Kyle Saint-Claire is everything Jonny Fehey wishes to be: a star on and off the soccer field, a brain, and one of Millburn High’s most popular students. Jonny unhappily accepts his lesser social status—but then he scores the winning goal in the county soccer championship and everything changes. Jonny is invited to a victory party with the in-crowd, and alcohol flows freely as toasts are raised in his honor.

But in his moment of glory, a classmate is raped and Jonny's world begins to unravel. Through years of friendship, Kyle and Jonny have always stood up for each other, but suddenly their friendship is tested. All their training together, pain and dedication become meaningless; Jonny’s preconceived notions are shattered; and someone is out for revenge.

It’s morning.

I’m awake. I wish I wasn’t.

After a night drowning in alcohol, I’m worse than hung-over—I’m still wasted. So I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, my head quivering when my eyes are open. But when they’re shut it’s as if my bedroom is spinning clockwise and counterclockwise, simultaneously, like one of those amusement rides down the Shore.

My tongue is rough and bone dry and so swollen it doesn’t fit my mouth. I try to swallow. Then try again. But I can’t gather any spit, so there’s nothing to squeeze down my throat. My arms brace. It’s like I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!

Blackness closes in...

I’m gonna pass out...

I’m gonna—

In the next moment, air suddenly fills my lungs. I gasp greedily for more until, eventually, my arms go slack. Then the rest of my body, too.

I smell something nasty. I touch my fingers to my face—it’s puke—then look down. I’m still wearing my shirt from last night. It’s stained. My pillow, too.

The horrid taste in my mouth vaguely reminds me of the grilled cheese I ate for dinner, and the beer and Bacardi that followed. But I’m not sure exactly what remembering means, because memories of last night seem like really bad dreams—fading in, fading out, overlapping, sometimes believable, most times not. I pull off my shirt and wipe my face, then push the pillow off my bed.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Ma?”

I hear her muffled voice on the other side—at least I think I do. Something about a friend who’s upset, waiting downstairs, waiting for me.

“What, Ma?”

No answer.

Maybe what I thought was my mom’s voice was just the rush of heat through our house’s air vents. Or the wind outside. Or maybe it was my imagination still sloshing in the backwash at the bottom of that final beer bottle I might’ve finished, or spilled, or tossed into the woods near South Pond.

I prop myself up.

Lousy idea.

Vomit climbs up my throat again. I fight to swallow it back down. I close my eyes, but that just makes my head swirl, so I open them again, waiting for the room to settle.

Time passes.

I don’t know how much. It’s too much effort to look at the clock on my nightstand. I feel like crap and doubt a shower is going to change that very much. I manage to sit up, then put my feet to the floor and stand.

“Ahhh!”

Pain rifles up my left leg. I fall to my knees and grab my ankle. It’s swollen, a sickly black-and-blue, and hurts like hell. Is it broken? Did I tear a ligament? I try to remember when and what happened, but can’t.

In the corner, something catches my eye—my home whites and a soccer ball. I scored yesterday in the county championship game, right? I scored the game-winner, didn’t I? The specifics of how I received the ball and the shot I took are a bit muddled. It was so unlikely, so remarkably unexpected.

I limp over to the window, hold open the curtains, and lean my hands on the sill. It’s a raw, blustery morning. No one’s on our front lawn, and I don’t see anyone outside the Saint-Claires’ house across the street.

Then I hear something behind me.

I turn around, hold my breath, and listen.

Sounds like whimpers.

A girl’s.

My eyes dart around the room. In the closet. Behind the desk and dresser. Under my bed. But I see nothing.

The whimpers grow louder. As they do, it becomes apparent to me that something more significant than a soccer game occurred in the past twenty-four hours.

On the floor, my jeans and shirt are strewn about. They seem damp and smeared with dirt. A smell of pine and stale beer lingers. So does a sickening feeling. Last night begins to piece itself together.

Walking with Kyle along the dirt path around South Pond...

Going to the circle...

Laughing and joking with guys on the soccer team...

Drinking...

Hanging out with people in the crowd...

Drinking a boatload more...

Talking to Sloan Ruehl for a while—Sloan Ruehl for God’s sake—the hottest, bitchiest girl at Millburn High...

Taking a piss in the woods...

Lying face-down on the ground...

What happened after?

Did I pass out? Or fall? Or was it something else? And how the hell did I get home? The whimpers, pained and desperate, crawl across the floor, climb up my body, and burrow inside my mind. I can’t stop them. Can’t quiet them. I fall back against the wall and slide down. I put my hands over my ears, but the whimpers scratch my eardrums, punishing me.

The bedroom is silent.

My eyes are dry and a searing headache has pierced my temples. Twice more I’ve booted whatever was left in my stomach into a wastebasket. I wipe my mouth.

I’m dizzy. It’s late morning, but my room is still dark, and all I want to do is sleep for a long, long time.

Copyright © 2009 by Alfred C. Martino. Published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, Inc. and reproduced with permission. All rights reserved.