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torture him any chance she got.
    Which meant today was going to be the closest thing for her to a school holiday.
    Or a national holiday.
    â€œAny word yet on travel?” she said.
    Tess gave her a look and poked her with an elbow at the same time. Tess was taller than Emma, taller than Danny, too, by a head, with long blond hair that stretched past her shoulders, and long legs, and blue eyes.
    Next to her, Emma Carson looked like a fire hydrant.
    She wasn’t as pretty as Tess, as nice, as smart. As skinny. Even at the age of twelve, Danny Walker knew that Emma going through middle school and maybe even high school standing next to someone who looked like Tess Hewitt wasn’t the most brilliant idea in the whole world.
    Danny tossed his backpack, the one his mom said was heavier than he was, into his locker, grabbed his algebra book; he’d done his homework in study hall the day before, knowing he wasn’t going to be much interested in cracking any school books later if he happened to find out early that he hadn’t made the team.
    â€œI didn’t make it,” Danny said, his words landing harder in his locker than the backpack had.
    He turned to face Emma. “But you knew that already, didn’t you, M and M?”
    Danny knew she hated that nickname, whether the other kids were talking about the rapper Eminem or the candy. Probably the candy more, since it was generally acknowledged by the male population at St. Patrick’s School that Emma Carson could stand to lose a few.
    â€œI didn’t do anything, Daniel Walker,” she said. “You’re the one who didn’t make travel.”
    â€œWell, you got me there,” he said.
    Tess said, “I’m sorry, Danny.”
    He wasn’t sure whether this was technically commiserating from Tess or not, since Emma was the one who’d originally brought up the subject of travel, and him not making it. He was sure of this, though: He wanted to talk to Tess about this in the worst way; he’d even thought about going online last night to see if she had her own computer up and running and open for business.
    It was a lot easier to talk about stuff like this online. To talk about almost anything, actually.
    It’s why he wished his dad would get a computer. Maybe then they could have a real conversation.
    Maybe then they could talk.
    â€œWhatever,” he said.
    Emma said, “I heard the whole team is from Springs.”
    Danny said, “Boy, you have all the sports news of the day, don’t you? Tell me, Emma, have you ever considered a career in broadcasting?” And then before she could say some smart-mouth thing back to him, Danny said, “Wait a second, considering how you spread news around this place, you’ve started your career in broadcasting already, haven’t you?”
    â€œC’mon, Tess,” she said. “I guess it must be our fault he won’t be playing travel basketball this season.”
    Tess looked as if she wanted to stay, but knew that would be violating some code of girl friendship. So the two of them walked away from him down the hall.
    Before they turned the corner, Tess quickly wheeled around, made a typing motion with her fingers without Emma seeing, and mouthed the word “Later.”
    Danny nodded at her, and then she was gone.
    If yesterday was the worst day of his whole life, you had to say that today was at least going to be in the picture.

    His best friend at St. Pat’s was Will Stoddard, whose main claim to sports fame in Middletown was that his uncle was the old baseball pitcher Charlie Stoddard, who’d been a phenom with the Mets once and then made this amazing comeback a few years ago with the Red Sox, pitching on the same team with his son, Tom, Will’s cousin.
    Will’s other claim to fame, much more meaningful to all those who knew and loved him—or just knew him—was this:
    He could talk the way fish could swim.
    He