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Back The Cloud Chamber Save as PDF
Chapters (35)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Acknowledgments
  5. Author’s Note
  6. One
  7. Two
  8. Three
  9. Four
  10. Five
  11. Six
  12. Seven
  13. Eight
  14. Nine
  15. Ten
  16. Eleven
  17. Twelve
  18. Thirteen
  19. Fourteen
  20. Fifteen
  21. Sixteen
  22. Seventeen
  23. Eighteen
  24. Nineteen
  25. Twenty
  26. Twenty-One
  27. Twenty-Two
  28. Twenty-Three
  29. Twenty-Four
  30. Twenty-Five
  31. Twenty-Six
  32. Twenty-Seven
  33. Twenty-Eight
  34. Twenty-Nine
  35. Thirty

In his head he recited the first ten digits of pi, then the ten after that. He pulled his arm back. He looked across the plate, into the eyes of the batter, a boy named Terry Peters who had called him “Psycho boy” in social studies. He released the ball. Fast and true, a rocket into the strike zone, unhittable.

Terry looked surprised. Nate threw him another. Just as deadly.

He mowed down four batters in a row. Then Kirk got a single off him, followed by a couple of pop-ups. But then Nate was back throwing darts, smooth and steady. Whiff, whiff, whiff, you’re out.

“I’ve got one more batter for you, Chance,” the coach called out. “Kowalski, take a whack at him.”

Larry, the best hitter in the league last season, stepped up to the plate. Their eyes met. Nate thought of the first time they’d played together, the summer after second grade—the long hours they had pitched and hit to each other and, afterward, up on his bed, putting together imaginary teams of all their favorite players with their baseball cards. He saw the face of Sandy Koufax lying on the bedspread. And then a different picture: the package of Topps cards he’d pocketed at the five-and-ten the week before. Not even opened.

He wound up. Looked out at his old friend one more time. Fired.

A ball.

“Try him again, Chance,” Coach Jennings yelled.

This time he fired a fastball over the plate. Larry swung and missed it. A look came over Larry’s face—not anger or disgust, like Terry. Respect.

Another throw, this one a curveball. Larry caught the side of it, but only enough to foul.

Another pitch. The one Nate and his father had been working on last summer: the screwball.

Larry looked startled. The ball seemed to shoot straight for the center of the plate, then broke sharply to the left, sweeping out of range as Larry’s bat kissed air. He swung and missed. Out.

There was an audible gasp from the small crowd of parents on the sidelines. Larry shook his head as he walked back to the bench, but more in a good-natured way than mad.

One last kid came up to bat against Nate—another strikeout. As Nate headed in from the mound, the coach patted him on the back. “Looks like we found ourselves a starting pitcher,” he said.

On his way home, standing up over the candy-striped seat of his sister’s bicycle, Nate passed the five-and-ten store. He slowed down on the bike and, for a second, considered stopping to see what cards they had. But then he thought better of it and pedaled home.

Twenty-Four

AFTER HE’D GOTTEN CLEANED UP THAT AFTERNOON, Nate called Naomi. Her voice on the other end of the phone sounded a little less animated than usual.