Billy Burrell’s default expression was a smirk.

Once in a while, he could manage something that almost resembled a smile, especially when he was kissing up to teachers and parents, or trying to impress girls. But for the most part, Billy walked around looking as if he knew something you didn’t, because he was so smart and you were so dumb.

When Connor ran into him in the hall at York Middle the day after the Orioles–Tigers game, Billy was wearing his A-1 smirk. He was also accompanied by two of his semi-thuggish Red Sox teammates—Connor recognized both as instigators of the “Psycho Sully” chant of a couple weeks ago.

As always, Billy dispensed with the usual pleasantries. “We’re going to kill you guys in the playoffs,” he said.

“Don’t keep stuff inside, Billy,” Connor said. “Tell us what you really think.”

Connor was in a good mood, having just come from the computer lab, where, with his heart hammering in his chest, he had checked the Tattler’s Web site to see if he was a featured attraction.

There was a story about the new science wing opening, and a piece about Ms. Peggy Jackman, who was retiring after thirty years of teaching English. There was a column titled “No Wonder Johnny’s Enormous!” that decried the lack of nutritious food selections in the cafeteria, and another titled “Down with the Fashion Police!” advocating that students be allowed to wear T-shirts with political slogans to school.

But there was no story or video, thank goodness, about a head case twelve-year-old ballplayer under too much pressure to succeed.

Connor had been so relieved that he’d actually lowered his head onto the keyboard and whispered, “Thank you, Melissa,” before signing off.

Now here were Billy and his two creepy teammates, Kyle something and Marcus something, getting in his face about the playoffs. Any other time, he would have been irritated just by the sight of them.

But today he was so thankful to not be an Internet laughingstock that he found talking to Billy to be almost, well, tolerable.

Except now Billy was taunting him, getting right in his grille.

“You plan to play the whole game this time, Psycho Sully?” he said. Then he grinned and elbowed Kyle and Marcus, who promptly started laughing as if this were the funniest thing they had ever heard.

“Yeah, I think so,” Connor said. “Hope you throw that same pitch you did last time. Remember? The one I tattooed over your head?”

Billy’s grin disappeared, replaced by a scowl, his second-favorite facial expression. Seeing Billy’s, Kyle and Marcus felt compelled to break out their best scowls, too. They looked like the Three Scowling Stooges.

“You got lucky,” Billy said. “It won’t happen again. I’ll be throwing some serious heat this time.” He fashioned his thumb and index finger into the shape of the gun and blew on the barrel.

“Ah, the famous smoking six-gun,” Connor said with a smile. “I don’t know, Billy. That thing was more like a squirt gun last time we faced you.”

Billy was turning a lovely shade of red now, which seemed to confuse his two sawed-off associates. They wanted to emulate their leader, but how do you look embarrassed on command?

“Keep making jokes, Psycho Boy,” Billy said. “Be a shame if one of my fastballs accidentally hits you when we meet again.”

“That almost sounds like a threat,” Connor said. “But remember how wild you were last time? You couldn’t hit the Atlantic Ocean that day, never mind me.”

Billy balled his fists and stomped away, weaving in and out of the other kids in the crowded hallway. He turned one last time to shoot a death stare at Connor, and walked right into an open locker door. Kyle and Marcus were trying so hard not to laugh, it looked like their quivering lips would explode.

Connor grinned and shook his head in amazement.

Then he headed off to science class, marveling at how he was able to control his temper around a knucklehead like Billy, who could make the Pope want to take a swing at him.

Maybe there’s hope for me, Connor thought. If Billy doesn’t get under my skin, nothing in a baseball game will.

Connor was feeling better about life in general these days. Things didn’t seem to be quite as tense at home. His dad was still looking for a job, and money was still tight, but the whole family seemed to be handling it better. His mom had been earning more overtime pay at the hospital, and there hadn’t been any more talk of losing the house.

There were other signs of hope. A car dealership across town had called his dad in for a second interview, which everyone seemed to think was a big deal. And Brianna had won a modest scholarship that would help pay for her first-choice college.

It felt good not to be walking around with a knot in his stomach all the time—or suspended from baseball.

As he joined the other kids going into science class, Jordy handed him a note. Connor gave him a quizzical look. “From your new friend,” was all Jordy said before taking his seat.

Connor moved to the back of the classroom, took his seat, and opened the note.

Hey, Connor!

By now you know I decided to accept your deal. Remember, one more blowup and I will run the story—in print and on the Web. Sports are supposed to be fun. But you and a lot of other kids seem to be taking these games WAY too seriously.

Anyway, good luck in the playoffs. I’ll be watching!

Your friend,

Melissa

Some friend, Connor thought, as he folded the note and stuck it in his backpack.

With friends like her on the sidelines waiting for him to fail, and Billy gunning for him from the mound, he felt like he might as well be going into the last game of the World Series.

Bring it on, Connor thought.