“Since I paid her a little visit last night at her stepdad’s house. The old man was out bowling. Nina must have touched my balls for an hour.”

“Well, just remember, anyone asks, you were at Dougie’s.”

Booker cracked open a gallon jug of whole milk, took a long swallow, and belched. “I know. Our alibi, right?”

“Right.”

They were sitting on the concrete step in front of the convenience store, trying to put a dent in their hangovers. It was coming up on ten in the morning. The sun had burned away the morning fog and now gleamed brightly off the wet pavement. It was turning out to be a stellar autumn day. As Elray chunked rocks at the Reddy Ice machine nearby, Manny bit into a Ding Dong, washed it down with grape soda, then unfolded the Killington Daily and scanned the front page.

“Says here they may not be able to dredge the bus out for a week ’cause of all the flooding.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Booker said.

They laughed and exchanged another high five. The laughter brought pain to Booker’s swollen cheek. The pellet wounds had begun to crust over, forming little scabs among the whiteheads that already pocked his face. The pain reminded him that he hadn’t yet gotten around to beating the shit out of Elray for shooting him. Not wanting to spoil his good mood, he elected to hold off a little while longer.

“We really did it, didn’t we, Manny?”

“Looks like it. No more Killington High Jackrabbits, and no more Cole Logan.” He read some more. “Says here that Stanton High will get the win by forfeit just like we thought. ’Course, we can’t forget we still got a district game to win next week.”

“I ain’t worried about that,” Booker said. “Stanton High ain’t shit. We could beat them blindfolded. I can’t wait for those college scouts to see what I got to show ’em next week.”

Booker closed his eyes and got lost in a daydream about the big moment.

“Oh, shit . . .” Manny said a minute later.

“What?”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“What’s that?”

“Read this.”

“You read it, I’m working on my tan.”

“You sure you wanna hear it?”

“What, Manny? Spit it!”

“It says here that the Killington coach didn’t die in the bus accident.”

“What? How the fuck?”

“But that’s not all. It also says that Cole Logan was found—”

Booker never heard the rest of the statement because a fist slammed into his jaw.

“What the fu—” was all he managed to get out before a second blow came across the opposite cheek. By the time the pain registered, he was being flung across the parking lot like a rag doll. When he finally cleared the stinging tears from his eyes, he got a fleeting glance at his attacker. “What the fu—”