Many significant subjects plagued the hectic mind of a teenage boy. Aaron, for instance, stared at the cartoon turkey on the Go Turkeys! sign at the concession stand by the football field and thought, What if we added a bra to the turkey? Wouldn't that be funny? Because, like, a bra, turkey breast . . . I mean, the jokes practically write themselves.

"Aaron!" Coach's voice cut the thought short.

Aaron startled and the stupid smile on his face relaxed into something resembling seriousness. He worked his fingers through his shaggy blond tresses and cleared his throat. "Yeah?"

"You listening to me, boy? You got a look on your face like you just got asked what the square root of 256 is."

"Sixteen, sir," Herman—towel boy and the brain behind most of the homework assignments by members of the football team—called from nearby on the bench.

Herman was probably the dorkiest guy Aaron had ever seen. The polo-shirts-under-vests type, which made sense to Aaron; after all, if Herman spent a lot of time learning useless stuff and doing homework for half the football team, he had less time for things that mattered, like fashion. A couple of the guys laughed at Herman's comment and Aaron thought, Good one, dude, but he didn't say it while Coach was on one of his rants.

"Shut your mouth, Bernstein," Coach said. The old guy had hairy arms, black slacks pulled up too far, and a black collared shirt tucked in neatly. He had been wearing out the grass in front of the bench with his pacing, shouting about weak defenses.

"Yes, sir," Herman replied.

He hadn't even cracked a smile, taken by surprise at the humor everyone else saw in his comment. He was merely answering a serious math problem as if Coach had meant it literally, and that was the thing that made it most hilarious to Aaron. He fought back howling laughter as Coach's intense gaze burned into him.

"I said, are you proud of that throw you made out there? You know, the crappy one?"

He knew exactly which throw Coach was talking about. As soon as the pigskin had left his fingers, he'd known it was a mistake. He'd let go a fraction too soon, sending the football sailing right out of Seth Montgomery's reach. If it was an actual game, that could have cost them the win.

But it wasn't his fault. Surely the mistake must have somehow been the fault of the ball and not his own. It could have even been the wind, for all he knew. He couldn't possibly take full responsibility for something so uncertain, so when his answer came out, it was an indecisive one.

"Yea-no, Coach!"

"Well, which is it, Renfro?" Coach asked impatiently. "Yes or no? Because I'll tell you how I feel about it. It was bullshit! You think we're going to win against Powell Valley with bullshit tosses like that?"

"No, sir!" Aaron said, because he knew that was what Coach wanted to hear and he was ready to get out of there. He wanted to go home and film himself playing Xbox so he could post it online. He had some new gamer jokes to try out. His fan base was still fairly small, but steadily growing, thanks to his wisecracks.

Coach Thorpe, on the other hand, was a down-to-earth sort of guy. Funny had never worked on him.

"You going to crush Powell Valley Saturday or what?" Coach shouted.

What he was looking for was competitiveness.

"Yes, sir!" Aaron said.

"What?"

Persistence.

"I said we're going to crush 'em, sir!"

"What?"

Viciousness.

"I said we're gonna crush Powell Valley!"

The rest of the team, all forty-two—forty-three if they counted Herman—pitched in, sounding like an angry, psychotic mob. "Crush Powell Valley! Crush Powell Valley!"

"That's what I like to hear!" Coach shouted, with a hint of a smile on his otherwise grumpy face. "You bring that attitude to the game, and we got this cat in the bag."

The boys cheered, smacking palms together and clapping each other on the shoulders and backs.

"Hit the showers!" Coach said.

The Turkeys dispersed from the field, through the gate in the chain-link fence, and into the school building. The boys' locker room contained a line of toilet stalls, two rows of lockers, and finally the showers. Some players hit the shower area right away, flinging their filthy uniforms at Herman along the way. The room quickly filled with steam as the showerheads spewed hot water onto the sweaty players. As the towel boy, Herman habitually cleaned up after the team and he already had a hamper at his side to hold all the soiled uniforms. Aaron tossed his shirt at Herman's face instead of at the hamper, because it was slightly more entertaining to see if Herman could catch it or if it would just whack him. Apparently, Seth wasn't in on Aaron's little game. Seth took off his uniform and tossed the articles toward the hamper. Aaron noticed a deep-red hickey on Seth's upper chest.

"Dude," Aaron said, pointing at the evidence. "So Patsy finally give it up?"

"Nah, dude," Seth said. "This didn't come from Patsy."

Aaron's eyebrows rose and Seth grinned at him sheepishly, then quickly changed the subject.

"You think we got a chance at winning against Powell Valley?" Seth asked Herman.

"Without Tyler? Not likely," Herman admitted. "Maybe a thirty percent chance, considering you beat West Jefferson and they beat Powell Valley three weeks ago. Although if you count the fact that their player Darrell Hall's knee isn't in the best of shape since that game, it could bring the odds up even higher." Someone's sock landed on Herman's shoulder. He plucked it off, dropped it in the hamper, and continued. "Then again, Aaron's shoulder is still on the fritz—"

"My shoulder is fine," Aaron said as he threw his jockstrap across the locker room straight at Herman. The cup hit him on the nose. "See? On the field . . . that was the wind."

Herman didn't blink. "The wind wasn't blowing."

"Neither is Patsy, apparently," Aaron said, shooting Seth a look. "So what's up with that?"

"Dude, I can't say."

"A hint, then?"

By the time Aaron left the locker room, he still hadn't found out who Seth was seeing on the sly. Naturally, he assumed whoever the mystery girl was, she was probably ugly. Why else would he keep it a secret? Wouldn't it be funny if it was Mildred? Aaron laughed out loud as he got in his Jeep Wrangler. Then he cringed. How could anyone really do that, though? There was no way around Mildred's gross factor. Even if you turned out the lights, she'd still smell like a farm, Aaron thought. But who knew—he pulled out of the parking lot—maybe Seth was into bad smells. Everyone had a kink.

All Aaron wanted to do was get inside, turn on the Xbox, turn on the camera, and get some good footage. But before even opening the door he could already hear his dad's raised voice inside. Aaron rushed to get the door open.

The smell of burned food assaulted his nose and his father's voice filled his ears. The living room was smoky. He saw the television playing Family Feud—appropriate—and saw all the beer cans his father had emptied while sitting on the couch. His father's and sister's voices pealed from the kitchen, and Aaron ran toward them.

"It was burning, I had to shut it off!" Joan cried.

"Mary! Mary, listen to me!" his father was yelling. "I had it under control! You don't trust me! That's your problem, Mary! Just because you're a liar doesn't mean everyone is!"

It's not even five o'clock and he's already acting like a sloshed asshat, thought Aaron. No wonder Mom left.

"Dad, what the hell?" Aaron said, bursting into the room.

His father—tall, graying, thick moustache, and a plaid shirt—was hovering over Joan, her small frame looking even smaller in contrast to the large man. She was no taller than his chest and rail thin, and Aaron didn't like the way his father was standing or the way he called her Mary. He was clearly so out of it that he didn't even know what decade he was currently standing in. He'd warped back to a time when Mary Renfro was his wife, back before he'd ruined it all with his drinking problem.

Aaron had been nine when he last saw this scenario. His mother had looked a lot like Joan did now, so much that the memory flashed vividly in his mind. Their clothes had been different. Joan currently wore a school spirit shirt; Mary had been wearing a Bon Jovi tee. Her hair was wavy instead of straight like Joan's. She was just as small and as equally afraid. Jason never hit Mary—not that Aaron ever saw—but his words stung her. They were reverberating and cruel.

How many times had he seen the same scenario as a young child before his mother had finally given up on his father?

Late that night, Mary snuck into Aaron's bedroom to tell him good-bye. "I'll come back for you after I find a job and a proper place to live," she said. "Until then, you'll be safe with him. He won't treat you this way."

Look how wrong you were, Mom, Aaron thought. Wrong about coming back and wrong about our safety.

"Dad, I'm Joan! I'm not her!" Joan cried. "I'm not Mom!"

Jason's angry face went slack, as if he'd just heard devastating news. His eyes filled with confusion. He swallowed hard. Again. Then he vomited down the front of Joan's Roanoke High Turkeys shirt. She squealed and ran to the bathroom, leaving a trail of beer barf along her path. Jason finished hurling on the floor, then looked at Aaron. Guilt. Shame. Anger.

"What are you lookin' at?" he said. "Don't judge me!"

"You gotta stop drinking, Dad."

"I make the money, so whenever I'm off work, I'll do whatever I want."

"Even if it means hurting your daughter?"

Jason lifted his brows as if he was trying to widen his eyes and see more clearly. "She's not hurt. She'll be fine."

"No, Dad, she won't. Neither will I."

"Aww, poor babies," he mocked. "Then go and kiss her crybaby boo-boo. You guys make me sick."

"Yeah, you are sick."

They glared at each other, sky-blue eyes versus olive green. The olive eyes turned away first.

"I'm going to get another drink," Jason said.

His father's footsteps drifted away, and the front door slammed. At least he was on foot, Aaron thought. He would have chased him down and taken his keys had he been trying to drive like that, but he was glad he didn't have to. Aaron cleaned up the vomit with a couple of kitchen towels and threw them in the laundry-room hamper.

Water was running in the bathroom and Joan was sobbing over the rhythmic sound of the shower. Aaron knocked on the door.

"Go away!" Joan shouted.

"He's gone, Jo," Aaron said.

"Good! I hate him!"

Aaron knew the feeling. He wished he could leave like Mary had, but unlike her, he would take Joan with him. No false promises. There was no way he would make her stay and wait for him to come back, knowing he never would. His best shot at getting them out of there was football, he thought. The water cut off in the bathroom.

"Hey, I've got to go work on something," he said.

"You're leaving?" Joan said. "Fine! Leave just like him! I hope neither one of you comes home tonight!"

Aaron started to reply but thought better of it. Any reply would turn into an argument with her and he didn't want to argue right now. He just wanted to practice more. It was time to take football more seriously if he ever hoped to give Joan and himself a better life. She would understand one day.