Big Al’s Italian Villa was quiet when Connor arrived. A couple of college kids were eating meatball subs at the counter, and an old man sat on a nearby stool sipping a milk shake. But most of the staff seemed to be wiping down tables and filling salt and pepper shakers and napkin holders in preparation for the dinner-hour rush.

Melissa waved to him from a booth up front.

“Thanks for coming,” she said when he sat.

“You sounded pretty mysterious over the phone,” Connor said.

“Didn’t mean to be,” she said. “But I have something I think you’ll want to see.”

“Oh, no,” Connor groaned. “Not more video of Mount Saint Connor erupting.”

“No, nothing like that,” Melissa said. “I see you’re still paranoid, though.”

“Before we get started,” Connor said, “tell me you still like pepperoni.”

“If you like it, I like it,” she said, smiling.

“Good,” he said. “Because I ordered two slices of pepperoni and two Sprites when I walked in.”

Connor had been happy when Melissa asked him to meet her at Big Al’s. As he’d told Jordy, who again insisted this was some kind of date, he didn’t consider Melissa to be a girlfriend.

Just a friend. Who, um, happened to be a girl.

This time Connor even had money to pay for their pizza, thanks to his dad, who had slipped a ten-dollar bill in his hand as he walked out the door.

For the first time in months, he could be a big spender today. He might even have enough left over to spring for ice cream for dessert. Well, one ice cream, anyway.

But that was okay with Connor. In fact, everything was okay now that his dad had started his new job with Hewitt Chevrolet and a sense of calm had returned to the house.

His mother was smiling again—“I feel like going over there and kissing Bob Hewitt on his big, bald head!” she’d said at dinner the other night. This was at a Chinese restaurant—the first time they’d eaten out in months—and Connor couldn’t remember the last time his family had seemed so happy.

Brianna had spent the whole meal chattering about all the plans she was making for college. There had even been talk of Connor attending the Brooks Robinson Camp in a few weeks. Dad had said he wasn’t sure if they could swing it financially just yet, but he’d look into whether Connor’s slot was still available.

“A big star like you, they’d be crazy not to hold a spot open,” his mom had teased.

At that moment, Connor couldn’t decide which he liked better: the General Tso’s chicken or his mom’s sunny mood.

Now, when their order arrived, Connor and Melissa ate and talked about the Orioles’ wonderful season, about their big win over the Red Sox a few days earlier, and about Billy Burrell and what a jerk he’d been.

“Then he’s nice to you after your hit!” Melissa said, shaking her head.

“Yeah,” Connor said. “I want to talk to him. Maybe something’s bothering him.”

“Or maybe he just felt guilty about hitting you with that pitch,” Melissa said, taking a bite of her pizza.

“I bet it’s more than that,” Connor said. “Hey, I was a jerk at times, too. I’m just lucky I found a way to control my temper—before it was too late.”

“Speaking of which…” Melissa said.

She wiped her hands with a napkin and reached down for her backpack. Unzipping one of the pockets, she pulled something out and threw it on the table. It was an early copy of the York Tattler.

Before he could look, she scooped it up and held it behind her back.

“Okay, the big Connor Sullivan story’s in here,” she said. “So let’s play a little game. It’s called ‘guess the headline.’”

“That’s easy,” Connor said. “Head Case Shortstop an Embarrassment to the Game.”

Melissa shook her head. “Still don’t trust me, eh?”

“Or maybe,” Connor continued, “Why Does League Put Up with This Brat?”

“Okay,” she said, rolling her eyes. “This is hopeless.”

She tossed the newspaper to him and folded her arms.

Connor stared at the front page headline: “Youth Baseball Star Plays Game the Right Way.” Underneath was a smaller headline that said: “Orioles infielder makes team proud,” with the byline, “by Melissa Morrow.” And under that were three photos: Connor ranging to his right for a ground ball against the Red Sox, Connor smashing a home run off Blake in the second game, and the jubilant Orioles celebrating after the final out.

He read the first few paragraphs and looked up. Melissa was grinning.

“Thanks,” he said in a soft voice. “It looks like a great story. Better than I deserve.”

For a moment he was silent.

Then he smiled and pointed at the photo of himself hitting the homer.

“But you had to run a picture of me in those rib pads!” he said. “Had to make me look like the fattest kid ever to play baseball!”

“Hmmm,” Melissa said, pretending to examine the photo. “I don’t think you’re wearing rib pads there.”

“What?!” Connor said. “No way!”

“Yeah, I think you’re just getting a little chunky,” she said. “Maybe you need more exercise.”

Now both of them were laughing and teasing each other, and Connor was hoping he had enough money for ice cream, too, not wanting the afternoon to end.

Not that this was a date or anything.

Because it definitely wasn’t.

Uh-uh. No way.