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.