Like: If Natasha responds first, no matter what she says, then this detective will solve this case. And like: If one of us ballers raises a hand before speaking, Tammy’s killer will never be found.

I saw questions in everything, Jolly. If the detective’s shoe squeaked against the gym floor, then THIS will happen. If Coach Wanda calls my name, then THIS. If someone interrupts someone else, if there’s a moment of silence longer than three seconds, if the power goes out, if Principal Taylor enters the gym, if the door opens, if Melanie coughs, if Emily swears, if THEN if THEN if THEN, yes no yes no yes no, over and over, until literally nothing was done or said that wasn’t preordained by Fate.

I felt like if I didn’t leave the gym in minutes I was going to lose my mind. In front of everyone. Including the detective. And she would see how troubled I am and she would suggest I stick around for further questioning and she’d have me locked up for being insane because, while she went out looking for a killer today, she couldn’t willfully ignore the maniac girl she’d met on the way.

YOU CALLED THE POLICE ON YOURSELF BEFORE? OH! TELL ME MORE

It’s her job, after all.

And everything about this woman spoke of JOB.

And the others were asking questions and giving answers and giving theories and I just keep seeing questions in everything, as if a game was being played on the same floor we were using as an interrogation room, ghosts of other games, and girls from every era since the school opened, all of them shooting, and they made some and missed some and every single flick of the wrist was a question that would and could affect the rest of their lives. There were girls from the ’60s, ’70s, ’80s, ’90s, 2010s, and each had their own style and their own form and the game changed with them, BASKETBALL THEATER: from the below-the-rim fundamental bounce-pass and set-shot to the behind-the-back pass, the no-look pass, hardcore defense where you could swarm ’em, followed again by an era where you couldn’t even hand-check and the scores almost doubled. Still, in every era, no matter how the ball was shot, a question came with it, spun in the air, went in YES or did not NO and the future was either cast or revealed and I couldn’t tell which was which.

And in the bleachers?

HER

Yep. Jolly, listen to me: I imagined her sitting in the blue bleachers behind us. HER with her denim jacket and pants. HER knees almost to HER chin she’s so tall, watching the ghosts of the game, watching history unfold, watching the players and hearing their questions even as I did. She didn’t talk, no: she was like a breathing ledger, all those answers lodged into her big head, her eyes and face blocked by black-and-white makeup that could’ve been tongues and could’ve been faces and could’ve been her actual skin.