“I’m not supposed to do that. But I wanted to show you.”

I don’t know what to say, except “That was cool.”

“I’m a trampolinist. It’s a bit like being a gymnast, except you do it on a trampoline.”

“I didn’t know that was something you could be.”

“Well, it is. I just didn’t want you to think that only boys get stupid about practicing stuff. I practice all the time.”

“Okay,” I say. “Can I come on now? It looks like fun.”

“Haven’t you ever been on a trampoline before?”

“I used to live in New York. Nobody has a backyard. At least I didn’t know anybody with a backyard . . . or a trampoline.”

She waves her hand and I climb on. The surface trembles under my hands and knees; it’s hard to stand up. Mabley keeps jumping and shaking the whole thing. The first time I jump, I have to hold out my arms to stay balanced. Mabley makes it look easy. Also, she can bounce in a way that knocks me over, which makes her laugh. But it’s easy to talk on the trampoline, because we’re both just busy going up and down. I don’t feel shy at all.

Mabley seems different, too. Most of the time she thinks about everything she says before she says it. But not now.

“Your mom is really pretty,” she tells me. “You know that, right?”

“Everybody thinks their mom is pretty.”

“Well, yours is.” And then, for no reason: “Mr. Tomski is one of my favorite teachers. My dad says he’s the best teacher in the school.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask her.

“I just feel, like, kids say stuff all the time, just because they think it’s funny. They don’t even care what they say.” She stops jumping. “I guess I’m not making any sense.”

“I don’t know.” I stop, too. “Are people talking about my mom?”

“Everybody talks about their teachers.”

“What are they saying?” I can still feel the surface of the trampoline under my feet. It makes a weird sound, and you have to keep shifting your weight.

“Like, your mom is Mr. Tomski’s girlfriend.”

She looks at me. I don’t know what kind of reaction she wants. Maybe she doesn’t want any reaction, because she keeps talking. “I said, Who cares anyway? This is none of our business. And anyway, if they are going out, great, because I really like both of them.”

“Well, they’re not.”

“Okay.”

“They’re not going out.”

“Okay,” she says again. “It’s none of my business anyway. I just wanted to say something . . . because I hate it when people talk about you behind your back. So if people are saying something, I wanted to let you know. But now I feel bad.”

“You don’t have to feel bad; it’s just not true.” But to be honest, I don’t know if it’s true or not.

“Kids really like your mom,” she says after a minute. She’s starting to jump again, her short hair is flopping up and down. “They just say this stuff because they think it’s funny.”