All weekend, I held my breath and waited for the axe to fall. Saturday night, when Giant Center filled with fans who were supposed to watch me raise my fists in victory, I stayed on the couch and wreaked havoc playing Call of Duty, not answering the phone and avoiding the internet like I had all day. I heated up a frozen pizza and finished Lord of the Flies for Mrs. DJ’s class, even though I doubted I’d be around for the exam. Just once before I went to bed, I gave in to temptation and hopped online. Turned out Dunkirk won in overtime, 2–0. The wimp was state champion.

When Mom wasn’t working that weekend, she respected my silence and gave me my space, but Sunday morning she dragged me to St. Sebastian’s for mass, same as always. In the days after my father got locked up, when we were staying at New Hope, my mom quit drinking and traded her bourbon for a Bible. At that particular 10 o’clock mass, I ignored the cold stares from the other parishioners and knelt when I was supposed to and stood when everybody else did, but I didn’t beg for forgiveness like I know Mom wanted me to. I decided at some point in my life that God’s pretty much going to do what He pleases.

Father Singh read about the time Jesus got mad at the merchants in the temple, overturned their tables in anger and chased them into the streets. This was a Christ I could get behind. But of course the sermon that followed was all about being gentle and the benefits of forgiveness. During the sign of peace, Mom sniffled back tears and hugged me tightly, whispering “Peace” as she squeezed, as if she could press it into me.

After the recessional, we wandered out with the crowd and the deacon asked if we needed a ride. My mom said no and clearly he was disappointed. No doubt he had some words of wisdom he was eager to share.

It’s about two miles from the church to our one-bedroom apartment and so, carless, we started hiking home in our Sunday best. Our path led us through some of the nicer neighborhoods in Camp Hill — lots of porches and manicured landscaping. At one intersection she took my hand in hers, like I was a toddler, and on the other side of the street she held it still. I left it there, for her comfort, mostly.

As we walked my mom was quiet, but when she saw an Open House sign staked in a front yard she said, “Come on, for old times’ sake?”

It had been years since we’d played this particular game, and much as I wasn’t in the mood, I could tell it mattered to her. So I nodded and we headed inside, up the stony steps.

A realtor in a blue dress greeted us in the bright living room with a beaming smile. There were two couches, an enormous TV, and a brick fireplace that rose into the ceiling. Me and Mom nodded our approval. The realtor handed us a colored page of information and reviewed some highlights: The home was a four/two with updated HVAC. The finished basement had undergone radon remediation. “Great,” my mom said, though I doubt she had any more idea than I did about what that meant.

The realtor, still beaming, walked us into the dining room (oak table with twelve chairs beneath a silver chandelier) and offered us a plate of chocolate chip cookies. My mom said no. I took two.

A family with young kids came in, distracting the realtor. She excused herself and invited us to look around. We could see the kitchen, but the stairs drew us up into the bedrooms. The walls were freshly painted in yellows and blues, and everything was so clean. We could only find a few clues that real people even lived here — a handful of LEGOs on a bedroom floor, some worn paperback books on a shelf. I lost track of Mom while investigating the Jacuzzi in the master bath, then found her by the bedside holding a framed photo. Over her shoulder, I saw the husband and wife, smiling together. After about ten seconds, I took the picture from her and set it back on the nightstand. “Let’s check out the kitchen,” I said. “I’m guessing stainless steel appliances, granite countertops.”

She looked out the window into a backyard with green grass, shady trees, and one of those expensive play sets that belongs in a playground. The children from that other family arced on the swings while the mom and dad dropped together into a white hammock.

“No,” my mom said, not facing me. “This wasn’t … I think we’ll just head home, okay?

“Sure,” I told her. She handed me the colored page and turned away.

Somehow we wandered down a second set of stairs that dropped us in the kitchen. I was wrong about the stainless steel, but right about the countertops. As my mom hustled into the dining room, I lingered at the fridge, covered in magnets I imagined they’d collected from a dozen airports: Hawaii. Puerto Rico. The Canadian Rockies. I peeled one off — a green shamrock that proclaimed, “Ireland!” — and slipped it into my back pocket. A little sin I could confess next Sunday.

At the front door, the realtor’s smile was gone. Clearly my mom had passed. I gave her back the colored information sheet and its six-figure asking price and when she raised her eyebrows in curiosity, I said, “Not quite what we’re looking for. This place is a dump.”

Monday at school, I moved through the crowded hallways like Moses crossing the Red Sea, the mob of students parting ahead of me. Shrimp tried cheering me up at lunch, but I was on edge. It felt like when a guy’s about to hit some move but you’re not exactly sure what it is. During fifth period, Coach Gallaher found me sitting in study hall, staring blankly at the periodic table for an exam I doubted I would ever take. He came up behind me and clamped a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry Ed,” he told me. “I did all I could.”

I rose and told Coach he had nothing to apologize for. The rest, the somber march to Principal Suskind’s office and the notification of my expulsion, news of how I’d have to finish the remainder of my senior year somewhere else, all that was a formality. While he explained that I could either complete my studies online or look into a transfer, we both knew nobody else would take me now.

After Suskind ended my high school days with a blank expression and a signed letter, I was no longer welcome on school grounds. So I couldn’t go down to the weight room and burn off some steam, which was about the only thing I was looking forward to all weekend. Instead, when I should have been taking a test on the abbreviations and atomic numbers for the elements, I had to empty my locker into a cardboard box and hike home. I flipped up my black hoodie and hunched against the chill March winds blowing across Fiala Field.

We live in the cruddiest apartment complex in Camp Hill — Creekview Court. (Who the heck thinks a view of the creek is a selling point?) Our place is a drafty one bedroom with a hot water heater that should’ve been replaced years ago. The same rent money could totally get us a nicer apartment in Harrisburg, but after Bishop McDevitt, I was stuck with public school, and Mom said that meant back to Camp Hill, even if we were cramped. Too dangerous across the river. With her on the overnight shift at New Hope Sanctuary, we take turns in the only bed. Mostly Mom’s a day sleeper. Her other job is waitressing at Perkins, typically the dinner till midnight shift. On weekends we fight over who gets the couch, which she insists is too small for me. I don’t care if my feet hang over the end.

For years, my master plan has been to pay her back, to make all her sacrifices worth it. But taking care of my mom means a real job, and that means college. I’ve always been decent at English, likely because of Mom’s insistence on a steady diet of library books when I was a kid — lots of Harry Potter, Chronicles of Narnia, Redwall. But when it comes to precalculus, chemistry, the formulas swim in my head. An academic scholarship simply isn’t in the cards. Wrestling was my passport to a university and the life beyond, far from Creekview Court, but I tore that up on the mat in Hershey.

As I neared home, I saw two unfamiliar cars outside the redbrick complex. One was a simple white sedan but the other, across the street, drew my attention. It was a gleaming gray SUV with a broken front grille, like a crooked smile. The driver was talking on the phone, leaning out the open window. With a start, I recognized him from the Giant Center, the nerdy troll with the thick glasses. When he saw me looking his way, he hung up the phone and swung out his big door.

But at that same moment, my mom yelled, “Eddie!” and I turned to her waving from the front entrance to our apartment. At her side was a slim black woman I hadn’t seen in years but who I instantly knew. A door slammed and I just caught that SUV rumbling off. I didn’t care anymore — I was too focused on the notion that I was about to be arrested.

Something in my leg muscles tensed, and I realized I was thinking about making a break for it. But my mom’s face beside the cop’s made me worried — the puffy cheeks and shiny eyes convinced me she’d been crying — and I didn’t want to abandon her in trouble. I approached our front door and set down the box on our ratty welcome mat. The woman extended a hand, and when her slender forearm slipped past the sleeve, I saw the wondrous swirls of ink I’d forgotten.

“You remember Detective Harrow?” My mom sniffled and looked between us.

We shook, my big hand swallowing hers, and Harrow nodded seriously. “Edward,” she said. “You’ve gotten a lot bigger.”

I ignored this. She was wearing pants and a nice jacket — dress clothes. “How come you’re not in a uniform?” I asked, then glanced out at the curb, lined with regular cars and that white sedan. “And where’s your cruiser?”

An array of images — Harrow’s holstered gun, the shiny badge, her gleaming squad car — had kept me company many nights since the Civil War.

“I got promoted a couple years back,” she told me. She let go of my hand to lift one side of her jacket, revealing a detective’s shield.

“What’s in the box?” Mom asked.

“What’s left of my high school career,” I answered. “Suskind pulled the trigger.”

Mom caught her breath. Over the weekend, I’d told her this would happen, but she was praying that Jesus might intercede. Framed by our front door, Mom began to cry and Harrow suggested, “Maybe we should step inside, Janice.”

Three minutes later at the kitchen table, we all stared at each other over glasses of water no one was touching. I looked away, at the paint-by-numbers my mom had put in Goodwill frames — waterfalls and sailboats. “Art therapy” was another thing she picked up during her reconstruction phase. I glanced back at Harrow and wondered what her deal was.

I remembered Harrow ushering me out of the yellow house, buckling me into the front seat of her squad car. Later, at the station, when I wouldn’t stop crying, she rolled up both sleeves and showed me those amazing tattoos that covered her arms, every inch some intricate curling pattern. Together we got a can of warm orange soda from the vending machine, and I drank it sitting in her chair, which creaked if you spun in it. Harrow’s the one that hooked us up at New Hope too, where we stayed till Mom got back on her feet. I wasn’t sure I’d ever thanked her, let alone told her she’d helped inspire a possible career, but today seemed like a weird time to offer gratitude for good deeds eight years old.

“Why are you here?” I finally asked.

My mom inhaled sharply at my bluntness and Harrow said, “Mr. Benedict and his lawyer visited the station today and completed the paperwork to have charges filed. It would be better for everybody if you came down first thing in the morning to be interviewed.”

“Mr. Benedict?” my mom asked.

“The referee,” Harrow said, “the one Edward —”

“Am I gonna be arrested?” I asked.

Harrow considered her response. “That depends on your answers. But it’s a strong possibility. Even probable at this point.”

“Arrested?” my mom said. “What charges?”

“That’s up to the DA, but disorderly conduct for sure, maybe aggravated assault.”

My mom reached across the table and grabbed my wrist. Harrow added, “Which is a felony.”

“That sounds so serious,” my mom said as she swiveled her head. Her grip on my wrist tightened. “All this for one punch?” She was looking at the detective, but her lazy eye stayed fixed on me.

Harrow turned to face her. “Janice, Edward broke Mr. Benedict’s jaw. The doctors had to wire it back together. So yes, this is serious.” She turned my way. “That’s why we’ve got to play this right. I didn’t want to spring this on you, so I stopped by. But in the morning, I could pick you up and bring you down. It looks a lot better. I know one of the public defenders, a man named Quinlan, who’d take your case. He could help explain your story to a judge.”

This line made me pause. I wondered just what the story of Eddie MacIntyre was. One thing for sure, I didn’t like where it was headed.

Harrow sat back in her chair. “The referee’s association has decided to make an example of you, and they can do it. They’ve got cell phone videos and an arena full of witnesses. If this goes to trial, you’ll be looking at jail. Honestly, I’m not sure that can be avoided.”

I banged my glass on the table, water sloshing over the top, then stood. I looked away from Harrow, and my eyes fell on the empty refrigerator. Just a week ago, it was plastered with a half dozen letters from top college recruiters. Now the magnets held a couple expired coupons. The “Ireland!” on the newest one yelled a suggested getaway.

Harrow calmly took a drink from her glass and stood, her chair scraping the linoleum as she pushed back. “Thank you for the water. I’ve said what I came here to say. You two need to talk.” She left her card with a phone number and made her way to the front door. My mom gave me a desperate look, then hurried after Harrow.

When my mom came back ten minutes later, she found me sitting right where I had been. Without saying a word, she passed me by and went into the bedroom, a minute later emerging in her Perkins waitress outfit. “I’m late for my shift. Kevin’s going to give me hell. After, I’ll have to go straight to New Hope, but you can call me there around ten, okay? We’ll talk and figure out what’s best. There’s yesterday’s meatloaf in the fridge.”

I nodded.

She bent down so our faces were close. “Eddie,” she said, “we’ll get through this. We’ve tackled bigger problems before, and we’ll do this too, together.” Her silver cross dangled from a chain around her neck. After a kiss on my cheek, she said, “It might go a long way if you’d apologize to that ref. Think about it, okay?”

I told her I would and she hustled off, and I was alone.

I felt bad for lying to my mom, making a promise I knew I wouldn’t keep. The truth is that I felt horrible for what I did to that referee. I didn’t want to hurt some old man, even one who was such a total geriatric jerk. But the notion of calling that guy up and apologizing to him didn’t feel like something possible for me, like walking through a brick wall.

My father had taught me that real men never say they’re sorry. By this definition, he remained a real man all the way through his trial. My father never once told me he was sorry for what he did, and even though Mom has explained to me over the years that he’s apologized to her, that he’s a changed man, I know she’s just making that up for me.

After I heated some of that meatloaf, I watched TV for a couple hours, but there’s only so many repeats of COPS a man can take. Dancing with the Stars was on, Mom’s favorite, but I had no taste for fancy outfits or upbeat music without her. I went online for a while on the ancient PC that Mom inherited when the women’s shelter got a new one last summer. It’s a total piece of crap, but as the only high schooler who can’t afford a phone, I can’t complain. A couple dozen emails waited for me, including one from Shrimp asking how I was doing, seeing if I wanted to get pizza at Roberto’s or catch the latest MMA on pay-per-view. McGregor was fighting. The other emails were mostly nothing. A couple reporters asking for interviews, a series of recruiters withdrawing invitations to visit campus “with deepest regret.”

At 10:30 the kitchen phone rang, surely Mom calling from New Hope. But I didn’t know what to say to her, so I just let it ring.

My mind kept flipping through scenarios, trying to visualize the future that might unfold. I wondered what this public defender Quinlan could really do, given the evidence against me. I pictured myself standing before a judge in handcuffs, and him eyeing me up. While I knew it was impossible, I kept fixating on this one image — me and my father in the same prison cell, wearing identical orange jumpsuits, like distorted twins.

I realized with a start that no matter what, whether I went willingly or in handcuffs, come morning I’d be down at the station. They’d have me. My mom would have to go through the trial and take off work and face all the stares of people who knew the truth. Her son had turned out just like her no-good ex-husband. And my great plan of getting a degree in criminal justice and then the police academy? Gone for good. Let’s say I could find another way into college. Would the police academy even accept an application from a convicted felon?

I was debating whether or not to look this up online, to know for sure or hold out some tiny hope in ignorance, when a knock sounded at the door. I startled, picturing the cops. Then I realized it could only be Shrimp. He was a good guy, knowing I shouldn’t be alone. But when I pulled back the door expecting my friend, I was shocked to see someone else entirely.