“Birdie,” I say. I want to tell her everything. That I know my dad was the one who was responsible for the Crenshaw forfeit. That I know Eric Vance took the heat for it and I made the mistake of telling Elijah. That everything I thought I knew about my father has come crumbling down around me and I don’t even know who I am right now. But what good would it do? I don’t think it will make me feel any better, and sometimes talking about my father makes Birdie’s eyes look sad. I don’t want to be the reason she looks sad.

“What is it, my sunshine? You look like you’ve got the whole world on your shoulders tonight,” she says, her voice soft.

“I… I think I’m going to go to bed early,” I say.

“Okay, then.” She stands up from her chair and holds her arms open for a hug. I fall into her, and she smooths the hair on the back of my head. “Everything’s going to be okay, Julian. I promise,” she says.

I lie awake in my bed way past the time Birdie turns out the lights in the living room and the house falls silent. I turn Elijah’s words over and over at the same time that Figg’s story about the Taylor forfeit tumbles around in my brain.

They were friends, Elijah said. Figg admitted it, too. What happened? I grab a flashlight from my nightstand and throw on my heavy black rain boots.

The shed is creepy at night. It’s creepy enough during the day, with cobwebs stretching across the corners and the musty smell of old stuff permeating the wooden walls and floor. But at night, it’s like something out of a horror movie. I keep the flashlight as close to the ground as possible, so I don’t accidentally shine it into Elijah’s bedroom, which has the only window that faces the backyard. It doesn’t take long for me to find what I’m looking for. A large cardboard box with the name JEFFREY written in bright blue marker on the side teeters on top of a bunch of Rubbermaid bins and old Christmas decorations.

I pull the heavy box down carefully and bring it inside, clicking off my flashlight first. I walk carefully through the house, knowing one wrong step on a squeaky floorboard will wake everyone.

In the safety of my room, I click on the desk lamp and open the box. On top are several newspaper articles about my father’s accident. I flip past those and see his football team pictures. Just like the ones Elijah pointed out to me outside the locker room in the trophy case. Then, an article from the Meridien Register. My father and Eric Vance smiling broadly for the camera, loading wrapped Christmas presents into the back of a pickup truck. The headline boasts: