Unfamiliar Territory

The snow changing to rain weather lingered for a few days. By Thursday, Alan began to pray for sunshine for Saturday, so the track team wouldn't have to go to Worcester to compete. When Friday dawned cold and sunny, he silently thanked whoever might be listening, and went to breakfast in a cheerful mood.

"You might not be so happy tomorrow," Zave said, his voice and face glum. "Just because it's sunny here today doesn't mean it will be at the other school tomorrow."

"A guy can hope, can't he?" Alan said with a grin.

The day remained sunny, with fluffy white clouds whipping by on the biting wind, and the track was dry enough for practice that afternoon, though the ground was still sloppy. So was the sand in the jump pit, and the high jump landing mat. Alan's shoes were covered in sand and his uniform was both wet and cold by the time he finished practice. He had changed his high jump style to the Fosbury Flop, and though he hit the bar more than once, Zave put it down to unfamiliarity.

"You do whichever you feel most comfortable with tomorrow, Pinky, and it'll all be good."

His long jumps had improved. Out of the several he did, he only hit the plasticine once. He was reminded of Gordon's parting words.

"Good work, Alan," Coach Evans said, nodding. "Now, jump like this tomorrow, and we'll actually get somewhere."

"I'll do my best, Coach."

"Hey, Blondie!" Sable was on duty again for the evening meal. "How's that fly-boy brother of yours?"

"He's good, I guess. Haven't heard from him lately." Alan handed her his tray. "I'll tell him you were asking for him."

"You do that. Let him know I owe him dinner next time he's out this way." She glanced up at the line behind Alan. "Hey, where's Specs?"

"Away game for quizzing." A.J. said as he stepped up. "Whizzards will cream the competition."

"So I hear." She smiled widely when Jason, whose face was already turning crimson, stepped up. "The package still hanging to the right, Red?"

"Uh, yeah. It is." Jason thrust his tray in her hands.

She held onto it, and gave him a long, slow wink. "Must be uncomfortable then; last time, you told me it was hanging to the left."

Jason's stricken face first drained of color, then flushed redder than before. He shook his head once, and fled from the tray return as quickly as he could without running. Joining his friends in the lobby, he pressed a hand to his face, sliding it down his cheek, and moaning, "Oh, God. Why does she pick on me?"

"Because you blush so prettily?" Kay offered, grinning.

"Because you get this deer-in-headlights look?" Alan commented, holding back a laugh with difficulty.

"Because your mouth moves like a fish's?" A.J. demonstrated what he meant by pursing his lips into a tight "O" and rapidly opening and closing them.

"Oh, God. Do I really do all that?" Jason moaned again, covering his face with both hands and shaking his head.

"Well," Alan said, rubbing his chin and sounding as if he were seriously considering the matter. "I don't think I've noticed the fish mouth."

The three boys laughed, and Kay clapped a hand on Jason's shoulder. "If it makes you feel any better, you're not the only one she teases like this."

"Oh?" Jason uncovered his face. The fierce flush had begun to recede. "Who else gets this treatment?"

"Julio Estevez. Zave says she teases him, too. He, however, usually has a snappy comeback. Looks like we still have to work on that with you."

"Yes, please!" Jason clasped his hands together and looked toward the ceiling. "Please help me come up with something, anything!"

"We'll work on it tomorrow when Pinky gets back from his meet," Kay assured him. "We'll have all of our brainpower assembled then."

"Can we meet in the snack shop?" A.J. asked. "I won't be going home this weekend; Dad'll be in Geneva, and I'd really like a milkshake."

"Sounds good," Alan said. "Let's plan on it. We can celebrate another Whizzards win with the Brain."

The boys shrugged into their jackets and hats, then left, heading for their respective dorms. "I'll walk A.J. up to Maplewood tonight," Kay offered.

"Why?" A.J. asked, looking puzzled. "The danger's over, isn't it? We don't have to walk in groups anymore, do we?" He glanced toward Alan, as if expecting an answer from him.

It was Jason who replied. "A.J., the school still expects it of us. And it's still a wise precaution. The danger is over from Sugi and his fellow nut-cases, but who knows what other idiots are out there? Mr. Mags and his minions can't be everywhere. So, we do what we can to keep ourselves safe. Right, Alan? Kay?"

"Right," Alan said softly. "My dad told me he expects me to be careful and stay safe. I'm sure your dad expects the same of you."

"Mine expects if of me, too," Kay said, nodding. "It's getting dark earlier these days. So, let's help each other out here, okay?"

A.J. sighed, but nodded. "Yeah, I guess so."

"So, c'mon, my man. Let's head for Maplewood." Kay put an arm around A.J.'s shoulder and began to guide him toward the door, with Jason and Alan following close behind.

"But..." A.J. stopped in his tracks and turned to face the others.

"But what, A.J.?" Jason said, sounding impatient.

"Can... can I just hang out with you guys for a while tonight?" The boy was trying hard to keep a whine out of his voice. "It's boring in my room without Fermat around."

Alan looked at A.J.'s face, and saw in it a familiar, beseeching look. The look he used to give his brothers when he wanted to be included in something they were doing. The look Fermat used to give him for the same reason, in the days before they had cemented their friendship. He understood that feeling, of being smaller, and younger, and wanting oh-so-much to be acknowledged and included. Suddenly, he smiled.

"Yeah, A.J., you can hang out with me tonight if you want." He turned to the others and asked, "What about it, guys? Wanna hang out with A.J. and me?"

Jason and Kay exchanged glances. Kay shrugged. "I guess so. What do you want to do, Alan?"

They started for the doors again, and with a wry smile on his face, Jason said, "Well, since the Brain isn't here, he can't do what they do every night."

"What's that, Jase?" Alan asked, playing into the joke.

"Why, try to take over the world, of course!"

The four boys laughed, and headed in the direction of the dorms. Kay said, "Maybe we can grab some munchies and find something good on TV tonight. Like another kung-fu movie marathon."

Alan nodded, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pockets. "Sounds like a plan to me."

"Hey, Dad." Scott gave his father a wave as he passed by. "What are you up to?"

"Research." Jeff was lounging in what Penelope had called the "hideous hammock", one hand behind his head, netbook perched on his torso where he could see it. Dappled sunlight played across the keyboard, and the fragrant sea breeze kept his shady bower comfortably cool. He scrolled down the page, making little humming noises as he read. Intrigued, Scott came over and peered at the screen, leaning up against the smooth-skinned bole supporting the hammock. What he saw made him frown.

"Counselors?"

Jeff glanced up and met Scott's puzzled look. "Yes. John told me that he'd discussed consulting one with Alan the other day. I want to know as much as I can about the pediatric counselors in Wharton's area so if Alan decides he needs one, they'll already be vetted." He shifted a little, crossed his long legs at the ankle, and went back to the screen. "Of course, I'm not the only one doing this; I have corporate human resources digging deeper."

Scott nodded sagely. "Ah. I get it. You're being proactive about this."

"Yes. If Alan needs the help, I don't want him to have to wait for it." Jeff looked up at his son again. "What are you up to?"

His son shrugged. "I dunno, really. It's been quiet on the rescue front for a while."

"Yes, it has. Too bad that call John got the other day was a false alarm."

Scott sighed. "Yeah. I mean, I'm glad that the local crews were able to handle it, but still..."

"I understand, son. Even life in paradise can be boring at times."

"Hey, Scott!" Virgil's shout caught their attention just before he came hurrying out, waving a data pad.

"Over here, Virge!"

Virgil pulled up next to the hammock. He nodded to his father. "Hey, Dad."

"Hello, son." Jeff smiled and held his hand out for the pad. "What do you have there?"

Virgil handed it over. "Brains finished designing the new camera docking bay on Thunderbird One. He wants to discuss it with Scott."

Jeff scanned the contents of the pad, nodding as he did so. "Looks like Brains is on fire with this project." He handed the pad to Scott.

"Well, he's imposed a deadline on himself," Virgil explained. "He wants the camera ready for testing and calibration with Thunderbird Five when John comes home next weekend."

"Heh." Jeff snorted a laugh. "And here he told me that the work would be done then, which is why I authorized John's return."

"I think he and John cooked this up between themselves." Scott was perusing the pad, frowning as he did so. "You know how much John wants to see the Sprout compete."

"I thought we were done calling Alan 'Sprout'," Jeff said, his tone mild, but one eyebrow raised as if in disapprobation.

"Well, yeah, I guess." Scott rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish expression on his face. "It was just a slip, Dad. Sorry."

"Forgiven. I know how hard it is to break a habit... Scoot."

Scott winced. "Okay. Message received, loud and clear." He hefted the pad. "I'd better go talk to Brains about this. There's got to be a better place for this contraption."

"Please remind Brains that my legal team is still in negotiations with Dr. Sugimoto over the purchase of the camera. The timing has to be such that when we first use it, it will look like we got the plans from another source, and not from him."

Nodding, Scott said, "I'll remind him, but I think the improvements he's making, especially for underwater use, will make it hard for anyone to track our version back to his plans."

He walked off toward the house, breaking into a trot as he neared the sliding door. Virgil moved as if he wanted to follow him, but paused, gazing back at his father with a troubled look.

"Dad?"

Jeff had gone back to his netbook. "Hm?" He glanced up to see Virgil hovering there. "Yes, son?"

Virgil swallowed heavily. "When... when can I..." He took in a deep breath and spat it out. "I'd like to see Alan compete, too."

"Ah." Jeff nodded. "I hadn't forgotten that, Virgil. I'm thinking about sending you along with John. He's got a surprise in store for Alan, but it means a longer flight. A second pilot wouldn't be a bad idea."

Virgil frowned. "But how would you handle a rescue?"

"I think we might manage with four of us here on the ground and Brains acting as command and control from Thunderbird Five."

The frown went from concerned to puzzled. "Four?"

Jeff smiled, his eyes twinkling. "Have you forgotten our Thunderbird-in-training?"

This caused Virgil to blink for a moment, then let out a loud, "Oh!" when realization hit. He smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Tin-Tin! Of course!" He shook his head, and snorted, a self-deprecating sound. "Yeah. Things could work that way."

"As I said, I'm still thinking about it." Jeff's tone held a note of warning. "I also want to discuss it with Brains and Scott. So don't get your hopes up just yet. I'll make my decision by mid-week."

"Okay. Fair enough." Virgil, visibly buoyed in spirit, grinned. "Thanks, Dad!" He gave his father a sharp salute, and turned to hurry back into the house.

Jeff's smile returned. He closed his netbook, placing it carefully beside him on the hammock. Lacing his fingers together, he put his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes.

"So, where are we going, Coach?" The day had dawned bright and bitter cold. Alan could barely suppress his excitement, as he waited his turn to climb onto the blue and silver Wharton bus.

Coach Evans couldn't help but smile at Alan's enthusiasm. "To Great Barrington, Tracy. Little place to the south of us. We'll be playing the Barrington School today."

"Cool. I hope we do as well as the Whizzards did last night."

"Did they win again?" Coach's bushy eyebrows rose with surprise.

"Yeah." Alan nodded vigorously. "Wiped up the floor with their opponents, or so I heard." He hadn't heard it from Fermat; he hadn't seen his friend since classes on Friday. The news of the quiz team's latest win was making the rounds, however; whether it had been embellished or exaggerated or not, Alan couldn't tell.

Evans chuckled, and raised his voice. "Figures that the only undefeated Wharton team so far this year isn't an athletic one. Maybe you all should try out for academic quiz next year!"

"No!" "Uh-uh!" "No way, Coach!" A chorus of denials sounded out behind Alan as he boarded the bus.

Alan found a seat near the center of the bus, and sat next to the window. The bus was a large, comfortable coach, with upholstered chairs lined up in pairs on both sides of the aisle. He fastened his seatbelt, then glanced up when Julio Estevez slid into the seat next to him. "Hey, Alan!"

"Hey, Julio."

"Great day, isn't it?"

Alan glanced out the tinted window, looking up at the clear sky. "Looks like it's gonna be a really good one."

As the bus pulled out, Julio settled down to play with his portable video game. He used a set of earbuds, so he wouldn't disturb those around him. Alan had his phone with him; it had games on it, and he could easily have done the same. Instead, he gazed out the window, watching the scenery go by.

He'd never really done this before, just enjoy the area for what it was. He was always looking forward, had somewhere to go, someone to meet, something else to think about besides where he was at the moment. Now, he took time to look, really look, at the area around his school.

Alan had seen mountains taller than the Berkshires, whose ridges, covered with trees both barren and green, surrounded them as they drove southward. Sometimes they were close, sometimes farther away, but always a looming presence. They passed a lake just outside of Pittsfield. Alan recognized it as one he, Scott, and Fermat had passed on their way to the mall... and the county prison. This time, he caught its name – Pontoosuc Lake – and wondered how to pronounce the word. He took out his phone, and snapped a picture of the lake, making sure he added the name as a note. John will know how to pronounce it.

They turned off at one point, taking a shorter route through downtown Pittsfield. Alan kept his gaze focused outward, taking in the buildings, the houses, the businesses. Grand old buildings, made of granite blocks. Shiny new buildings of glass and steel. Elegant old houses of brick and clapboard. The all-too-familiar medical center. A theater that hosted a stage company. A train station. Just past what seemed to be a historical district, they picked up Route 7 again. Alan took pictures of the buildings he thought were interesting. For today, he was a tourist.

As they continued south, he was constantly surprised at how rural the area still was. How forested it was. How many sere fields ran along the highway. They crossed under Interstate 90, the great Massachusetts Turnpike, that bisected the state lengthwise, from Boston to the New York state border. They passed through the town of Stockbridge, and skirted Lenox. The Berkshires came close, retreated, came close again. There were glimpses of lakes, of ponds, and occasionally, a river winding its way between the ridges.

Finally, they passed through a wide gap between two ridges and reached Great Barrington. It was smaller than Pittsfield, and reminded him somewhat of the even smaller town in Kansas where his grandmother still lived. A small brick library with ornate concrete trim, centuries-old churches built of stone and brick, a post office, a small community college, and any number of small shops and offices were among the buildings that lined Route 7, which at this point, was called, predictably, "Main Street".

As they entered Great Barrington, Coach Evans cleared his throat loudly. The chatter that had been like white noise in the background stopped. He picked up the driver's microphone, and said, "Testing."

A low ripple of laughter greeted him. He grinned, then sobered a bit. "We're coming up on the Barrington School, men. From the time we roll onto their campus until the time we leave, I expect you to comport yourself like gentlemen and good sportsmen. You will not abuse their hospitality, their grounds, their buildings, their equipment, or their people, players and staff alike. Remember that you represent Wharton Academy."

There was a near-unison chorus of, "Yes, sir!"

Coach nodded, pleased. He sat back down, and the excited chatter returned. Julio stashed his game away, tucking it into the pocket of the seat before him, and grinned at Alan.

"You'd better leave your phone on the bus; it's the safest place. Not only will it be locked up the entire time we're here, but the driver stays with it." He shook his head. "A couple of the guys have lost phones or other electronics when they brought them along to the lockers."

"Thanks for the warning, Julio." Alan slid his phone into its case, and followed Julio's example.

They stopped in the left lane of the four-lane road, waiting for oncoming traffic to clear. When there was a big enough break, the bus made a wide turn into what seemed to be a side road. Alan caught a glimpse of a sign for "The Barrington School" on a stone wall as they entered a shady drive. It wasn't a long one, and when they passed through the over arching trees, Alan's eyes widened. He gasped, then breathlessly added, "It's a castle!"

"Yeah!" Julio said, grinning. "Isn't it cool?"

The castle was made of unpolished blocks of gray granite, closely fitted, and sported round turrets with bright red slate roofs. Alan hauled out his phone and took picture after picture with the built-in camera. "We were just talking about castles the other day! Wait until the guys see this!"

Due to a number of too small, arched gateways, the coach had to take a more roundabout route than straight through to the small gymnasium, giving Alan plenty of time to view the grounds. "Look at the walls! It's like they have fortifications built into the corners."

"I never noticed them before," Julio said, leaning over to peer out the window. "Wonder what they do with them."

"I dunno, but they're pretty cool." Alan snapped some more pictures. "It would be awesome to go to school here."

"Hey!" Julio lightly smacked Alan on the back of the head, spoiling the picture that the latter was trying to take. "Wharton's lots better than this! This place is tiny."

"I didn't say that this place was better," Alan replied, putting away his phone. "Wharton's awesome in its own way. Besides," he added, a thoughtful look on his face, "you'd get too used to the castle and it wouldn't be special anymore."

Pulling up to the gymnasium at last, the driver found a space meant for buses, and finally stopped. Without a word of instruction, the boys began to file out, starting at the rear. Alan was the last in his row to pull out into the aisle. There was no pushing or shoving, though he felt crowded until he stepped off into the crisp morning air. Zave and John Carter were unloading the luggage bins under the bus, laying out the gym bags for the players to reclaim. Alan found his, shouldered it, then straightened to look around. A frisson of excitement made him shiver. My first away game! At a castle! This is gonna be so great! Maybe we'll have lunch in the castle and I can look it over then.

"Tracy!"

Coach's voice made him snap to, and he turned to see the old man beckoning him. "Yes, Coach?" he asked as he approached.

Evans waited until Alan was closer before speaking. "Alan, I want you to stick close to Lewis, Carter, or me when you're not competing. Because of recent events, there'll be a lot of interest in you. A lot of people will be taking pictures, especially during the afternoon meet. Security here is going to ride herd on the press and try to limit spectators to parents of the competitors, but they can't be everywhere. If anyone starts asking you questions, just say 'No comment' and walk away. Don't engage them, no matter what they say." The coach gave Alan a questioning look. "Understand me, Alan?"

Alan nodded sharply. "Yes, sir. You, Zave or John. Refuse to answer questions."

Evans locked gazes with the boy for a moment later, then nodded. "Good man. Now head on up with the rest to the locker room." Calling to Carter, who had finished distributing the gym bags, he said, "Carter, he's all yours. No pictures, no interviews, no comment."

"Right, Coach." Carter shouldered his own bag. "Come with me, Tracy."

Alan shifted his bag to make it easier to carry. "Coming."

"Ugh." Alan scowled, shaking his head and gasping for air. "I could have done way better than that."

"What do you mean, Pinky?" Zave asked as he handed a paper cup to Alan, who straightened up and drank it off. "You came in third. Jameson came in first. With that, we probably have the cross-country meet sewn up. Hold that thought." He stepped away to give Gatorade and encouragement to another Wharton runner, then returned to Alan. "Answer me, Pinky."

"I was distracted," Alan said as he walked around, stretching. "First away meet, new place... I was distracted for at least the first half. Every time I tried to focus, something new came into view and my focus went out the window." He made a face. "And something on that back stretch smelled... ugh!"

"I see." Zave nodded. "Shoulda warned you about the waste treatment plant. It's across the river from that back stretch." He hurried over to the last of the Wharton runners to come in. At this meet, there had been no injuries, so all the runners' scores would count. Once he had finished his task, he came back to Alan. "We'll talk about this later, Pinky. Get some more to drink, and get your stuff together."

Alan nodded and went off to follow instructions. He poured himself another drink, and started to gulp it down. As he did, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head just a little to see what it was... and his heart seized. His cup dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers, and he gasped.

"Alan?" Jameson, who was nearby, heard him and stepped closer. "What's wrong?"

By this time, Alan had turned to look more carefully, an expression of panic slowly fading into one of puzzlement. He glanced over at Jameson, and back to the bleachers, where a dozen or so people were sitting. "I thought..."

"What?"

Alan swallowed and got himself under control. "It... It was nothing." He shook his head and gave Jameson a weak smile. "I'm okay. It was nothing." He picked up his cup, crumpled it, and threw it into the trash container. "We'd better get our gear while the officials figure out who won this race."

It turned out that Wharton won the cross-country meet. So, it was a chipper Alan who settled into one of the tall backed chairs that lined the long table in the dining room. He couldn't help but gawk at the pillars of beige marble, the ornate, recessed ceiling, and the wide floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the back terrace. Coach Evans sat at one end of the fine cherry wood table, of which there were several, giving the room a far more utilitarian look than it should have had. Only the teams were eating lunch at this point; the rest of the students would be served once the tables were cleared.

"Manners, men, manners," the coach growled as servers came with platters and bowls of food to be passed around. He took a portion from each for himself, and passed the dishes along to his right. "There'll be plenty to eat, but mind your manners."

Alan took what he felt was a fair share of each food, and passed the bowl or platter to his neighbor, John Carter. He hoped that Zave, sitting at the other end of the table, would get his fair share, too, then realized with relief that the servers had started a second set of food dishes at Zave's end. These went down the other side of the table.

"Hey, Alan, aren't you hungry?" Carter asked, just before cramming his mouth full of salad.

"Yeah, I am," Alan replied as he cut up his meat. "But I'm not stuffing myself. Can't have a stomach full of food when trying to jump."

"Carter! Manners!" Coach Evans called.

Carter swallowed what he had in his mouth, and washed it down with water, then gave the coach a sheepish grin. "Sorry, Coach."

Alan paid attention to his food, looking up only once in a while to see how his teammates were faring. Once, he glanced down the table, and saw Jameson talking earnestly to Xavion. Whatever he was hearing, Zave obviously didn't like it because his brows were lowered in a scowl. He looked down the table at Alan, who glanced away quickly.

Dessert and the end of the meal came sooner than Alan had expected. They were directed to leave their plates on the table, with the utensils lying across it, handles to the right. Alan was the last to leave the room, and he glanced back to see a worker picking up the knives, forks, and spoons, sorting them into cups on a cart, while another worker followed to deal with the plates and glasses. He could only see the top of the second worker's head, but the when first bent down to pick up a wayward utensil, Alan could see briefly the profile of the plate collector...

What he saw made him bolt through the glass doors to the terrace. He took a few hurried steps, then realized what he looked like and slowed to a walk. He couldn't keep from looking back again, though the reflections from the outside, including his own pale copy, made seeing inside impossible.

When he turned to look forward again, he found his way blocked by a glowering Xavion Lewis. "We've gotta talk, Alan," the team captain said as he swung his head in the direction of the terrace rail, where Coach Evans sat, gazing out over the deep reflecting pool. "Let's go."

Alan sighed, and allowed Zave to herd him over to the coach, who met Alan's downcast look with a quiet, "Sit over here, son." He patted the stone balustrade beside him, and Alan obediently took his place. "Now, I've heard a couple of things that concern me, and I've seen one more. I don't want to discuss the lack of focus during your cross-country today. I think you know what was going on there, and I hope you will work on it for our next away meet. But Jameson here," Evans motioned to the boy who sat on the other side, "noticed something happen today that, quite frankly, freaked him out. Then I saw you come through those doors, pale and looking like a ghost was after you. So, tell me what it's all about, Alan."

Alan took in a deep breath and let it out in a long huff. He gazed at his hands for a moment, and just as Coach was about to prod him, he spoke. "When I was cooling down from the race, I caught a bit of movement out of the corner of my eye. It seemed familiar, and it was coming from the stands. I turned my head a little to see what it was, and I thought... I thought I saw Steve Ulrich sitting up there."

"Was he?" Coach asked, a concerned frown on his craggy face.

Alan shook his head. "No. He wasn't. Wasn't even anyone who looked like him. I just..." He swallowed and gave a half-hearted shrug. "I just imagined it."

There was another moment of quiet. Zave shooed away a couple of boys who had come over to see what was going on. This time, Coach did prod Alan. "And this time?"

"There were these two people clearing the table. One was picking up the forks and stuff, and the other was following behind, picking up the plates." Alan sucked in another deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. "I couldn't really see who was behind, though the hair looked sorta familiar. When the guy picking up the forks bent over, though, I could see the guy working with him. I could have sworn it was Sugi." He shook his head quickly, violently, and balled his hands up into tight fists. "But it couldn't have been. Sugi's in jail. He's. In. Jail." He pounded on his thighs as if to punctuate those last three words.

At this, Zave went back into the dining room and looked around. He saw the worker with the dark hair, noticing that he was of the same height and build as Lee Sugimoto, but was not even Asian. When he came back out, Coach was speaking to Alan again.

"Maybe it would be best if you didn't compete today." Zave heard as he got close.

Alan's eyes widened and his head shot up. "No, please, Coach. I can do this. I really can. It's my first away game; I just have some jitters, that's all."

"It's more than jitters, Alan." Coach was speaking softly and patiently. He glanced up at Zave. "Take our men down to the field so they can start warming up. Alan and I will be along in a few minutes."

The team captain nodded, and started rounding up the other players. A couple of them, Jameson among them, looked back as Zave herded them down towards the track.

"Again, Alan," Coach said. "This is more than jitters. It's indicating a deeper problem, one that, frankly, I'm not equipped to handle."

"Please, Coach. I can do this. I have to do this."

Evans shook his head. "If we're going to continue having incidents like these happening..."

"We won't." Alan straighted his shoulders and looked his coach in the eye. "I'm going to take care of it. My brother said I should see a counselor, talk this out with a professional." His gaze dropped a little. "I was planning to see Ms. Bell on Monday and ask who she'd recommend."

One of Coach's bushy eyebrows rose in disbelief. "Gordon told you this?"

Alan shook his head. "No, my second-oldest brother, John. He runs cross-country, too."

"Ah, I see." The coach rubbed his chin, and hummed a little. Finally, he put his hands on his thighs and rose from the balustrade. "Well, I'm glad you're going to seek out some professional help. That makes my decision a lot easier." He studied Alan, who still sat there, waiting. "I have to admit, you've fought a lot more demons than anyone else on this team, and you've worked hard to gain my respect." Nodding slightly, as if agreeing with his own decision, he said, "I'll give you a chance today. Just stay focused."

Jumping to his feet, Alan grinned widely, almost dancing around in his happiness. "I will, Coach. Promise! I will stay focused!"

"Okay. Let's get down to the track. The meet starts in 20 minutes and you have to warm up."

Together, Alan and Coach Evans jogged down to join the rest of the team.

Alan rubbed his hands together and blew on them. The temperature, which had climbed as the sun rose higher, had dropped again. Gray clouds were scudding quickly across the sky, threatening to cluster up and bring some sort of precipitation. He took a short breath, let it out, and started his run. The moment he hit the jump board, he knew he'd done it cleanly. He let his limbs move instinctively into his landing position, reaching as far forward as possible with his feet and hands, hoping to increase the distance of the jump. His feet hit the cold sand, and his momentum took the rest of him forward so he landed on his hands. Pushing off, he straightened, and dusted off his hands while waiting for the distance to be measured.

"Another nice clean one, Alan!" Coach said, beaming, as the record keepers announced the jump's length.

"Yes!" Alan hissed, pumping both fists down before bounding from the pit and picking up the rake to smooth the sand again. All three of his long jumps had been clean, and each seemed to be a little longer than the one before. He knew this event was over for the day, but was waiting until he had the go ahead from the judges to go on to the high jump. In the meanwhile, he shook hands with his competitor.

"Good jumps," he said, offering his hand to Berkshire's jumper.

"You, too." The other teen's tone was amiable. "What's next for you? I'm doing the pole vault."

"I've got the high jump."

"Then I'll see you around."

Both boys turned as the judge approached. "The winner is Alan Tracy, from Wharton." He named the length of the winning jump, which was Alan's final one. "Sam's second jump was a Berkshire record." He shook hands with both boys, Alan first. "Congratulations to you both."

"Thanks!" Alan said cheerfully. He trotted off toward the high jump, turning around to wave at his opponent. "See you again sometime, Sam!"

Sam waved back as he headed for the pole vault.

When he got to the high jump, there were two people waiting for him: a player from the other team in uniform, and an older man in street clothes. "You Alan Tracy?" the man asked, sounding indifferent.

Something about him made Alan wary. His first thought was that this was a parent or other teacher recruited to be an official. But a niggling little voice reminded him of what Coach Evans had told him earlier about the press. It's not going to hurt to tell him who I am. Once I do, then I'll know where I stand with him.

"Yeah. I'm Alan Tracy." His eyes flicked from the man to Barrington's player. He could see that the player was mildly interested in the byplay, which really told him nothing about the man's intentions. "Who are you? Are you officiating today?"

The man smiled and shook his head. "Well, no, Alan, I'm not. My name is Matt Abrams; I'm with The Berkshire Record..."

Abrams got no further than that before Alan scowled and said, "I have no comment." He turned and looked around for the coach, Carter or Xavion. He saw Zave helping out at the shot put circle, and started toward him.

"I just want to ask a few questions, that's all." Abrams hurried forward and intercepted Alan, careful not to put a hand on the boy. He smiled, trying to look both sympathetic and ingratiating at the same time. "I'm sure you've had a hard time with all the police questioning and the publicity, but now that you're a public figure..."

Alan's scowl intensified. "My father is a public figure" he said in brusque, clipped tones. "I am not. I have no comment." He waved an arm; he had spotted his coach. "Coach Evans!"

"Okay, I get that you're not a public figure, but you've been involved in a recent, high-profile legal case. High-profile, I might add, because it involved you. Don't you want the public to hear your side of the story?"

Coach Evans saw Alan waving, and the man confronting him. He realized what was happening, but he was in a position where he couldn't get away. He shouted over to Xavion, and pointed in Alan's direction. "Lewis! Go give Tracy a hand!"

Zave looked up when his name was called, and glanced over toward Alan. "Got it, Coach!" He excused himself from the shot put venue, saying he would be right back, and made his determined way to Alan's aid.

Alan, in the meantime, had been trying to dodge Abrams, so he could meet Zave halfway. But Abrams was nothing if not persistent. He moved to block Alan every time. "Alan, please. Just a few questions and I'll get out of the way."

"You'll get out of the way now." Zave pulled up behind the reporter, his deep voice sounding as menacing as his scowl and folded arms looked. "You okay, Alan?" Alan nodded, not willing to say anything that the reporter could use. Zave motioned with his head in the general direction of the high jump. "They're waiting for you. Better get over there, while I find some security to deal with this guy."

"I have a right to be here," Abrams asserted, pivoting around to confront an impassive, impressive Xavion. Relieved, Alan turned and hurried back to where the player, now joined by two others, one in official Barrington uniform, pointed toward him.

"You might have a right to be here, but not to question a minor." Coach Evans had finally been able to break loose of his obligation. "Lewis, go find security."

"Right." Zave sprinted off toward the bleachers, where a few dozen people were gathered, watching the meet.

"Your name?" Coach Evan's tone was steely.

The reporter folded his arms defiantly. "I have no comment."

Sharp brown eyes flicked over to where Alan stood, waiting for his competitor to make the first jump. "Doesn't matter. I'm sure Alan will know it, or the police will get it out of you."

"The police can't do anything. This is a public event." Abrams's tone was smug.

"Oh, it's not the police you should worry about anyway." There was a hint of humor in the coach's voice as he saw Zave returning with a Barrington School security guard. "I'd worry more about the boy's father, if I were you. Once Jeff Tracy finds out you've been harassing his son...he's an extremely protective father..." He trailed off, shaking his grizzled head, as Abrams paled a little. Once Zave was in earshot, he told the team captain, "Go see that Alan's okay."

"Yes, Coach." Zave changed direction and headed for the high jump, while the security guard made his way over to the coach.

"What do we have here? Abrams, again?" The security guard, whose name tag read, "Millard", took hold of Abrams's arm. "Thought you learned your lesson last time." To Coach Evans, he said, "I'll take it from here, sir. If you'd have the young man he was speaking to see me after the meet, I'd be obliged."

"Of course. I'll have Alan talk with you as soon as we're done here."

Alan looked up as Zave approached. The Barrington jumper had finished his first jump, and the judges were in a quiet argument over whether or not he'd hit the bar.

"Gotta make this quick, Alan," Zave said, glancing back to the starting line. "Coach wants to know if you're okay."

Alan nodded. "I'm fine, Zave." His eyes followed the security guard, who was escorting the reporter off the field. "Now that he's gone, I can focus properly."

"Okay. If there's any more trouble, you know what to do." Zave began to trot backwards, waiting for Alan's last word.

"Right. No problem."

With that, Zave turned around and sprinted for the starting line on the other side of the track. Alan turned as one of the judges asked, "Are you ready, Alan?"

"Yes, I am."

He backed up until he felt he was far enough away, focused all of his thought on the bar. With a small skip, he began his approach, and leapt skyward.