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Man, I hadn’t
expected
that answer.

How could I not know Ema had a boyfriend? How could she keep something like that from me? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I thought it was great. Ema was so awesome. She deserved somebody.

So why was I annoyed?

Because we told each other everything, didn’t we? Now I wasn’t so sure.
I
told her everything, but maybe it was just a one-way street. Clearly Ema hadn’t been equally forthcoming.

How could she not tell me that she had a freakin’ boyfriend?

Then again, had I told her about Rachel and me, about how there just might be something more between us?

No.

Why not? If Ema was just my friend—if it didn’t matter that she was a girl or whatever—why wouldn’t I tell her about Rachel?

“You okay?” Uncle Myron asked.

We were on the plane now, crammed next to each other in the last row. We are both tall, and the legroom in coach is designed for someone about two feet shorter.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“So now what?” Uncle Myron asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You asked me to help get your father’s grave exhumed, right?”

“Right.”

Uncle Myron tried to shrug, but the seat was too small for it. “So now that we’ve done that, what’s your next step?”

I had wondered that myself, of course. “I don’t know yet.”

• • •

As soon as we landed, I called Ema. No answer. I tried Rachel’s phone. No answer. I texted them both that I was back in New Jersey. I placed a call to the hospital again, trying to get through to Spoon’s room, but the operator wouldn’t patch the call through.

“No calls allowed to that room,” the operator explained.

I didn’t like that.

We had landed on time, which meant that I could still make basketball practice. I had missed the past few days because of this trip. That would set me back with the team, and it worried me a little. I hadn’t actually practiced with the varsity, and I knew that I would be way behind.

Kasselton High, my new school, has a varsity and junior varsity team. The varsity is for juniors and seniors. Freshmen and sophomores play JV, and so far, in Coach Grady’s dozen years of coaching the Kasselton Camels, he has never had a freshman or sophomore on the varsity.

Humble-brag alert: I, a lowly sophomore, have been invited to try out for the varsity team.

I couldn’t wait to get on the court, but as Uncle Myron pulled his car to a stop in front of the school, I felt the butterflies start flying around my stomach. Myron must have seen the look on my face.

“You nervous?”

“What, me?” I shook my head firmly. “No.”

Uncle Myron put his hand on my shoulder. “It may take a while to warm up after a long flight,” he went on, “but once you get on the court and the ball is in your hand—”

“Right, thanks,” I said, not really wanting to hear it.

It wasn’t worrying about my performance that stirred those butterflies.

It was my teammates. In short, they all hated me.

None of the seniors and juniors liked the idea of a lowly sophomore crashing their party.

I could hear laughter coming from the locker room, but as soon as I pushed open the door, all sound stopped as though someone had flicked a switch. Troy Taylor, the senior captain, glared at me. To put it mildly, Troy and I had issues. I looked away and opened a locker.

“Not there,” Troy said.

“What?”

“This row is for lettermen.”

Everybody else was in this row. I looked at the other guys. Some had their heads lowered, tying their shoes too carefully. Some glared with open hostility. I looked for Buck, Troy’s best friend and a total jerk, but he wasn’t there.

I waited for someone to stick up for me or, at least, comment. No one did. Troy smirked and made a shooing gesture in my direction with his hand. My face reddened in embarrassment. I wondered what I should do, whether I should fight or back down.

Not worth it, I decided.

I hated giving Troy the satisfaction, but I remembered something my father told me: Don’t win the battle and lose the war.

I took my stuff, moved into the next row, and changed into shorts and a reversible practice jersey. After I laced up my sneakers, I headed out to the gym. That sweet echo of dribbling basketballs calmed me a bit, but as soon as I opened the door, all dribbling stopped.

Oh, grow up.

There were four or five guys at each of three baskets. Troy shot at the one on the far right. His glare was already in place. I looked again for Buck—he was always with Troy, always following Troy’s lead—but he wasn’t here. I wondered whether Buck had gotten injured and, cruel as it sounded, I really hoped that was the case.

I looked toward the guys standing around the basket in the middle. If those faces were windows, they were all slammed shut with shades lowered. At the third basket, I spotted Brandon Foley, the team center and other captain. Brandon was the tallest kid on the team, six foot eight, and in the past, he had been the only one to acknowledge my existence. As I stepped toward him, he met my eye and gave his head a small shake.

Terrific.

The heck with it. I moved over to a basket in the far left corner and shot alone. My face burned. I let the burn sink deep inside of me. The burn was good. The burn would fuel my game and make me better. The burn would let me forget, for a few moments anyway, that I still didn’t know what really happened to my father. The burn would let me forget—no, not really—that my friend Spoon was in the hospital and may never walk again and that it was all my fault.

Maybe that explained why all my potential teammates, even Brandon Foley, had turned on me. Maybe they too blamed me for what happened to the nerd that they all enjoyed bullying.

It didn’t matter. Shoot, get the rebound, shoot. Stare at the rim, only the rim; never watch the ball in flight; feel the grooves on your fingertips. Shoot,
swish,
shoot,
swish.
Let the rest of the world fade away for a little while.

Do you have something like this in your life? Something you do or play that makes the entire world, at least for a little while, fade away? That was how basketball was. I could sometimes focus so hard that everything else ceased to exist. There was the ball. There was the hoop. Nothing else.

“Hey, hotshot.”

The sound of Troy’s voice knocked me out of my stupor. I looked around. The gym was empty.

“Team meeting for non-lettermen,” Troy said. “Room one seventy-eight. Hurry.”

“Where is that?”

Troy frowned. “You serious?”

“I’m new to the school, remember?”

“Lower level. Push through the metal doors. Hurry. Coach Grady hates when someone shows up late.”

“Thanks.”

I dropped the ball and hustled down the corridor. As I took the stairs down, a small niggling started at the back of my brain. It wondered how come Coach Grady would call a meeting so far from the gym. I wish that I had stopped there and listened to that niggling. But there was really no time. And what was I going to do anyway, run back upstairs and ask my buddy Troy for more details on the meeting?

So I ran down the corridor. There was no else in the halls. The echo of my sneakers slapping the linoleum sounded as loud as . . .

. . . as gunshots.

My head started spinning. Where exactly was I? The lower level was for senior classes. I had never been here before. But if my sense of direction was correct, I was pretty close to being right on top of where Spoon had been shot just a few days earlier.

I hurried my step.

Room 166. Then room 168. I was getting closer. 170, 172 . . .

Up ahead I saw the metal doors Troy had mentioned. I pushed through them. They closed behind me with a bang.

And locked me out.

I stopped and closed my eyes. There was no room 178. Practice was probably starting right now. I would have to go out the back, through the football field, and around to the front entrance in order to make my way to the gym.

I ran as fast as I could but it still took me nearly ten minutes to get back. My teammates were already doing the weave drill when I burst in through the door. Coach Grady was not pleased. He turned and snapped, “You’re late, Bolitar.”

“It isn’t my . . .”

I stopped. What exactly was I going to say here? Troy looked at me with that same stupid smirk. He knew. I had two choices. One, tell Coach Grady what really happened, in which case Coach Grady might or might not believe me, but either way I’d be forever labeled a tattletale. Or, two, keep my mouth shut.

“Sorry, Coach.”

But Coach Grady wasn’t done. “Being late to practice is disrespectful to both your teammates and your coaches.”

I nodded. “It won’t happen again.”

“You haven’t even made the team yet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this won’t help your cause.”

“I understand, sir. I’m really sorry.”

Coach Grady stared at me a beat too long. “Run three laps and then get on line. Troy?”

“Yes, Coach?”

“Where’s Buck?”

I would say that Buck was meaner than a snake, but that wouldn’t be nice to the snake.

“I don’t know, Coach. He didn’t pick up his cell.”

“Odd. He’s never missed a practice before. Okay, five-second-denial drill. Get into it.”

Practice didn’t get much better. Whenever we were working on plays, the guys would throw it at my feet, making it nearly impossible to catch. When we scrimmaged, they froze me out, never passing me the ball no matter how open I was. Of course, I got my share of rebounds. I scored twice off steals. But still. If your teammates freeze you out, there is only so much you can do.

And then, with just a minute left in practice, I saw a glorious opening.

I was covering Brandon Foley. He grabbed a rebound and threw a long outlet pass to Troy Taylor. Troy had been what we call “basket-hanging”—not playing defense and staying close to his own basket for easy points. Troy caught the ball and slowed down his dribble. He was taking his time, preparing for takeoff, revving himself up for a big-time slam dunk.

The other guys hung back, watching, waiting to see whether Troy threw it down with one hand or two, or whether he tried a reverse dunk or something trickier.

I didn’t.

I sprinted toward the basket with everything I had. Up ahead of me, Troy took off into the air. His hand was above the rim, palming the ball. He was maybe half a second away from dunking the ball through the hoop when I leapt up from behind him and swatted the ball away.

“What the—?” Troy shouted in surprise.

A completely clean block.

“Foul!” he yelled.

I said nothing, just jogged toward the bouncing ball.

“You fouled me!”

I picked up the ball. I had knocked it out of bounds. It was his team’s possession. My father had taught me that you let your game do the talking. You don’t yell at referees. You don’t trash-talk. You just play.

I handed Troy the ball. He snatched it away.

“He fouled me!” Troy shouted again.

“Take the ball out of bounds, Troy,” Coach Grady said. “Run the stack.”

“But—”

“It’s just a scrimmage. Let’s go. Ten seconds left.”

Troy didn’t like it. He muttered something under his breath. I ignored him and got ready. I covered Brandon Foley tightly. I knew that he was the first option on the stack. Troy would want to lob it over my head to Brandon. I wouldn’t let that happen.

Troy yelled, “Break!” and all the players started to move. I kept a forearm on Brandon, trying to time his jump. I had my back to the ball, my eyes on my man, guarding him closely.

Seconds ticked by.

If five seconds passed, we got the ball. It was getting pretty close to that. I sneaked a glance to see what Troy was about to do.

But he’d been waiting for me to do just that.

When I spotted the grin on Troy’s face, I knew that I had made yet another mistake. Troy had been hoping that curiosity would get the better of me. Without warning or hesitation, Troy whipped the ball right at my face.

There was no time to react. The ball landed hard against my nose like a giant fist. I staggered back. I saw stars. My eyes started to water. My head felt numb. I tried to stay standing, tried like hell not to give Troy the satisfaction of going down, but I couldn’t remain upright.

I dropped to one knee and cupped my nose in both hands.

Brandon put a hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

Coach Grady blew the whistle. “What the heck was that?”

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Troy said, all nice and innocent. “I was trying to get the ball to Brandon.”

I shook Brandon’s hand off my shoulder. The pain was subsiding. The nose wasn’t broken. I stood as quickly as I could. My head reeled in protest, but I didn’t back down.

I blinked away the tears and met Troy’s eye. “Whose ball is it?” I asked in as calm a voice as I could muster.

Brandon said, “You sure you’re—”

“Off you,” Troy said. “It hit your face and went out of bounds.”

“Then your ball,” I said. “Let’s play.”

But right then, Coach Stashower, the assistant coach, hurried back into the gymnasium. He whispered something into Coach Grady’s ear. Coach Grady’s face lost color.

“Okay, that’s it,” Coach Grady said. “Practice is over. Take a lap and shower up.”

I took the lap quickly and headed into my solo locker row. I grabbed my cell phone and checked the messages. Only one text—it was from Ema:
coming over after practice? let me know time.

I quickly typed that practice had just ended and, yes, of course I’d be over.

After all, we had to find her missing “boyfriend.”

There was still nothing from Rachel. I didn’t know what to do about it. I was sure some “helpful” adult would say something like “give it time,” but I hated that advice. I had blown it. Uncle Myron had warned me that even the ugliest truth was better than the prettiest of lies. I had listened to that advice. I had told Rachel the ugly truth about her mother’s death.

Now, it seemed, she didn’t want to see me again.

I thought about that. I thought about Spoon in that hospital bed. I thought about the ashes in my father’s grave. I thought about my mother in rehab. I thought about basketball, about my dreams of finally playing on a real team and how, now that it had come true, all my teammates hated me.