Well begun is half done’—that’s my motto.”
“I s-stink at m-math,” I said, trying to make a joke.
Mr. Marsh narrowed those eyebrows and wagged a finger at me. “I’m a great teacher, and we have a great peer-tutoring program. You don’t stink at math anymore.”
He had me fill out a form for after-school tutoring in the library. “I’ll give this to Ms. Cramer, our librarian,” he said when I handed the form back to him. “She’ll be looking for you.”
“When d-does this start?” I asked.
Those bushy eyebrows again furrowed. “Today.”
When I left, I made my way to the cafeteria, where I filled my tray with pizza and salad. I qualified for free lunch; moving to Laurelhurst High hadn’t changed that. At North Central, kid after kid scanned their card under a reader, and a computerized voice said, “Thank you.”
But as I worked my way up the line at Laurelhurst, I didn’t see a scanner and I didn’t hear a single computerized “Thank you.” I broke into a sweat when I reached the front of the line and showed my card to the lunch lady. What if she didn’t know what it was? She took it, then reached down under the cash register to pull out the card reader. After she scanned my card, the machine made a whirring noise followed by a full volume “Thank you.” I might as well have hung a sign around my neck reading .
I carried my tray to a corner and found a chair that faced the wall. I’d taken a couple bites of pizza when Hadley Welsh came up and nodded at the chair across from me.
“Okay?”
“S-sure.”
He looked like a linebacker, and he ate like one, too, polishing off two pieces of pizza and a fistful of french fries in a couple of minutes. It wasn’t until he started on his apple that he spoke.
“You struck me out in the summer. Do you remember?”
“No.”
“I didn’t figure you would, because you struck out just about everybody. That’s why the guys are so pumped to have you here. Or at least most of them are.” He stopped to wipe his mouth with his sleeve. “Some kids think your transferring here is cheating.”
“Ch-Cheating?”
He scrunched his face. “Not cheating, exactly. Just iffy. New pitcher coming to a new school for one semester. Kevin Griffith, our number one starter, has friends who want him to stay number one. I get it. He won a ton of games last year and the year before. The problem is that Jesuit High keeps bombing him in the state tournament. I mean, they totally lit him up two years straight. Actually, he kind of sucks against all the good teams.” Hadley paused. “This is Coach Vereen’s last year—you know about him, right? He’s a god around here. A living legend and all that crap. All the other coaches call him Pop because he’s been around forever.”
I nodded. “What’s he l-like?”
“He’s okay as long as you don’t cross him. Get on his bad side, and there’s no getting back.” Hadley stretched his arms above his head and smiled. “So, Laz, my new best friend forever, here’s all you need to do. Pitch Laurelhurst to its first state title so dear old Pop Vereen can retire a champion. Do that, and you’ll be everybody’s best friend forever.”
“Ha, ha,” I said.
He wagged a finger in front of my face. “No joke.”