“What? You what? What the heck are you doing? We were supposed to blend in, remember?”

  “Blend in? Blend in?” Trevor laughed on the other end of the phone. “You call planning to find our biological mother blending in? My parents would go nuts. You could find some crackpot who just wants to get on the cover of People magazine.”

  Sam was so angry, he was nearly out of breath. “I guess if I grew up with a mother like yours, I might think that about our mother, too.”

  Trevor went silent.

  Sam looked up at the house. He saw a gardener slip out of the roses and into the hedge beyond with a set of hand shears. Trevor’s mom appeared out on the back terrace, saw him, and waved with a huge smile on her face.

  “Hi, angel!” The thick trees and carefully cut hedges absorbed the sound of her voice, making it seem small, but the affection was unmistakable.

  Sam waved back and felt like a rat.

  52

  SAM

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said into the phone. “I shouldn’t have said that. It was stupid.”

  Trevor remained silent.

  Sam tried not to choke on his words. He spoke softly. “I grew up without a mom, is all. I just thought, you know, she’s out there somewhere. She’s my mom, even if you don’t want her to be yours, and everything for you is so easy. I snap my fingers around this place and people are running to get me Skittles or sushi or make the movie my dad’s been dreaming about for twelve years. So all of a sudden it seems like I can have anything I want, and I want her.”

  Trevor finally took a deep breath on the other end. “I get it.”

  Sam said, “And you accept my apology? I really mean it. I feel stupid. Your mom’s not bad. She’s waving at me right now and grinning like a jack-o’-lantern.”

  Trevor laughed like he’d seen that before and seemed to change gears. “It’s okay. And don’t worry, Wolf won’t hurt you. Dolph has him trained like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

  “He knows I’m not you, though, I tell you that.”

  “He’s smart, that’s all,” Trevor said. “Man, this is like eating spaghetti with a spoon. I mean, we’re kids. How complicated can our lives be?”

  “Like spiderwebs.”

  “You’re telling me. That Klum? What a jerk.”

  “I know.”

  “Listen, will you do me a favor?” Trevor asked.

  “Of course.”

  “If you can find her—your mom—go ahead. But promise me you won’t tell her about me, and you have to promise that you won’t contact her until you’re you again, and I’m me.”

  “But once she sees me,” Sam said, “she’ll know about you. I look just like you now.”

  “She won’t bother me if you tell her not to.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because you’ll tell her what I said.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That when she gave me away, she turned her back on me, and no one turns their back on me and gets away with it. Tell her I don’t want to see her. Ever. You tell her that. She’ll stay away.”

  It was Sam’s turn to go quiet.

  “You there?” Trevor asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here. Thanks. I better go. Your mom looks like she really wants to see me—you.”

  “Yeah, you better. She doesn’t like to wait. Thanks for the advice on the curveball. I can’t believe it’s as easy as that dot.”

  “Some people can’t see the dot.”

  “I guess I’m a natural baseball player.”

  Sam laughed. “And I might be a natural actor. I’m not bad.”

  “Okay, good luck.”

  “And good luck to you in the game. Just get along with Klum. The real way to get him back is to get into USC Elite. When that happens, he’ll get everything he deserves, and trust me. I will beat him.”

  53

  TREVOR

  A fat orange sun crawled up over the lip of the dark blue hills. The last of the birds ended their morning songs and settled in for the coming heat. As Trevor scuffed his feet along the driveway outside the trailer, the smell of the landfill crept through the cool shadows and up his nose. He sniffed and turned away from the sunrise. He thought of his own yard, the smell of cut grass and flowers and the towering trees that shaded them from the sun. Beside the trailer sat a stack of used tires, a broken toilet, and a rusted refrigerator, junk that might have come to life and crept up out of the landfill so that what Trevor saw was almost as nasty as what he smelled.

  Trevor shook his head and set out on a mission to retrieve Sam’s bat bag from the tiny bedroom. The trailer door opened with a creak, and inside Sam’s father emerged from the shower drying his hair. “Already dressed and ready to go?”

  Trevor shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Nervous?” Sam’s dad wrinkled his brow. “You never get nervous.”

  Trevor turned away. “I want to get there early and work this curveball some more, get my groove back, that’s all.”

  When Trevor emerged from Sam’s bedroom with the bat bag, Sam’s dad had two bowls of cereal out on the table and orange juice in paper cups.

  “I’m good.”

  “You’ll be good with breakfast in you.”

  “Why do they say that, anyway? Do you really believe it?”

  Sam’s dad looked up. “You feeling okay?”

  “Sure,” Trevor said. He sat down and spooned in a few mouthfuls of cereal, chewing mechanically and forcing himself to swallow.

  He set his spoon down and looked at his watch.

  “Okay, I get it.” Sam’s dad picked up the bowl and tilted it toward his face, finishing it before he got up, took Trevor’s bowl, and put them both in the sink. “Let’s go.”

  Trevor followed him out. They rode to the practice field without talking. When they pulled into the parking lot, Sam’s dad said, “Don’t forget, after batting practice you’re going to ride to the game with Coach Sharp. I’ll meet you there.”

  Trevor remembered to kiss and hug Sam’s dad before jogging off to batting practice. Sam was the first player there, and Coach Sharp seemed happy to pump some curveballs through the pitching machine in the small cage beside the field. Trevor screwed up his face and focused on the pitches, getting into a good groove by the time the other Blue Sox players and assistant coaches showed up.

  Coach Sharp checked his watch and called them all together, reminding them that they’d practice batting for an hour before they got into his and his assistants’ cars and rode to the game field as a team. Trevor had a thin sweat going by the time they finished. The excitement continued to build, and by the time Trevor climbed into the backseat of Coach Sharp’s Tahoe, he couldn’t hold still.

  “Quit shaking your leg, will you?” Cole Price said, turning around in the front seat. “Your knee is in my back.”

  “Sorry.” Trevor grabbed his knee with both hands to stop it.

  Coach Sharp played a soul CD from the eighties, stuff Trevor and the rest of the kids never heard of but that Coach Sharp sang along to as if they weren’t there. When they pulled off the highway and passed Dodger Stadium, Trevor’s nervousness only increased. The memory of his embarrassing experience with the Dodgers a few days ago churned his stomach as they rode to a far corner of Elysian Park. The stands were already filled with spectators. Parents and friends of the Blue Sox players wore blue and red, but plenty of people were there in the purple and white of Palos Verdes, whose team warmed up on the grass.

  “Here we go, boys,” Coach Sharp said, putting his truck into park.

  They piled out and unloaded their gear in the dugout. Trevor sat there with Frankie and RJ, waiting for Palos Verdes to get off the field. His stomach flopped around in his belly like a walrus. The excitement he had imagined he would feel choked under the grip of jangling nerves.

  “They look big,” Frankie said.

  “They stink,” RJ said. “They lost ten-to-two to that San Diego Sharks team we beat in the Pasadena tournament by five.”

  “Never judge a team by its past performance. On any given day, any team can beat another,” Frankie said. “That’s what Dad says, ‘on any given day.’”

  “Dad was a lacrosse player.” RJ left the bench as if that were the final and decisive point of the argument.

  Trevor warmed up with the team, unable to shake his nerves. During the national anthem, he had to cross his legs, then quickly find a bathroom when it was over. He was horrified upon his return to see that the first two batters had already struck out and he was up.

  “Sam, you okay?” Coach Sharp put his hands on Trevor’s shoulders.

  Trevor could only nod as he scooped up a helmet and Sam’s bat from the rack where he’d left it. “Fine.”

  “Okay, well, go get him. Watch out for the changeup. He’s throwing heat, but we know he’s got that pitch.”

  Trevor took slow steps toward the plate. The sun, well above the trees, shone bright and hot. Dust swirled on a small breeze along with the smell of hot dogs and cut grass. It was a setting worthy of a sports movie, but none of it held any of the thrill Trevor had imagined it would.

  Instead, he had to choke back the acid creeping up into his throat. Instead of the pitcher, all Trevor could think about was how glad he was that if he did lose it, his breakfast wouldn’t make too big of a mess because he barely ate.

  Gone was the joy of competing and the excitement of the game. Everything was vomit and nerves and trembling muscles.

  Trevor swung his bat a few times but felt almost nothing below his elbows, not his hands, not the grip, not the bat. The umpire cleared his throat and told Trevor to get going. Trevor stepped into the box. The pitcher wound up and threw a burner, right down the pipe.

  Trevor shut his eyes and swung.

  54

  SAM

  Sam woke up late. He lay still, remembering where was and who he was supposed to be, then stretched and yawned, enjoying it. Trevor’s phone blinked a red eye at him from the bedside table, letting Sam know there were messages waiting. He ignored them because he could and stepped into the shower. He whistled to himself as he scrubbed his body and hair, then dried off with a puffy warm towel.

  Trees cooled the air, and the hint of a breeze brought the scent of orange trees with it through the open windows. Sam stepped out onto the terrace and looked along the north side of the mansion and out over the lawn, marveling that one family could live in a place big enough for at least a hundred people.

  The chop of a helicopter as it cruised over the treetops above dropped a weight in his gut. He was excited because he’d never ridden in a helicopter, and happy it would fly him over the heavy beach traffic to the home in Malibu. But it would also bring him that much closer to his meeting with Trevor’s father—due in on their private jet from Australia. That was the good news Trevor’s mom had given him yesterday in the garden, and Sam did his best to act excited.

  Downstairs, Sam appeared in the breakfast room wearing a Joe Girardi Cubs jersey over a pair of Michael Jordan shorts. Trevor’s mom sat not in her robe and turban, but dressed in shorts and a snug jacket that looked like something a band leader would wear. Her hair fell like billowing fog around her face, blond and shiny, and her face had been carefully made up with scarlet lipstick to match her jacket. She was texting as she talked on the phone, and she sipped coffee as she picked over a croissant filled with jam.

  The smell of fresh bacon and scrambled eggs cut through the scent of fresh-cut flowers in vases around the room. The thought of food overcame Sam’s distress over meeting Trevor’s dad. He loaded his plate and sat down across from Trevor’s mom. She gave him a quick wave and blew him a kiss, pointing to her phone. Sam nodded that he understood and dug in.

  Sunshine, flowers, and rich green bushes and trees glittering with dewdrops filled the big bay window. Below the flowery terraces dancing with little yellow birds, a waterfall gurgled into the pool. Sam couldn’t help comparing the sights and smells to his own cramped trailer and landfill. The tinkle of crystal glasses and silver utensils against thin china plates were a world away from the sawing of plastic knives, the tearing of paper plates, and the hollow thump of wax-covered cups set down on a plastic tabletop. Sam ate until he was ready to burst, and Trevor’s mom finally got off the phone.

  “You ready, angel?”

  Sam looked down at himself, wondering if he was dressed right or if there was something he needed to bring. “Sure.”

  “Good, come on.”

  Sam followed Trevor’s mom. They walked back into the house to the elevator and stepped into its spacious wood-paneled car.

  “Oh, your father has to leave first thing in the morning, so I don’t know if you want to invite a friend for tomorrow, but you can. I’ve got a party you wouldn’t want to go to in the afternoon.”

  Sam felt his heart leap. “Can I invite McKenna?”

  Trevor’s mom put on a big pair of sunglasses and pushed the elevator button before she smiled at him. “McKenna? Of course. She’ll have to have someone drive her out. We can’t keep your father waiting.”

  Up they went, emerging out onto the roof beneath a small pavilion. Across a short stretch of the flat roof, a silver helicopter waited with its blades still. Thomas stood beside it at the top of a set of steps. As they approached, he opened the door. Sam followed Trevor’s mom, stepping inside a cabin dressed out in glimmering red-brown wood, leather, and brass. They sat next to each other in comfortable bucket seats. Thomas stepped in and closed the door, speaking in a low voice to the pilots before he sat stiffly in one of the remaining four empty seats.

  The engines whirred, and the blade began to chop. Trevor’s mom took out her phone and smiled at him. “Got to tweet a bit. Stu was bugging me about that. I’m sure you do yours without thinking.”

  Sam nodded and realized that he had neglected Trevor’s tweet. He took out Trevor’s phone and got onto his page. He felt a thrill scamper up his spine as the helicopter lifted off the roof. The earth below him sank away. The huge mansion, pool, and gardens quickly became a small design, then they surged forward, passing over the hilltops and mansions of the other wildly wealthy people of Bel Air.

  Sam quickly typed into the phone:

  riding the helicopter to Malibu. Dad is bk from Australia 4 a day at the beach. Life is good;)

  Sam read it over and giggled to himself before sending it. Who would believe?

  Below, the snarling traffic of LA jammed the highways as the rest of the world tried desperately to get to the waiting ocean and waves. Thomas sat staring straight ahead, the picture of a storefront mannequin. Sam looked at his phone for the time. He knew that right about now, Trevor and his team must be taking the field against Palos Verdes. They could win without Sam, that he knew. He wondered if Trevor would think the deal was worth it. It was hard to imagine how that could be: preferring a Saturday morning ball game to riding in your personal helicopter to Malibu? Sam shook his head.

  The ocean glinted with sunshine. Ragged lines of waves drifted toward a beach already dotted with umbrellas and chairs for the day in front of the homes stacked up on the dunes. They descended to one of the biggest places Sam could see, landing on the roof and getting off as the blades still whirled above them, entering a pavilion and elevator that seemed like a brother to the one in the Bel Air mansion. Sam couldn’t believe it, but to Trevor’s mom it was clearly no big deal.

  Down they went into the house. Sam was distracted by the marble sculptures, modern paintings, and odd-shaped windows looking out over the glittering ocean. He tried not to gawk, but he knew his eyes were wide and he just couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping. Before he knew it, they were walking out onto a half-round terrace facing the waves. The surf crashed. Sam smelled the sand and the ocean. Leaning out over the balcony was a man in swim trunks and a short-sleeve beach shirt. The breeze lifted his silver hair. His skin was tan and muscular.

  Trevor’s mom said, “Darling!”

  The man turned around. He was smaller than Sam expected, and his face instead of scowling and serious—like he was in all the pictures Sam had seen—was smiling and relaxed.

  “Diana.” He kissed Trevor’s mom long enough to make Sam look down at his feet. “Trevor. Come here, Son.”

  Sam looked up and crossed the terrace, shaking the Hollywood giant’s outstretched hand.

  55

  TREVOR

  Trevor struck out, three times. He committed two errors in the field—plays he knew he could make but choked on. Coach Sharp couldn’t even look at him anymore. Sweat soaked Trevor’s uniform, and a layer of dust caked his skin from a dive he took into the dirt to snag a grounder. His knee hurt, and the underside of his forearm was scraped and bleeding.

  Trevor sat in the dugout and sighed. He couldn’t wait to get back home, where things were nice and easy and no one dared to scowl at him. The whole thing was awful, and he asked himself what he’d been thinking. The Blue Sox were losing, too. With just one inning to go, they were down by a run. Their last batter of the inning struck out, and the Palos Verdes crowd cheered. Trevor reached under the bench for Sam’s glove, got hold of it, and stood to take the field.

  When he did, he bumped into Dorian Klum. Klum tensed up and bumped him back, knocking Trevor into the bench so that he sat down hard. Trevor clenched his fists.

  “Yeah, come on, why not?” Klum spoke in a harsh whisper. “Let me bust you up. You’re no good to any of us anyway; even Coach Sharp can see that. You must know how much you stink. USC? Ha, fat chance, but if you blow this for me? I swear, I’ll bust your face.”

  Klum kicked Trevor’s foot and kept going.

  It wasn’t fear that kept him from pouncing on Klum. It was the painful realization that Klum was right, not about Sam, but about him. He did stink, and he was blowing it for Sam. Everyone expected the Blue Sox to destroy the Palos Verdes team. This was just the quarterfinals of the big tournament. Palos Verdes was the last seed of the entire tournament. Trevor knew from his teammates’ talk that the two wins Palos Verdes got just to get to the quarterfinals were the result of some incredible luck. This time—if Palos Verdes won—it would be because of some very poor play by the Blue Sox, especially Trevor’s.