Lying to my parents, on the other hand, I mean, that’s different. It’s not even really lying. It’s like part of the game, right? Like stealing a base? OK, so maybe that’s not exactly true, but don’t even pretend you’ve never faked a fever or blamed the cat for breaking something or anything like that. Don’t even pretend to pretend.

Still, I have to lay it on pretty thick, and I definitely don’t feel good about it. I walk around all night with my carefully bandaged wristband.

“Let me take a look at it,” says Mom.

“No!” I say, and then, “The school nurse taped it up underneath. Supposed to keep it taped until tomorrow.”

I’m in so deep now, what does one more lie even matter?

“It’s a wrap, hon,” she says. “I can just unwrap it and wrap it right back up after. It’s not like we’re sawing off a cast here.”

“Yeah,” I say, “but, I mean, all you’d see is tape, right?”

She gives me a long look and I walk away, hoping she won’t call me back. She doesn’t. The whole night is like that. I go up to my room early and kill about 10,000 video game soldiers in Grunt Front. I fire the grenade launcher until I’m out, then I overheat the machine gun and finally go down swinging with the knife.

The game is still on when I wake up in the morning. The screen saver is bouncing around from corner to corner.

I get up and turn it off, then go back and lie on top of the covers. The ACE is lying like a deflated snake on my desk, but I still have the wristband on, so I don’t forget. It’s easy to forget an injury when it’s not real. Not much chance of that today.

If I do this, there’s no going back. If I take this lie all the way and skip this game, that’s it.

I roll around on the bed just to wake myself up so I can think. It’s like, if I shake my brain hard enough, it will come up with the right decision. Like it’s a Magic 8 Ball. I stop rolling around, but all my brain comes up with is: outlook unclear. I might even be a little dizzy.

I stand up again and walk over to my desk. I pinch the end of the ACE against my palm with my thumb and start wrapping. There are a few hours before the game. I can still take it off and tell my parents it feels good enough to play. I can even tell them that’s why I’m not starting. It’s a pretty good plan, except then I’d have to bat. Everyone bats at least once in Little League. And Coach might give me more. He’d think he was doing me a favor.

I can picture that at-bat. I can feel it in my stomach.

I keep wrapping until I’m done.

I walk all of twenty feet, close the door to the bathroom, and unwrap it all again for my shower.

“How’s the wrist, sport?” Dad asks as soon as I walk into the kitchen.

I just look at him. How do I tell him I haven’t decided yet?

I make a show of trying to flex it.

“Ehh,” I say.

“Ehh?” he says, not satisfied.

“Little stiff,” I say.

“Well, give it a bit.”

“Yuh,” I say, and pour myself some cereal.

Mom comes in, either to get something or because she heard me.

“Little stiff,” Dad reports.

I look up and nod.

That’s the thing about these big decisions: You can make them one little step at a time. An hour later, I’m ready to take a big one. “Not sure I’ll be able to play today,” I say. “Just don’t think I can swing the bat.”

And at least the second half of that is true.

“Well,” says Dad, looking at his watch, “you got … maybe … fifty minutes before we leave.”

And that’s when I realize it: They plan to go to the game either way. I can’t go to the game with this wrap on! The whole team knows I’m not hurt. I feel a big wave of panic roll in.

“Y’okay,” I say, and push through the door out onto the lawn. It’s only at the last second that I remember not to use my left hand.

Oh man oh man oh man. If I go to the game, I have to take the wrap off. But if I take the wrap off, I have to play. And I can’t play. They’ll be pitching me hard inside, hard inside. If I get hit again right now, I don’t even know what will happen. And even if I don’t, I’ll just get embarrassed again up there. I’ll get embarrassed, and I’ll let the team down. What if there are runners on? What if we’re behind? You can’t just give up at-bats and expect to win.

I start to list it off:

I could get hit.

I could be humiliated.

I could cost my team the game.

My parents could talk to someone and find out I’ve been lying.

I kick the big tree out front and run through all the swears I know. It’s a pretty good list.

And it’s stupid, too, because, I mean, of course they’d want to go. I’ve never missed a game before. I’ve dragged myself to the field even if it was just to sit on the bench all game. I’ve shown up with colds, the flu, limps, bruises, and everything else short of a knife sticking out of my chest.

It’s completely clear now. They plan to take me to the field, and they’re probably like 90 percent sure I’ll play anyway.

I look over my shoulder. Mom is watching me through the front window. I suck in air and look down quick at the ACE. It’s fine, and I breathe out. I don’t know why I thought it had come undone. I guess it’s because everything else has.