She opened an email and a PDF of a BoobTown ad for her approval. The top banner read, THIS MOTHER’S DAY IS SUNDAY, MAY 15! CELEBRATE MOM AND YOURSELF! Underneath was a photo of a pretty mom with a little boy, a stock image aimed at their target market. Susan had been that woman, the shopper who was ValleyCo’s sweet spot, the kind of mom who put the date of a sale on her calendar the first time she heard it. That was why Susan made sure that in every ad, the sale date was the largest thing on the page, and in their email blasts, the sale date connected automatically to My ValleyCo Calendar, an app that she had commissioned herself.
My ValleyCo Calendar enabled the customer to schedule the sales at any ValleyCo outlet mall and send herself alerts at one-and two-week intervals. Susan’s bosses, all male, had been skeptical, wondering why any woman would agree to be harassed, but the app took off. Susan hadn’t been surprised. Its success was due to the innate belief that doing everything right would lead to happiness, a credo that she had ascribed to until Neil died.
Susan approved the ad. It was good enough. She was losing her edge now that Neil had died. He’d been her biggest supporter, and only after he was gone did she realize that she had been performing for him all along.
Susan picked up her phone. It read 1:45 P.M., which meant that Raz was in seventh period, but he hadn’t called or texted. She swiped to her Favorites and pressed three—Neil would be forever number one, and Ryan was number two. The phone rang but it went to voicemail.
“Damn!” Susan said aloud, glancing behind her, but her secretary wasn’t looking. Everyone had been so wonderful to her after Neil had passed, but lately her office felt like a fishbowl. Every time they looked at her, she saw herself the way they saw her: a new widow, trying desperately to keep herself and her family from coming apart at the seams, like a factory second. The Sematovs were Irregulars now.
Susan pressed REDIAL, the phone rang twice, and finally, Raz picked up. “Raz—”
“Mom, what?” Raz asked, his tone irritated. “Why are you calling me? I’m at school.”
“This is your free period, isn’t it? I’m worried about Ryan. He didn’t come home last night.”
“So?”
Susan sensed he was with friends. “So he doesn’t do that. He’s been out all night.”
“Mom.” Raz snorted. “Is this what you think is important? He’s a big boy. He’s out.”
“Did he tell you where he was going last night?”
“I don’t know!” Raz raised his voice.
“Where did he say he was going?”
“‘I don’t know’ means I don’t know! I don’t remember.”
“Raz, please think,” Susan said, softening her tone. “Something could’ve happened to him.”
“He probably got laid!”
“Raz!” Susan glanced over her shoulder and caught her secretary looking at her. “I’m worried about him.”
“There’s nothing to worry about! He’s fine. I have to go!”
“Raz, you don’t know that he’s fine. Think about what he told you. Did he say where he was going or who he was with—” Susan stopped when she realized Raz had gone unusually quiet on the other end of the call.
She looked at the phone, and Raz had hung up.
Chapter Seven
Chris headed to baseball practice, more tired than he’d expected. He had no idea how teachers did it, day after day. He’d had to teach the same lesson twice, saying the same exact things to two classes of AP Government and two classes of the non-AP level, since the class size at CVHS was restricted to thirty students. Plus he had to teach his elective, Criminal Justice. He’d identified two more boys in his non-AP course and one in Criminal Justice, but neither as promising as Jordan or Raz.
Chris threaded his way down a packed hallway, having changed into his coach’s gear, a blue polo shirt that read ASSISTANT COACH MUSKETEERS BASEBALL, royal-blue nylon sweatpants, and sneakers. Framed group photos of past CVHS classes were mounted on the white walls, and inspirational posters hung at regular intervals: MUSKETEERS MAKE EMPATHY A HABIT. BE THE CHANGE—NOTICE, CHOOSE, ACT. VALIDATE OTHERS. He passed a window overlooking a courtyard filled with flowerbeds. It was raining out, so practice had been moved inside to the gym.
Chris was looking forward to seeing Jordan and Raz, so he could make a final decision. He had tentatively eliminated Evan because of the boy’s alpha behavior with the snacks and choice of the Bill of Rights team. Raz had also chosen the Bill of Rights team, so he was now on the bubble. Jordan was the frontrunner since he had chosen the Constitution team, suggesting that he was a boy comfortable with structure and authority, perfect for Chris. He needed a boy he could use and manipulate. Tuesday was coming up fast.
Suddenly Chris noticed that two of his players had turned onto the hallway, Trevor Kiefermann and Dylan McPhee. Chris hadn’t met them yet, but he had researched them, and the two boys couldn’t have been more different. Trevor was a tall, blocky redhead with a freckled face and an obsession with kettlebells and weight lifting, according to his social media. Dylan was the tallest kid on the team, at six-five, but reed-thin and wiry with wispy blond hair, fine features, and heavy wire-rimmed glasses that slid down his nose. Dylan’s social media consisted of photos from NASA, the Astronomy Photo of the Day, and photographs of outer space, sent by whatever astronaut was currently orbiting the earth.
Chris flashed them a smile. “Hey guys, I’m Coach Brennan, the new assistant coach.”
“Hey Coach, Trevor Kiefermann, nice to meet you. I play third base.” Trevor shook his hand, squeezing it firmly.
“Coach, I’m Dylan McPhee, center field.” Dylan shook Chris’s hand, too, but his hand was slender, though his grip equally strong.
“Good to meet you both.” Chris fell into step with them down the hallway, and Trevor seemed eager to talk, the more outgoing of the two.
“They say you’re a cowboy. Moved here from Montana, right?”
“Wyoming, but news travels fast here.” Chris allowed his features to reflect mild surprise.
“Raz told us. Where’d you coach before?”
“I didn’t. I almost played minor-league ball but I tore my ACL the week before tryouts.” Chris knew his alias couldn’t be found online on any minor-league roster, should they look him up. Interestingly, the Internet made lying easier and harder, both at once.
“Sucks.” Trevor shook his head. “Where’d you play?”
“Class A, Midwest League. If I tell you which team, you’re gonna laugh. The Fort Wayne Tincaps of Fort Wayne, Indiana.”
“What a name!” Trevor chuckled.
Dylan smiled. “Is that real?”
“Yes, totally.” Chris smiled back, feeling the humor break the ice, as usual. “Still, it coulda been worse. Would you believe the Cedar Rapids Kernels.”
“Ha!” Trevor laughed, and so did Dylan.
“So how’s the season?” Chris asked, though he already knew. The Musketeers were on a losing streak.
“Not so good.” Trevor’s expression clouded. “The season started April 1, and we’re one and five. Coach Hardwick might replace Raz with Jordan for tomorrow’s game. We play Upper Grove, and they’re undefeated.”
“Is Jordan the better pitcher?”