Excerpt from The Game of Love and Death by Martha Brockenbrough, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The beauty of the all-boys preparatory academy invariably filled him with awe. It was a symphony of red brick and white paint nestled in an evergreen forest. Even on a rainy day, it was a splendid thing to behold. He was glad for the scholarship that secured his spot on its edge, and hoped for another to carry him forward through the University of Washington in the fall.

When Henry arrived in the locker room, Ethan was still there, wrapped in a white towel, although everyone else had gone home.

"I should've given you a hand," he said, rubbing a smaller towel against his dripping hair. "I can be a real heel."

"My job," Henry said. "Not yours."

"Well, if that doesn't stink," Ethan said. "You're soaked clean through. And your shoes . . . I don't know why you just don't take my old pair. They're in much better shape —"

"It's fine, Ethan. Really." Henry set his cap on the bench, pulled his wet shirt off over his head, and let it fall with a slap to the concrete floor. "Don't worry."

By the time Henry finished his shower, Ethan was dressed, looking neat and confident in his school uniform, his hair parted sharply. He turned toward the fogged-up mirror, cleared a circle with his fist, and adjusted his already smartly knotted tie.

"Malt sound good?" He looked at Henry's misty reflection. "Guthrie's is always crawling with girls this time of day."

"Nah," Henry said, ruffling his hair to peaks with his towel.

"You're certain?" But even as he asked the question, Ethan looked relieved. His expression was strange. But Ethan could be complicated, especially about how they spent their free time together. Henry had learned not to ask. He moved the fingers on his left hand, practicing the melody of a new piece he was working on. He itched to have his double bass in his arms for real. The feeling and ritual always soothed him.

"Say, you don't have other plans, do you?" Ethan asked, a vaguely hurt look in his eyes. Ethan always hated it when Henry made other plans, as if he didn't want Henry to choose any other best friend. Not that he ever would.

But Henry didn't want to admit he intended to spend the evening in the carriage house, practicing. Ethan would give him an earful. "Oh, say, I'd meant to ask about your English thesis."

"Henry, that's not due for more than two weeks and this is Friday. The weekend, for chrissakes." Ethan slung his satchel over his shoulder.

"Doesn't have to be tonight," Henry said. "I thought you might like to get started."

Ethan tugged the hair on the top of his head, ruining his perfect part. "No, no. I know what I want to say in it. There's no rush. But this isn't going to get in the way of your own schoolwork, is it? Because I can probably —"

"It's no trouble," Henry said. He balled up his towel and tossed it into the bin. "I like doing it. Stop worrying."

Ethan grinned. He drummed his fingernails against the doorframe, a quick rattle of sound, and then pushed on the door. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the world around Henry still felt as though it was about to crack open. He hurried after his friend. The world could fall into pieces if it wanted. Ethan — and every-one else — could count on Henry to hold up his part.

Chapter 3

Flora Saudade stood on the lower wing of the butter-yellow Beechcraft Staggerwing C17B, ready to refuel the plane. She ran her hands over the upper wing, loving the way it was set behind the lower one. This little detail was everything. No other biplane was crafted this way. It made the Staggerwing an oddity. Flora, an oddity herself, loved that about it.

It made the plane look fast. Even better, the plane was fast: blisteringly so. The previous year, a pair of aviatrixes had flown a similar model across the country and won the Bendix Trophy, along with a seven-thousand-dollar prize. The thought of speed like that set off fireworks in her chest. If only.

Excerpted from The Game of Love and Death by Martha Brockenbrough. Copyright © 2015 by Martha Brockenbrough. Excerpted by permission of Arthur A. Levine Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.