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answered. She closed the book she’d been reading and smiled. “And you’re Rae?”
    Rae nodded. “I brought a friend along to help. This is Yana.”
    “Hey, nice to meet you,” Ginny said. “All the old yearbooks are in the supply closet.” She pushed open the nearest door. Rae noticed there were tiny wires running through the glass. Did that mean it was bullet proof?
    “I keep telling the principal that they need to be stored someplace with a lot better temperature control, but since half our classes are held in trailers out behind the baseball field, it’s not exactly a priority,” Ginny continued. She led them down the hall and around the corner, then pulled open the supply closet door and waved them inside. “All yours. Just don’t take anything, or I will find you,” she warned with a laugh, then left them alone.
    “I really believe that girl would hunt us down,” Yana said. “Clearly the yearbook is her life, and that’s a sad, sad thing.”
    “I don’t think Anthony’s mom is over thirty-five, so-” Rae did some quick subtraction. “We should start with these.”
    She grabbed three old yearbooks off the highest shelf and handed two to Yana. “Look for Fascinelli. I don’t know Anthony’s mother’s maiden name.”
    Rae sat down on the floor and flipped open the top book in her pile. All she picked up was a bunch of static. There was too much dust on the books to get any clear thoughts. She flipped past all the club photos until she got to the individual pictures. Before she could turn to the Fs, Yana gave a little whoop of triumph.
    “Got it in one,” she announced. She turned her open yearbook to Rae and pointed to a picture of a guy who looked a lot like Anthony, except with longer hair. “Meet Tony Fascinelli-football team and possum club, whatever that was.”
    Rae grabbed the book and paged through until she found a big picture of the team. “There’s our boy,” she told Yana. “I’m going to write down the names of everyone else on the team. Some of these guys must still live in town.
    Maybe one of them will know where Anthony’s dad ended up.”
    She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a notebook, letting her old thoughts run through her without paying attention to them. She found a blank page and wrote the words football team.
    Anthony’s going to like that part, she thought, pleasure popping through her veins. He and his dad already have
    one thing in common. Football.
    “You Fascinelli?” a stocky forty-something guy called. Sweats. Clipboard. Whistle around the neck. He had to be the coach.
    “Yeah,” Anthony called back, starting toward the coach. He wished he hadn’t been spotted so fast. He’d still been trying to decide if he wanted to stay or go. But now that decision had been pretty much made for him.
    “The locker room’s through there,” the coach said when Anthony reached him. “Ask one of the guys to show you the gear, then get back out here and let’s see what you can do.”
    Anthony nodded and trotted toward the gym. What else could he do-except run in the opposite direction? He didn’t allow himself a second of hesitation when he reached the metal door, just walked on through. At least the
    locker room smells like a regular locker room, he thought, pulling in a deep breath of sweat, sour tennis shoes, and moldy towels. He followed the sound of guys’ voices until he reached a row of lockers with someone standing in front of practically every one.
    The locker room might smell normal, but the guys, there was just something different about them. Money, Anthony thought. That’s what it is. Money for perfect teeth and top-of-the-line shoes and friggin’ hairstylists. Yeah, and
    probably private gyms at home and steroids, he added. The guys had clearly put in the hours building up their muscles.
    “Did you want something? Or are you just window shopping?” a hulk of a guy at least a foot taller than Anthony asked.
    Nice start, Fascinelli, he