We head toward our fifth grade classroom. “So who pays him?” I ask.

“What?”

“Your dad,” I say. “Who pays him?”

“I have no clue.”

“You ever seen one of his checks?”

“No,” Tank says, giving me a look. “What’s it to you?”

“Just wondering,” I say, cupping my hands around my face and peering through the dirty classroom windows. Tank does the same. “Dude, I bet your dad’s a big-time cop. I mean, he never wears a uniform or drives a cruiser, does he?”

“No,” Tank says. “Man, this room looks exactly the same as it did when we were in it.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

We study the classroom in silence.

Then Tank says, “I know my dad has a lot of power.”

“How do you know that?” I turn away from the windows.

“Well, my mom gets arrested a lot, but she never gets charged with anything. He takes care of stuff like that. Sometimes I hear him on the phone, giving orders about what to do with her or where to take her.”

We walk back to the basketball court and stare out over the field. The humid air is thick and heavy, like an invisible blanket. Beads of sweat cover my forehead.

“So, can I ask when you last saw her?”

Tank takes a deep breath. “It’s been about eight years. I think we were nine or something.” He shuffles his feet, shoves his hands in his front pockets. “I’m playing tag on the front lawn with Sarah and the babysitter, when this loud car comes by and stops in the middle of the street. So the three of us look over and see this lady in the driver’s seat, and she’s staring at us with a smile on her face. But you could tell she wasn’t happy. It was a sad smile, if that makes any sense. She looked horrible, actually, all skin and bones.” He pauses. “Anyway, Sarah and me, we knew it was Mom right away, so we waved, and that must have really hit her hard, because she started crying. Then she waved back and drove away. The babysitter asked us who the person was, and we just looked at her like it was no big deal and told her it was our mom. She freaked and dragged us inside. Then she called my dad. I guess he took over from there.”

“You still think about her a lot, huh?”

“Well, yeah, idiot. She’s my mom.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I think my parents are fighting now, too.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know, but something’s going on. It’s like the exact opposite of your situation, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think it’s my dad who has the problems,” I explain. “Hey, if they divorce maybe we can get your dad together with my mom.”