"Thought you were booted off the team."

"You never know. My dad could give me a pity A."

"Yeah, and the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders could show up in my bedroom tonight, too." Joey shook his head. "Here. You need this more than me." He shoved the c.o.ke at me.

I took it, popped the top, and guzzled half the soda. My stomach, empty since lunch, churned. I shot another glance at the monitor. Everything was still normal in Mys.p.a.ce land.

"You gonna message Megan or what? Just say you were a moron. She'll forgive you. Girls like that c.r.a.p." Joey said, gesturing toward the computer. Megan's face was back on the screen. Her wide smile, big blue eyes. Tempting me to come over.

"Nah. I, ah, think I'll do it in person." I wasn't going to touch that computer again. Maybe not for the rest of my life.

Joey lay down on my bed, his hands behind his head, and looked up at the ceiling. "Dude, I got a problem."

Suddenly I just wanted him to leave. He had no idea what problems really were. It was getting harder every second to convince myself that this was all some w.i.l.l.y Wonka- size dream. "Joey, I don't have time for-"

He popped forward. "This is a serious problem. You're my friend. You have to listen to me. There's this girl, and, like, she won't talk to me. So I want to ask her out, but I don't want to look like a desperate loser, so a"

I nearly strangled him. "Did you ever think I might have something going on in my life, Joey? Something more important than your stupid love life?"

Joey's upper lip crinkled in confusion. "More important? Like what? You got cancer or something?"

"No," I said, nearly shouting now. I yanked the Hamlet papers out of the printer and dropped his three pages onto his lap. "For G.o.d's sake, stop thinking only about yourself."

Joey swung off my bed and got to his feet. "Geez. Who broke your crayons?"

"n.o.body. I've had a bad day." Understatement of the year, but I couldn't tell Joey what was going on. He'd be no help, none at all. There was a reason my father had picked him to read the part of the buffoon in Hamlet.

"Whatever. I gotta go." He took the paper, folded it into thirds, and shoved it into his back pocket. "I'm supposed to be babysitting my little brother anyway."

"You left him home alone?"

"What? He's, like, nine. As long as he doesn't turn on the stove, he won't burn down the house." Joey grinned, then headed out of my room.

Yet another reason not to rely on Joey for help.

I left the door open. Just in case the computer decided to freak out again. I considered leaving, but where was I going to go?

Plus, I wasn't so sure that thing couldn't follow me. Hadn't it shown up at school?

Where was I safe?

Or was there still a possibility I was making all this up, like when I was eleven and had a week of nightmares after I'd sneaked downstairs to watch Saw?

"Cooper!" StepScrooge Sam called upstairs. I knew that sound in his voice. It was the get-your-b.u.t.t-down-hereand- clean- the- garage- o r- do- some- other- equally- horrible- ch.o.r.e voice.

Great. I so did not need him right now. Not that I had ever needed him in my life, but now was totally not a good time.

I didn't answer him.

"Cooper, answer me!"

I flipped open my math book. Pretended I was interested in algebra. I sent another glance toward the computer. The screen saver had popped on, a roving picture of a Fender guitar. I should shut it off, but that would mean touching the computer and there was no way I was going near that thing again.

I heard the thud of footsteps. Before I could turn off my light and pretend to be unconscious, StepScrooge Sam stuck his obnoxious blond head into the room. "Don't you dare play dumb. I called you. Twice."

"Can't hear you," I said, cupping a hand around my ear. "I flunked my hearing test at school."

He glared at me. "Not funny, Cooper. Your mother wants you.

A chill ran down my spine. No. Not her. Don't make me go down there.

"I'm not telling you twice." He thumbed toward the hall. "Get up."

Mr. Personality clearly wasn't trying to make friends tonight. "What a what, ah, does she want?"

"What is this, twenty questions? Get downstairs. Now." He turned and walked away.

I stared at 3x + 2y = ? for a long time. Looked at it until the letters and numbers blurred into nothing, until I convinced myself I was a normal freshman with a friend who was an idiot, a girlfriend-or ex-girlfriend-who hated my guts, too much homework for a Tuesday night, and a stepfather who annoyed me.

"Cooper!" I heard him shout again. He wouldn't leave me alone until I went downstairs, so I shut my algebra book and trudged down to the kitchen.

"So," StepScrooge Sam was saying to my mother, "I delivered another set of twins today. Both healthy."

"That's wonderful," my mother said. Her back was to me, her hands busy at the sink, finishing up the dishes, everything all June Cleaver again. The water was off, as she washed in one sink, then set the dishes in the other to rinse all at once.

We could have afforded a maid, could have afforded a whole fleet of maids, but once my mother married my stepfather, she stopped working and started keeping the house, to give her something to do, she said.

"Yeah, I guess it's good," StepScrooge Sam said with a sigh. He ran a hand through his blond hair. He highlighted it, which made him seem too girlie to me. Some days I wanted to tell him to just be a man and go natural.

My mother turned and faced him. "What? Did something go wrong?"

"No. Nothing."

"You seem almost a disappointed," she said.

I wasn't surprised. StepScrooge Sam was never happy with anything. The guy had inherited three generations of Washingtons and lived in the best house in the neighborhood, a monster of a mansion he had built a few years ago. Made money like a c.o.ke machine from his jobs delivering babies and making wine. What he had to complain about, I didn't know, but complain he did. "It was a long day. That's all," he said.

Yeah, I'll give you a long day, I wanted to say. But I didn't. I usually tried to stay as far away from anything resembling an actual conversation with him as possible. I shifted from foot to foot. What did she want with me?

Maybe I should just leave. Hope they'd forget all about me.

"How are things at the vineyard?" my mother asked.

"We're having a rough patch. But it'll pa.s.s." He let out a long breath.

My mother ran the sprayer over the few plates and bowls in the sink, then turned off the water and dried her hands. "You should relax, Sam. Let me get you the paper, honey." She went into the den.

I took a gla.s.s out of the cabinet and crossed to the sink to pour myself some water. I turned on the faucet and let it run, testing with my finger to see if it was cold.

"Cooper, what the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?"

StepScrooge Sam again. "Replenishing my fluids."

He reached past me and shut off the faucet. "You're wasting water."

"Hey, it's not even cold."

He raised a brow. "And your point is?"

There was no arguing with him when it came to things like water usage and light bulbs. I dug in my jeans, fished out a quarter, and dropped it onto the counter. "Here. For the feed-the-faucet fund." Then I crossed to the freezer and grabbed an ice cube, plopping it into my gla.s.s.

"Quit with the att.i.tude, Cooper," Sam hissed into my ear, the niceness he'd had with my mother gone now that we were alone. "You know the rules around here. You better show me some grat.i.tude for all I've given you, or else-"

My mother returned to the room, and StepScrooge Sam's voice cut off like a TV losing power. She handed him the paper.

"Thanks, Laura," StepScrooge Sam said, his voice gone to candy. That's how he was-drill sergeant with me, George Clooney with her. "You've had a long day, too, sweetheart. Why don't I pour you a gla.s.s of wine? Then you go relax, put up your feet."

She sent him a smile, the same kind of smile Megan used to give me, and I had to look away. "Thanks. That'd be nice." She pushed off from the counter and gestured to me. "Cooper, let's go out on the deck. I need to talk to you."

My stomach dropped to the floor.

No way I wanted to go outside with her, but what was I going to say? Uh, no, I'm afraid you might drag me into the woods and let that thing eat me for dessert? I glanced at my mother, saw nothing in her eyes that read homicide, and decided to take a chance.

Because a part of me kept hoping that the other day had been some really bad dream. That all the other times had been, I don't know, some bad reaction to sh.e.l.lfish. I know, it was insane, but who really wants to think this is possible? Yeah, come on over, Peter Pan, and take me away.

"I'm going to go watch the game." StepScrooge Sam handed her the wine, then sent me a smile I didn't return. Just for show, in front of my mom. Jerk.

My mother stepped through the French doors and onto the wooden deck, with me following behind. The yellow bug light cast her in a weird tint, making her seem unnaturally neon. We slid into the lounge chairs, facing the manicured yard.

The well lay a thousand yards into the darkness, beyond the trees.

I tried not to think about that.

"You should go easy on Sam," my mother said. "His job is stressful."

"His job is stressful? He delivers babies. The woman does all the work."

My mother bit back a smile. She looked normal for a minute, and again, that whisper of hope ran through me. "Well, there's more involved in having babies than that. When you're older, you'll see."

"Mom, my life is stressful, too." Didn't she realize that? Didn't she see that she was part of my problem lately? "StepScrooge Sam could go easier on me. Let up on the water issues, for one."

She pursed her lips as though she'd sucked on a sunflower seed. She hated being in the middle and hated hearing us call him StepScrooge Sam. "Try to get along, please? I don't need any more tension in this house." She shook her head, pausing as if she was about to say something, then changed her mind. "Just a think about it, Cooper."

"Yeah. I will." I looked away, past the yard, into the dark depths beyond the trees.

"Anyway, I didn't bring you out here to talk about Sam. I have something else to tell you." She laid her wine on the table between us without taking a sip. Then she turned and sat up, facing me, her hands together tightly, as if she was about to pray. I just kept staring into the woods, half expecting that thing to come charging at me, red-eyed, long claws, casting a big net of slime to hold me down. My mother to say, Honey, look who I invited home for tea.

"What." It wasn't even a question.

My mother paused a long moment before she spoke. "Whipple died."

I jerked around. "What? When?"

"This afternoon. While you were at school. Sam came home from work and found him in the woods." She reached out a hand to me, then pulled it back, as if she wasn't sure whether she should touch me. "I'm so sorry, Cooper-I know how much you loved him. We all did."

"But a but a" And then, as if I were two or something, my eyes misted up and my stomach cramped. I real ized I hadn't seen the dog all day and hadn't even noticed. Guilt nearly made me throw up. "He a he died?"

My mother nodded. She stood, took one step, then sat back down again on my lounge chair. So close now, I could smell her perfume, feel the warmth from her body. I tensed for a second when she took my hand. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I loved him, too."

We'd had that dog for twelve years. From the time I was a little kid. From before the divorce. He'd been the one mainstay in this family. I could look at him and see what used to be, before- Before everything. Before my life became something I didn't recognize.

"How could he die? He was so healthy. I played ball with him in the yard just last week." And I had. Tossed a tennis ball with him after school for, like, fifteen minutes-why hadn't I done it for thirty, forty, fifty? If I'd known I'd never do it again, I'd have given the dog hours.

That day, he'd been fine, bounding after the stupid ball just like always, tongue lolling, tail wagging, his eyes bright and happy. Easy to please.

"He was old, honey," my mother said, her eyes soft. Her hand still held mine, tightly, securely. Like it used to when I had a bad dream and couldn't sleep. Like the day she told me she and my father were getting a divorce. Like she had my first day of school, the time I fell off my bike, the day I struck out in the championship Little League game. "Sometimes bad things just happen."

Bad things. I thought of Whipple barking outside the well, then cowering at my feet, scared of the slime. Him trying to stop me from going to the well to get Megan. Jumping on my legs, trying to- Tell me something?

Had he been trying to protect me? Had he really known there was something bad in that well?

Oh G.o.d, and now he was dead? Guilt churned in my stomach. I popped out of the chair so fast, I toppled the winegla.s.s, shattering it on the hard wooden deck. The pale liquid spread, seeping into the oak in a wide darkening stain. In the evening light, it looked thick and dark, and it seemed to be congealing, like blood. For a second, my heart stopped, because I thought it was blood. Whipple's blood. But no, that couldn't be. "No, he can't be dead. He just can't. He's always been here. Always."

My mother stood but didn't reach for me. "Cooper, we can get another dog."

I turned away. Shut my eyes. Couldn't look at her. Couldn't look in those woods. "It's not the same."

"No, it's not, but a" She drew in a breath, and then her arms stole around my back and she leaned her head on my shoulder. "But we can pretend it is, and after a while, it will be."

"No, Mom," I said, jerking away from her. I looked out at the woods and knew that as much as I tried to forget what had happened, tried to act as if it had all been some fluke, some trick of my imagination, as much as I wanted to lean back in and accept the hug she was giving me- I couldn't.

"It won't ever be the same again."

Then I ran down the stairs and away from the house.

I crawled through my bedroom window after eleven. I'd gone to Mike Ring's house and watched a movie I'd already seen three times. For five seconds, I'd thought maybe Mike could be a help. In between snack runs to the kitchen, I'd said something to him about how I thought maybe my mom might be losing it.

"Your mom? Dude, she's like the mom everyone wishes they had. Buck up and shut up. I'll trade you any day for my dad." Mike's dad was a raging alcoholic who showed up after school at least once a week screaming his name. He'd park the van as if he were playing b.u.mper cars, and Mike would end up shoving him over and driving home even though Mike didn't have his license. The school had called the departmentof-children cops at least twice, but Mike's mom always cov ered for her husband. Mike's dad, I guess, pulled it together enough to pa.s.s whatever tests they gave him. Plus, he was a cop himself, so he got away with c.r.a.p the rest of the world couldn't pull, just because he had a badge. And his mom, well, she wasn't much better. Mike, I knew, lied for all of them. Told teachers and other concerned adults that life at home was just fine, never saw a beer pa.s.s the old man's lips.

I guess whatever Mike lived with was better than the great unknown of the foster-care lottery.

"Yeah, but she's been acting weird lately, Mike." I couldn't think of a good way to say, "She tried to kill me this past weekend."

"You want to see acting weird, wait for my dad to come home." Then Mike changed the subject, went back to his usual goofy self, and refused to talk about anything deeper than what Britney Spears's cup size might be.

A few minutes later, Mike's father stumbled in and started ranting at his son for something that didn't really make much sense, because his father was drunk and his speech came out in a garbled bunch of obscenities. Mike's mother woke up, the dog started barking, and World War III erupted in the living room. I bugged out of there quickly. Two parents freaking out in one day was two too many for me.

When I got home, I found a gla.s.s of milk and a couple of Oreos on my nightstand, along with a note from my mother. "I'm sorry, Cooper. I'm here if you want to talk. Love, Mom."