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mutters under his breath.
    Someone throws me a thick, raspy towel. I wipe sweat from my forehead. “A mistake.”
    â€œIs that what you call it?” I don’t want to look up at him. His eyes get all dark and spooky when he’s mad.
    I shrug and sling the towel around my shoulders. A few teammates listen in, hanging close by to hear. My throat aches. I can almost taste the tangy, sweet Gatorade, but I have to wait, even though the last thing I need is my dad giving me pointers.
    He played ball at Alabama and therefore believes he is the all-knowing God of all sports. And he cares about winning. A lot. Coming out on top. Being number one.
    Dad tells everyone we’re two of a kind, how we think the same way, like the same things. And it’s somewhat true; up until the point he starts barking orders. It’s like he can’t just watch. He has to out-think the coach, the other team. If I interrupt, the lecture gets longer. I’ve learned this much: stand there and act interested.
    Tweet! Coach blows the whistle, red-faced, motions for a team meeting.
    With a raised eyebrow, Ava catches my eye from the sidelines. I push up the corners of my mouth so she doesn’t worry about what Dad is doing. She gives me a thumbs-up.
    â€œGotta go, Dad.”
    â€œFine, fine.” He grabs my shoulder, pulls me close. It’s so I’m the only one who can hear. “Pay attention. Start using this.” Dad taps my forehead.
    His touch thuds against my skull, and I recoil into myself.
    â€œI’m not—”
    He cuts in, puts his back to the coach, and lowers his voice. “Don’t argue with me. Make excuses. That’s a coward’s way out.” With that, my father turns and walks away.
    Coward?
    Stinging with disbelief, eyes lowered, I jog to the pack and take my place, wishing the whole time someone or something would swoop down onto the field and help me out.
    It really happens on this show called The Fairly Odd Parents . Magical “godparents” Cosmo and Wanda—little people with wings and halos—follow this kid, Timmy, around, grant his wishes, and get him out of messes. How cool is that?
    If some wish-granting relatives landed on the field right now, I know what I’d do. First, I’d ask to play soccer like David Beckham, just for one game. Score enough goals to make my dad’s mouth hang open, and get awarded MVP. Then once I’d wowed my father, I’d make him pay more attention to what’s important. My grades, Sam’s first steps, the dinner Ava slaved over to make just right. I promise I won’t even complain if she fixes broccoli.
    Last, I’d have Wanda and Cosmo whip me up a memory eraser; pocket-sized, so bad thoughts and dreams just fade away, kind of like the faces on my old, worn-out Justice League T-shirt.
    Going, going, gone.

CHAPTER 9
    MITCHELL
    FRIDAY, MARCH 26
    I walk back to the stands, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun as the second half begins. Ava’s waiting, forehead furrowed, bouncing Sam on her knees.
    â€œEverything okay?” she leans close and whispers. Her hair catches the sunlight as she gazes up at me. Her clear green eyes, flecked with gold, look like jewels. My wife is beautiful. Even more so when she’s concerned.
    I break into a smile. “Of course.” I clap my hands together and rub them for warmth. The breeze sneaks down the collar of my jacket, giving me a chill.
    Ava turns back to the game, letting out a little squeal when Jack makes an attempt on goal. The ball grazes the keeper’s glove and rolls away from the net.
    â€œNext time!” I shout, cupping my hand so that Jack can hear me. I grip my knee. He either won’t acknowledge my encouragement or can’t hear me, though I choose to go with the latter.
    A smart child listens. And learns much from his father, especially. From the simplest tasks—crossing the street, telling time—to the most