“Huh-hello?”

“Danny?” a girl’s voice asks.

“Yeah?” My answer more of a question. What if it’s one of their girlfriends, luring me to talk before they hand off the phone to Scott or Tom or Mike?

“It’s Tina,” she says.

“Oh, uh, hi,” I say. Why’s she calling me?

“Kurt just left. We’ve been talking for a long time.”

“Uh-huh . . .”

“Danny, he told me everything.”

“. . . about?”

“Danny,” she sighs. “I know. I know everything.”

My phone beeps while she talks and I know another text has just come in, waiting for me to read it.

“So what?” I ask, annoyed now. Why the hell did Kurt tell Tina?

“Danny, Kurt needs your help. He won’t admit it, but he’s scared. Probably as scared as those bastards are.”

“Those bastards,” I say, “are not scared.”

“Yeah, they are,” she says. “They’ll never call it that but they’re freaking out that you guys are going to finally tell the truth. And they should, because you are.”

“Trust me,” I say. “I know scared. I know freaking out. Those guys aren’t it.”

“Danny, there’s a way to fight them and make it all stop but we need you to make it work.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you,” Tina says. “Kurt needs you, Danny. He needs you to help him speak up. It’s about time, don’t you think?”

My phone buzzes again with another text. I stir the rest of my soggy Cocoa Puffs around in my bowl, my hunger completely disappearing.

“I don’t know.”

“Remember you thanked me for sticking up for others,” she reminds me. “It’s your turn, now. You owe it to Ronnie. You owe it to Kurt. Jesus, you owe it to the whole school. At the very least, you owe it to yourself.”

“I’d rather keep as far away from those three as possible.”

“How’s that working out for you so far?” she asks. “Or Bruce?”

“Bruce just wants to shoot them,” I say.

Tina laughs.

“I’m not joking,” I tell her. “I think he might do it. And I’m okay with that. Seriously,” I say, and realize I’d like nothing more.

“I’ve got a better idea,” she says. “One that doesn’t involve murder.”

“What makes you think you can outsmart them?”

“Uh, I’m a girl and they’re boys,” she says. “By default, I win.”

“How about we stop the stupid schemes that only seem to piss off these guys more and more,” I suggest.

“How about you listen to what I have to say,” she suggests back.

As I’m mulling this over, the phone buzzes with another incoming text. I guess I don’t have much to lose.

So I listen to Tina. My phone keeps beeping with new messages as she talks. In the end I’m not sure if the text threats convince me or Tina does, but eventually I agree to help her help me and Kurt.

“One more thing,” Tina says. “Give me Vance Fisher’s number.”

After hanging up, I stir my soupy cereal some more. I glance at my phone. Twelve new texts in the last hour.

I stop reading after five and delete the rest. I’m feeling more and more anxious, and it hits me, again, how scared and lost Ronnie must’ve been during his last days. He asked me for so little—just to tell the truth, tell him what I saw—and I turned away from him. God! I wish I could have that last phone call with him back, wish I could do it all over again.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper over the table, acting as if Ronnie is sitting across from me now. “So, so sorry. I’ll make it right. I swear.”

The texts keep coming.

The hungry growl of a big engine rolling into my driveway makes me bolt for the front of the house. I lock the doors and shut off all the inside lamps and TV. It’s night out and a supercharged Camaro sits in my driveway, its headlights blasting our house. I peek out from behind curtains drawn across our front-yard picture window. I call my dad’s cell but it goes to voice mail. Figures. The Camaro reverses at an angle, tires rolling across our lawn, so the headlights hit the picture window. Then it stops.

Without thinking I dial Coach’s number, which he gave us after Ronnie died. The Camaro’s high beams flash on, pentetrating our house’s lace curtains like X-rays. Coach’s phone is ringing ... and ringing.... Come on, come on, pick up!

Outside I hear the Camaro engine rev like it’s getting ready to drive right through our house. I chance another peek around the curtains, see the passenger door open and Tom Jankowski step out.

Shit!

“Hello?” Coach Nelson’s voice answers over the phone.

“Coach! They’re trying to kill me!” I pant. “Right now!”

“Huh? Danny? Is that you? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

Tom’s throwing something. I hear it thud against our garage door. He throws again and again and more thuds pelt the side of our house. One slams against the picture window I’m standing next to, hits a foot from my head, and cracks the glass. I see the outlines of a smashed egg, lit from behind by the car’s headlights, running down the pane of glass. The car’s driver’s side door opens and Scott steps out. Then Mike Studblatz gets out. They’re both holding baseball bats, walking straight toward the window.

“Coach, they’re—” Fear catches my throat as I realize they’re about to shatter the thin glass and come grab me.

“Danny, tell me what’s wrong, kiddo. Talk to me.”

Our neighbor’s outside house lights come on across the street and their dog, Judo, starts barking. Mike, Tom, and Scott freeze, spin around, then jump into the car. The Camaro backs out, wheels spinning on our lawn, leaving a single black track of torn-up grass. As it flees the crime scene, the Camaro’s back tires flame our street with a smoky screech loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood, alerting everyone to the fact that my world is totally exploding.

“Danny?” Coach is still on the line.

“Uh . . . sorry, Coach,” I exhale. “I, uh . . . I’m having a nightmare. I’m sleepwalking. Must’ve dialed your number by mistake. I’m awake now.”

“Sleepdialing?!” Coach scoffs over the phone. “You on something right now?”

Yeah, I think. Fear!

“Maybe you want to talk for a while?” he tries. “You sound pretty scared. Where’s your dad?”

“I think ... I think I’m okay.” Now that the Camaro has left, I start feeling foolish for panicking and calling Coach. “My dad’s doing late rounds at the hospital.”

“I think I should speak with him when he gets back. Have him call me this week. Tell him anytime.”

“Okay, sure,” I say, knowing I’ll never pass on the message.