But you lose, you fucking bastard, he thought as he ate. I’ve never tasted anything better in my whole life.

When he felt steadier, he took another shower since he’d sweated through his T-shirt. He made himself walk around the room, walk and walk. Getting stronger had to start sometime. He wished he had another bowl of soup, but settled for icing his face.

He heard Christmas music drifting up from downstairs, walked to the window. He looked out over the lake, saw the lights glimmering on the other side. He could pick out his aunt’s house, thought of her and his grandparents celebrating Christmas Eve. Did they think about him?

He hoped they did. Sick with the flu, and isn’t that a shame?

But they didn’t know, didn’t know, didn’t know. And what would they, could they do if they did? Nothing against a man like his father. If Dr. Graham Bigelow said his son fell off his bike or hurt himself skiing, everyone would believe it. No one would believe a man like that would beat on his own son.

And if he tried to make them, what would they do anyway?

He couldn’t go to military school. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t leave Britt.

So he needed to pretend, just like his parents pretended. He’d pretend he’d learned a valuable lesson. He’d say yes, sir. He’d keep his grades up. He’d do everything he had to do.

One day he’d be strong enough or old enough or brave enough to stop pretending.

Still, who’d believe him? Maybe his aunt would. Maybe. He didn’t think she liked his father very much—or his mother either. He knew they didn’t like her, because they said stuff about her all the time.

How she’d never amounted to much, how she couldn’t even keep a husband. And lots of stuff.

He heard the piano, felt some relief. Britt was okay if she could play the piano.

Maybe he could get proof. He could get Micah to show him how to set up like a hidden camera or something. No, no, he couldn’t pull Micah into it. If Micah told his parents, they might say something to his parents.

No baseball, ever, military school, another beating.

Not brave enough.

But he could write it all down.

Inspired, he went to his desk, found a notebook, pens, pencils. Not yet, he decided. One of them might come in again before they went to bed. If they caught him, jig up.

So he waited, waited, lay in the dark with his baseball for comfort and company.

He heard his father call out: “Sweet Christmas dreams, Britt!”

And she called back. “Good night.”

Moments later he heard her whisper at his door, “I couldn’t sneak in. I’m sorry. I heard you yelling, but—”

“It’s okay. I’m okay. Go to bed before they catch you.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated.

He heard her door close. He slipped into sleep for a while. His mother’s laughter woke him. Coming upstairs, muffled words as they moved past his door. Staying where he was, eyes closed, breathing even, because he couldn’t trust them.

And he was proved right when a few minutes later the lock clicked. The light from the hall reddened the back of his eyes. He kept them closed, but not tight—that’s how they knew you faked it.

Even after the door shut again, the lock clicked again, he waited. One minute, two, five—he counted it off.

When he felt safe, he crept over to his desk, got the notebook, a couple of pens. Just in case, he took them and the little flashlight Britt had left him back to his bed.

If he heard the lock click, he’d have enough time to shove everything under the blanket, lie down again.

In the little beam of light, he began to write.

Maybe nobody will believe me. He says they won’t. He’s too important, too smart, so they won’t believe me, but my English teacher says that writing things down can help you think and to remember stuff. I need to remember.

On December 23, 1998, when my sister Britt and me—and I—he corrected—came home from school, my mother was on the floor. My father was hitting her again and when I tried to stop him he hurt me really bad.

He wrote for more than an hour.

When he grew too tired to write more, he got a coin from his bank, used it to unscrew the air vent. He hid the notebook inside. Put the pens away even though he’d run one out of ink.

Then he crawled back into bed, and slept.

CHAPTER THREE

Zane followed orders. The pain eased; the bruises faded. No one at the resort questioned Dr. Bigelow’s bike accident explanation, or his orders for Zane to remain undisturbed in his room during their stay. No one in Lakeview questioned Dr. Bigelow’s skiing mishap explanation.

Well, Emily sort of did, wondering why Zane had been allowed to ski when he’d been recovering from the flu, but it didn’t change anything.

Life went on.

If he’d learned a valuable lesson, it was to be careful.

He kept his room clean and tidy without prodding, did his chores without a murmur of protest. He studied, more out of fear than interest. If his grades dropped, he’d face punishment. If his grades dropped, he’d lose baseball. Baseball became not only his passion, his life’s dream, but his future escape.

When he signed with the majors, he’d leave Lakeview and never look back.

Everyone acted as if December 23 never happened. Everyone inside the house in Lakeview Terrace lived the lie. He passed his father’s tests—he was smart enough to know they were tests. The quick shoves or sharp slaps for no reason—and the satisfied look on his father’s face when Zane kept his eyes on the ground and said nothing.

At night, inside the quiet of his room, he wrote the truth.

January 12. Graham shoved me into the wall. He said I sulked through dinner and didn’t show my appreciation. I asked Micah’s dad not to tell anybody he was showing me how to lift weights, that I wanted it to be a surprise. He doesn’t talk to Graham anyway. I don’t think he likes Graham very much. He said not to “sir” him every five minutes because it makes him feel like he’s back in the army, and since we’re working out together I should call him Dave. He’s nice.

March 2. I’m getting stronger!!! I can curl 15 pounds, 12 reps, 3 sets. And today I bench-pressed 75 pounds and did 36 push-ups. I’ve gained 5 pounds. Dave says it’s lean muscle mass. We have our first preseason game tomorrow, and Coach said my arm’s a rocket! I think that’s lean muscle mass, too. I got a single and a triple in practice, two RBIs. We’re so totally going to trash the Eagles tomorrow! Eliza said to empty the dishwasher. I said sure. Graham slapped me. You don’t say “Sure” you say “Yes, Ma’am,” you Worthless Little Fuck. Then he slapped her because she didn’t correct me and called her Stupid Bitch. I saw how Britt was maybe going to cry and gave her a look so she wouldn’t. No point in her getting slapped.

He wrote every night, detailing his ball games, his progress in the gym, his father’s abuse.

He wrote of his pride and the thrill when the Lakeview Wildcats took the championship. Of how proud his father acted during the game, and how casually he criticized Zane’s base running, his fielding on the way home. Of how Dave Carter gave him a high five and called him champ.

By his fifteenth birthday that summer, he stood at five feet eleven, weighed in at 128. When Dave called him a lean, mean fighting machine, he didn’t know that’s what Zane aimed for.

On the night of December 23, he woke from a nightmare in a cold sweat. He’d dreamed his father found his notebooks and beat him to death.

But nothing happened, and the holidays came and went.

He got his first real girlfriend in Ashley Kinsdale, a laughing-eyed blonde, honor student, soccer star, and his first real date when he invited her to the end-of-school dance in May.

Since they doubled with Micah and his date—fellow gamer and nerd-with-an-attitude Melissa—Mel—Riley—Dave volunteered to drive them to and from.

He had to get a new suit, new shoes, which he tried to pretend was bogus—but secretly he liked duding it up. Plus, he’d gained another two inches, not only in height, but in his feet.

He hated his hair—his father had decreed he wear it in a military cut, always reminding him military school loomed as an option. But otherwise, he thought he looked pretty damn good. He hoped to reach six-three by graduation, and maybe he would. That would put him eye to eye with Graham. Graham, who called Ashley “Zane’s Mick slut” when she wasn’t around.

His belly was still sore from the punch when he’d made the mistake of looking up the last time Graham had goaded him with that.

Two years, two months, he reminded himself. He’d be eighteen and free. They thought he’d go to UNC at Chapel Hill, study medicine. But no way. He aimed for USC. Not only was it on the other side of the damn country, but they had a solid baseball program.