“It doesn’t matter anyway!” Patrick couldn’t sit down. He couldn’t. “It’s not like sex is anything to shout about! It’s icky, and the guy never wants to wear a condom, and I have to give a frickin’ health and safety lesson every time I give a blow job because they think I’m stupid, and I know you can get shit from giving head, and I’m not putting that thing in my mouth unless I get a written fucking guarantee that it’s not going to drop off or explode or give me some life-threatening disease or mutant antibiotic-resistant gonorrhea!”

“Who cares about my voice? There are more important things going on in the world. I want to make a difference. I’m going to law school. I want to become a public defender.”I couldn’t believe she’d give up singing to work with scumbags like me. “By the time a guy ends up in front of the judge, it’s too late to make a difference.”“It’s never too late to make a difference,” she said.“All I’m saying is that with your music you could have an influence on people before they end up in trouble.”

“My stomach flip-flopped, and I let his words play over in my head. “So, no costume?”Tod shrugged. “Nah. Don’t get me wrong—it’s hot. But it’s hot in an obvious kind of way. It’s not really you.”I frowned. “Because I’m not obviously sexy?”“Because you are obviously sexy. Some girls may need costumes to make guys want them, but I couldn’t possibly want you morethan I do right now, no matter what you were wearing. Or not wearing.”I stared up at him. “How is it possible that every time you open your mouth, I—” fall more in love with you “—melt a little more?”

“It’s like an inner struggle for me, between saying I don’t give a shit and trying to make it work. You want to do the right thing, but I’m sick of people thinking I’m difficult.”

“Is that dog shit on the bottom of your shoe?’I sat up a fraction. ‘What?’‘Is that dog shit on the bottom of your shoe?’‘I don’t know, the lab report’s not back yet,’ I replied drily.‘I’m serious, is that dog shit?’‘How should I know?’Katz leaned far enough forward to give it a good look and a cautious sniff. ‘It is dog shit,’ he announced with an odd tone of satisfaction.‘Well, keep quiet about it or everybody’ll want some.’‘Go and clean it off, will ya? It’s making me nauseous.’And here the bickering started, in intense little whispers.‘You go and clean it off.’‘It’s your shoes.’‘Well, I kind of like it. Besides, it kills the smell of this guy next to me.’‘Well, it’s making me nauseous.’‘Well, I don’t give a shit.’‘Well, I think you’re a fuck-head.’‘Oh, you do, do you?’‘Yes, as a matter of fact. You’ve been a fuck-head since Austria.’‘Well, you’ve been a fuck-head since birth.’‘Me?’ A wounded look. ‘That’s rich. You were a fuck-head in the womb, Bryson. You’ve got three kinds of chromosomes: X, Y and fuck-head.”

“Being on that pitcher’s mound, it’s the one thing I’m really good at. The one thing I haven’t fucked up. And when I’m on the field, everything else fades away. You know?” He turned to look at me, his eyes craving understanding. I smiled and he continued. “It’s like my mind is clear when I’m out there. It’s not about my mom or my dad or the stupid shit I’ve done. It’s about me, the ball, and the batter. It’s the one place in the world where I feel like I’m in control. Like I have a say in what happens around me.”I stopped my head from nodding in agreement once I realized that I was doing it. “I feel that way when I’m taking pictures. Anything that I’m not seeing through my lens fades away in the background. And I get to frame my picture any way I choose. I get to dictate how it looks. What’s in it. What isn’t. Behind that lens I have complete control in how things are seen.”He smiled, his dimples indenting his cheeks. “You get it.”