Chapter 6
Karen was right.
It was not over.
By morning, the story had reached school.
Not the truth.
Karen’s version.
I walked into seventh grade with my cheek still faintly red and my mother’s broken glove in my backpack.
People stared.
Whispers followed me down the hall.
I caught pieces.
He hit his stepmom.
She got arrested because of him.
He lost the game and freaked out.
His mom died, so he’s messed up.
My chest tightened.
Lucas found me by my locker.
His face was serious.
“My mom says Karen is a psycho.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
“Thanks.”
“I saw her slap you.”
I looked at him.
“You did?”
“Everyone did.”
“Then why are people saying I hit her?”
“Because people are stupid.”
That did make me laugh.
A little.
Lucas bumped my shoulder gently.
“You coming to practice?”
I looked down.
“I don’t know.”
“You should.”
“I lost us the championship.”
“No, your evil stepmom cut your glove.”
I flinched at the word evil.
Lucas noticed.
“Sorry.”
“No. It’s fine.”
But it wasn’t fine.
Because if Karen was evil, then why had Dad married her?
Why had I tried so hard to make her like me?
Why had I believed maybe I was the problem?
First period felt endless.
By lunch, the principal called me to the office.
Dad was there.
So was Aunt Laura.
And Ms. Grant from CPS.
My stomach dropped.
“Am I in trouble?”
Dad stood immediately.
“No.”
Principal Harris gestured to a chair.
“We need to talk about some things that were sent to the school.”
My mouth went dry.
“What things?”
She turned a folder toward Dad.
Printed emails.
From Karen.
To the school.
To the counselor.
To the athletic director.
Subject lines like:
Concerns About Ethan Miller’s Aggression.
Ethan’s Obsession With Baseball.
Unsafe Behavior After Mother’s Death.
My face burned.
Dad read them.
His hands shook.
Karen had written that I threatened her.
That I broke dishes.
That I shoved her “often.”
That baseball made me unstable because I tied it to my deceased mother.
She requested I be removed from the team.
Removed from the team.
That hurt almost worse than the slap.
Baseball was the one place I still felt close to Mom.
She loved baseball before I did.
She taught me to keep score.
She said catchers were the heart of the field because they saw everything.
Karen wanted to take that too.
Principal Harris looked at me gently.
“Ethan, I need you to know these emails do not match what your teachers, coaches, or school counselor have observed.”
I blinked.
“They don’t?”
“No,” she said. “You are quiet. Responsible. Sometimes sad. But you have never been violent here.”
Dad covered his face.
Aunt Laura’s eyes filled.
Ms. Grant asked, “Did Karen know your school login information?”
I nodded slowly.
“She made me give her my password. She said parents should have access.”
Dad looked up sharply.
“She did what?”
“She checked my grades every night.”
Principal Harris typed something.
“We’ll reset everything today.”
Ms. Grant continued.
“Did she ever send messages from your account?”
My stomach twisted.
“I don’t know.”
Principal Harris frowned and clicked through her computer.
Then she went still.
“Actually,” she said softly, “there are messages from Ethan’s student account to Mrs. Miller.”
Dad leaned forward.
“What kind?”
She turned the screen.
My name.
My school email.
Messages I had never written.
I can’t control my anger.
I hate Dad.
Sometimes I want Karen gone.
I stared at the screen.
“That wasn’t me.”
Dad said immediately, “I believe you.”
The speed of it shocked me.
I looked at him.
He looked back, eyes wet.
“I believe you,” he repeated.
Principal Harris printed the messages for CPS and police.
Karen had not just lied about me.
She had used my own name to make the lies look true.
By the end of the meeting, my school accounts were locked, the counselor scheduled regular check-ins with me, and Coach Thompson was notified that I was to stay on the team unless I chose otherwise.
When we left the office, Dad stopped in the hallway.
“Ethan.”
I looked at him.
“I’m sorry she made school unsafe too.”
I nodded.
I didn’t know what else to do.
After school, Coach found me by the field.
He held a box.
“I have something for you.”
Inside was a catcher’s glove.
Used, but beautiful.
Dark leather.
Strong webbing.
I stepped back.
“I can’t take that.”
“You can.”
“My mom’s glove—”
“This doesn’t replace it.”
My throat tightened.
Coach opened the glove.
Inside, written in silver marker, were words.
Play brave.
I stared.
“How did you know?”
Coach’s eyes softened.
“Your dad told me.”
Dad stood behind him, looking nervous.
“I remembered what Sarah wrote,” he said. “I asked Coach if he knew someone who could write it inside.”
My vision blurred.
“You’re not replacing Mom?”
Dad’s face crumpled.
“No. Never.”
Coach handed me the glove.
“Some things can carry forward.”
I slipped my hand inside.
It was stiff.
Unfamiliar.
Mine and not mine yet.
For the first time since the championship, I wanted to catch again.
Then Coach’s phone buzzed.
He checked it and frowned.
“What?” Dad asked.
Coach looked at me, then at Dad.
“Karen just filed a complaint with the league.”
My stomach dropped.
Coach’s jaw tightened.
“She’s claiming Ethan intentionally lost the championship because of emotional instability and that I covered up his violence.”
Dad whispered, “What?”
Coach turned the phone around.
At the bottom of the complaint was an attachment.
A video clip.
Edited.
It showed only me pushing Karen.
Not the slap before it.
Not the broken glove.
Not Coach stopping her.
May you like
Just me pushing her.
Karen had cut the truth the same way she cut my glove.
