“Hey, yourself. Weren’t you going to call me the instant you got home from your pseudo-date?” she asks. “I want to hear all about it.”

“Oh, right.” I mute the TV. “So Micah took me to this completely freaktastic place where his ex-girlfriend’s sister works.” I give her a quick rundown on Mizz Creant’s.

“That sounds . . . strange. Did you guys get along okay?”

“Other than the fact that he blasted me with some weird shock device.” I start to smile thinking about it, even though it was totally not funny at the time. “It was awkward at first. He mentioned his dad in the car and I didn’t know what to say. But there were plenty of conversation starters at the restaurant.”

“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t terrible,” Bee says. “Where are you going to take him?”

“Not sure yet. Got any great ideas?”

“Hmm.” She yawns. “I’ll have to sleep on it.”

“Sounds good. Talk to you soon.”

Right as I hang up, a commercial for a home game against the Chicago Cubs comes on. That would be perfect. Jason has baseball season tickets. He would never miss a chance to see the Cardinals waste the Cubs. I’ve been to a handful of games with him so I know exactly where he sits. Micah and I can get tickets for the same section.

But how to make sure Jay sees us at a crowded baseball game? I head into my room and paw through the old birthday cards, notes, and ticket stubs in my bottom dresser drawer until I find a Cardinals ticket from last summer. Right-field bleachers. Fifth row. Seat 14. I’ll just have to look for open seats as close to there as possible.

After texting Micah to make sure he’s available on Sunday afternoon, I get online and check out the available tickets. Most of the first ten rows are already purchased, but there is a pair of seats way at the outside edge of the fourth row. If Micah and I entered from the wrong side we’d have to squeeze past the entire section. I’d pass right in front of Jay—there’d be no way for him to miss us. I start imagining the look on his face when I stroll by with my new “boyfriend” in tow.

Hello, mountaintop.

“I can’t believe you’re taking me to a Cards–Cubs game,” Micah says. “This might actually be kind of fun.”

“It’s the perfect place to run into Jason,” I say. “He’s got season tickets.”

We’re meeting up at Micah’s house again because his mom has to go straight from her job at the tattoo parlor to her job at the diner tonight, so no one will bother us.

During the school year, I also get a lot of parent-free time, but Mom spends her summers camped out in the study writing anthropology books and journal articles. Even though she’s been known to get so into her notes that she forgets to eat, I’m pretty sure me dragging a guy with tats and a mohawk into my bedroom would not escape her attention.

“Please tell me you’re not really going to wear that,” Micah says.

“What?” I’m wearing jean shorts and one of the only red things I own—an official Caleb Waters replica jersey.

“You can’t wear a soccer jersey to a Cardinals game. It’s sacrilegious.” Micah shakes his head in disbelief. “Let me see if Trin has something you can borrow.” He leaves the room and returns a few minutes later with a tiny red-and-white scrap of cloth that looks like a dinner napkin. He tosses it to me.

I unfold it and hold it against myself. It’s a baby-doll T-shirt, not even enough fabric to cover half of my chest. “No way,” I say. “This’ll never fit.”

“It looks like it would fit great to me,” Micah says innocently. And then, when I frown: “Fine. You can wear one of my shirts.” He ducks his head in his closet and comes back with two Cardinals tees on hangers.

“Why do you have all these baseball shirts?” I ask, trying to decide between the red shirt with a cartoon bird on it and the black one with the more traditional STL logo. “I wouldn’t have thought you were into sports at all.”

“Everyone in St. Louis is into the Cardinals, aren’t they?” he asks. “My dad used to take Trin and me to games when we were little.”

“My dad and my brother go a lot. Steve loves baseball.” I pull the red shirt from the hanger. “I’ll wear this one.” I start to remove my soccer jersey and then realize Micah is staring at me. “Turn around,” I order him.

“But you’ve got another shirt on under there,” he says.

“Yeah, but it’s a tank top. Just turn around.”

He mutters something under his breath about me strutting around Denali in less—not true!—but gives up and turns to face his closet. I back away to the other side of his bed and tug the replica jersey over my head. Micah whistles and I almost drop it on the floor. He’s totally checking me out in the mirror.

“Micah!” I hurriedly pull the Cardinals T-shirt over my head. “What is wrong with you?”

“What? You said turn around. You didn’t say close your eyes.”

“Perv.” I give him a dirty look.

His lips twitch, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Man. I had you figured for a lot of things, but uptight wasn’t one of them.”

“I am not uptight,” I say in what is probably the most uptight voice ever. “Now be quiet and find a hat or something to cover that freaktastic hair of yours.”

“You like this hair,” Micah says. But he digs a red Cardinals cap out of his closet. He flips the hat around in his hands and then puts it on backward. It’s amazing how normal he looks already. Well, except for . . .

I point at his eyebrow. I cough meaningfully.

“Not happening. It’ll close up if I take it out.”

“But—”

“No. It stays,” Micah says. “It’ll be like you replaced him with a bad boy. He’ll wonder if you’ve got some deviant fantasies he totally missed out on.”

The way he says it is almost flirty and I feel my cheeks growing warm. I ignore the comment and check my phone, even though I know exactly what time it is. “We should get going soon.”

When Micah stands up, other than the pierced eyebrow and tattoo on his neck, he looks like any other high school guy. But what will Jason think? Will seeing me with any other high school guy be enough to make him jealous?

“Want to drive my car?” Micah asks with a gleam in his eye.

“No freaking way. That thing doesn’t even qualify as a car.” I jingle my brother’s keys in front of his face. “I thought we’d take the train so we don’t have to worry about traffic.” Traffic would mean long periods of time trapped in the car together with nothing to say. Not to mention I’ve never driven downtown by myself and would probably end up going the wrong way down a one-way street or parking in a tow-away zone. Best to play it safe.

“Whatever you want,” Micah says. “I’m just a fake date along for the ride.”

We leave my brother’s car at the nearest MetroLink station and hop into the first car of a Red Line train that’s heading east toward St. Louis.

The car is half full of people in Cardinals apparel. Micah and I find forward-facing seats together. We’re ten stops from the stadium and I talk nonstop through the first eight. As the train gets progressively more crowded, I talk about the weather, Jason, soccer, Denali, Bianca, etc. The funny thing is, my brain is so busy playing out worst-case scenarios where Jason doesn’t even notice me or my “date,” that I have almost no idea what I’m saying and even less of an idea of how Micah is responding.

Or even if he’s responding.

I stop talking for a second. Crap. He’s not responding.

“Sorry,” I say. “I ramble when I get nervous.”

He punches me lightly in the side of the arm. “You ramble all the time. No wonder you got dumped.”

I frown. The words sting even though I know he’s kidding. What if that’s part of why Jason left me? If he decided I was annoying, he’ll probably be glad to see me with some other guy. Suddenly the whole plan seems like a terrible idea again, more art of insanity than art of war.

Micah hands me an earbud that’s connected to his phone. “Here. This will relax you.” A pulsing rhythm blares out of the tiny speaker. It reminds me of one of the songs we listened to on the way to Mizz Creant’s. Not the instrumental one. One of the faster songs. It’s got a catchy little chorus.

“Who is this?” I ask, momentarily setting aside my doubt.

“It’s Hannah in Handcuffs. I saw them in concert not too long ago. The song is called ‘Terrible Beauty.’ You like it?”

“It sounds like a bunch of cats being crushed by a steamroller,” I say, even though I don’t totally hate it.

Micah smiles. He’s not fooled.

The train slows to a stop and the stadium rises up in front of us, all red brick and black metal. I take a deep breath. Too late to turn back now. We exit with everyone else decked out in Cardinals gear, funneling out the MetroLink doors and across the platform in a stream of red. The gray pavement reflects the sun back at us. It’s shaping up to be a scorcher.

We pass the statue of Stan Musial, who according to my dad was one of the greatest athletes of all time. I’m thinking he couldn’t have been as good as Caleb Waters, but St. Louis never manages to keep a professional soccer team for very long, and the Cardinals have won, like, eleventy million championships, so baseball is much more popular here.

Micah and I enter the stadium where I am glad to be out of the sun for a few minutes. Vendors carrying coolers of beer and soda gracefully navigate the throngs of people. Pockets of blue—Cubs fans—snake their way through the red-and-white masses.

“Do you want food or anything?” Micah asks.

It’s a nice gesture considering that food here would probably cost more than I paid for our tickets. “No, that’s cool. I’ll eat later.”