The Vulture was circling. Today Ms. Owens was taking the outside route around her classroom. She came within a foot of Robbie’s desk on each revolution, causing his heart to flutter.

“You’re roadkill, dude,” Tyler Benetti whispered to Robbie. “The Vulture’s gonna get you. You can see it in her eyes.”

Tyler sat in the desk to Robbie’s left. A short, slight kid, he had developed the ability to seemingly shrink his body mass even further and hunker down behind Robbie when the Vulture passed, which shielded him from her piercing gaze.

“Students, I hope you all enjoyed Animal Farm as much as I did,” she said.

Robbie rolled his eyes. The Vulture looked as if she had never enjoyed anything in her life, never mind a book.

As usual, her trademark scowl was firmly in place. A tall, gaunt woman in her fifties with bony shoulders that seemed to slope inwardly, she wore a long black sweater with black polyester pants and black orthopedic shoes that made a dull, thudding sound when she walked.

It reminded Robbie of the footsteps of the dungeon master in one of his video games.

“So today,” the Vulture continued, “we’ll see what you’ve learned. Who can tell me about the theme of class stratification that runs through the book?”

Apparently, no one could. Robbie shot a quick glance at Marty, who was looking out the window, seemingly lost in another one of his fantasies.

“All right, then,” the Vulture said with a tight smile as she continued circling the room. “I will have to call on our first participant.”

Abruptly, she reversed direction.

What’s this? Robbie thought, heart fluttering again. She never changes direction! She’s coming back this way!

Now the Vulture was ten feet from Robbie’s desk. She seemed to be staring right at him. He gripped the seat of his chair and steeled himself for the inevitable.

“I think we will call on…Mr. Benetti,” Ms. Owens said at last. “Yes, you, Mr. Benetti. Almost didn’t see you there. Tell us about the class stratification portrayed in this wonderful book.”

Tyler turned deathly pale. Robbie smothered a laugh. On the one hand, he was sorry to see anyone caught in the Vulture’s glare. On the other hand, it was pretty funny that her victim was Tyler, the kid who thought he could make himself invisible.

Plus, Robbie thought, right now it’s every man for himself.

“Um…” Tyler began in a shaky voice. As the pause grew longer and longer, everyone in the class had the same thought: Tyler was roadkill. The Vulture would waste no time picking his bones clean. Then they’d be bleached white by the sun.

“Class stratification…” Tyler repeated. He seemed frozen now, a small forlorn figure practically vibrating with fear.

The Vulture was already swooping in, making her way briskly to his desk, ready to deliver a snide remark that questioned his intelligence, ability to learn, effort with his studies, etc.

Tyler’s eyes widened as she approached. Tiny beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead.

Then a familiar voice piped up.

“As everybody knows, the book demonstrates that even in societies where everyone is purportedly equal, class divisions can occur,” the voice said. “Such as the one between the intelligentsia that the pigs represent and the animals that do physical labor.”

It was Marty. He spoke in the slightly bored tone he always used when answering a teacher’s questions, no matter what the subject.

The Vulture whirled around to face him.

“Very good, Mr. Loopus,” she said. Then, narrowing her eyes and looking at the rest of the class, she added, “It’s nice to see someone has done work for this class.”

With the Vulture’s back to him, Robbie pointed at Marty and silently mouthed, “Nice save.”

Tyler exhaled like a convict who had just been spared the electric chair.

For the rest of the class, Robbie white-knuckled his desk each time the Vulture approached. The truth was, he had fallen behind in his reading, along with all the rest of his homework. For days he hadn’t been able to concentrate on much of anything, not since his epic blowup against the Rays.

Somehow, for the next forty-five minutes, he lucked out and the Vulture didn’t call on him. When the bell finally rang, he sprang from his desk and was the first one out the door. He waited for Marty in the hallway, which was now teeming with students, and the two walked to gym class together.

“Tyler owes you, big-time,” Robbie said.

“So does half the school,” Marty said, yawning nonchalantly. “Homework help, quiz tips, major test preparation…” He gestured grandly at the other kids. “I’m always there for my people.”

“Modesty is your best trait,” Robbie said. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Marty said, grinning. “Usually they mention my superior intellect.”

“Stop it,” Robbie said, shaking his head. “I mean it. I’m gonna puke if I have to listen to this.”

Once in the locker room, the two began changing into their gym clothes. Robbie waited until most of the other kids were outside, warming up for kickball. Then, keeping his voice low and trying to sound nonchalant, he said, “By the way, I’ve decided my pitching days are over.”

“What?” Marty said. He stopped tying his shoes and sat bolt upright. “What are you talking about?”

“Yeah,” Robbie said. “No big deal. I’ve had enough. Control’s not getting any better. I’m still crazy wild—you saw what happened against the Rays. Anyway, I’m not pitching anymore.”

“But maybe we could—” Marty said before Robbie cut him off.

“No, I’ve tried everything,” he said, and a wave of sadness came over him, as had been happening often over the past three days. “And everyone’s tried to help. Dad, you, Joey, Ben. Even Willie, Connor, and Jordy, in their own way. Now I’m just…done.”

Marty stared at him. “Uh, have you shared this momentous decision with anyone else?” he asked finally. “Like, you know, your dad?”

Robbie nodded. “Oh yeah. Two nights ago, after dinner. Finally worked up the nerve.”

“And?” Marty let the word hang there.

“Put it this way: he wasn’t thrilled,” Robbie said. “Neither was my mom. They think I’m making a big mistake.”

“I’d go along with that,” Marty said.

“Dad gave me that Dad Look,” Robbie continued. “You know, the one where he sort of furrows his brow and looks all concerned?”

“I know that look,” Marty said. “My dad gave it to me yesterday. When I got a ninety-nine instead of a hundred on the science test.”

Robbie pulled on his T-shirt and sighed. “Can we make this about me instead of you? Anyway, Dad said if I quit pitching now, I’ll probably regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Smart man, your dad,” Marty said. “Dude, you were born to pitch! Even throwing half-speed you’re faster than almost anyone else in the league! Your stuff is so good it—”

Robbie snorted. “Yeah, my stuff really dazzled the Rays,” he said. “That’s why they were calling me Wild Thing. How many walks did I have, forty? What good is great stuff if you can’t get the ball over the plate?”

Marty shook his head sadly. From outside, they could hear the faint sounds of kids running and laughing and the soft whoompf! of rubber balls being kicked.

“What about Ben?” Marty said. “He’s, like, your new pitching coach now, right? Did you tell him about quitting?”

“I called him yesterday,” Robbie said. “He told me I was crazy. Told me not to give up. Said he was working on something that might help. Wouldn’t say what. It sounded pretty mysterious.”

He stood and closed his locker. “But it’s too late for that,” Robbie said softly. “My mind’s made up. Dad’s got to find someone else to pitch against the Yankees. Unless he wants Mike’s arm to fall off.”

They walked outside into the bright sunshine, with Marty still shaking his head. The rest of the kids were on one of the nearby fields. They heard Coach Lombardi’s whistle blow as he got the class started.

“Robbie Hammond giving up pitching,” Marty said. “I still can’t believe you’re serious.”

“Serious as a heart attack, dude,” Robbie said.

Then he ran to the field, toward the other kids and Coach Mike, hoping kickball would take his mind off how crappy he felt about baseball.