“What do you mean they had an argument? In front of the kids?”

“They were shouting at each other on the football field.”

“What were they shouting about?”

“One of them wanted to kick us off the field.” In my mind, I can see Sam standing there in his shorts and boots, with the big bunch of keys swinging from his belt. “I guess he isn’t really a teacher. He’s the—he’s, like, the groundskeeper. He takes care of all the outside stuff.”

“Well, what did you think?” my dad asks. “Who was right?”

I can hear Granma in the kitchen, setting the table—she always makes a lot of noise when she moves around. For some reason, I want to keep my voice down. I feel like I’m having a secret conversation. “Nobody was right,” I say. “Everybody was wrong.”

“Well, that’s what it’s like sometimes.”

“It’s weird because I kind of know both of them pretty well.”

“What do you mean?”

“The caretaker guy, he’s called Sam. There’s this old basketball court behind the football field, and he lets me play there at lunch. Sometimes he even shoots around with me. And the teacher, Mr. Tomski—”

“What about him?” Dad says.

“Well . . . he’s my teacher. He’s also the basketball coach. So I see him at practice every day. You know, I’m the manager.”

“I know,” he says. “Your mother mentioned that. I would rather you played.”

“Dad, that’s not what I want to talk about right now.”

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. So what happened? What did you do?”

“Nothing really. Sam walked away, and then Mr. Tomski kind of gave up, too. We went back inside. I didn’t do anything. I just felt . . . bad. I felt like I let him down.”

“Who?”

At first I don’t answer. “Sam. He looked at me and I kind of looked away.”

“Well, it doesn’t sound to me like you were the problem, Ben. It’s not always your fault. And it’s not always your responsibility to fix a situation.”

We don’t say anything for a while—I’m just kind of staring at the shoes in the front hall. Eventually my dad breaks the silence. “One day I’d like to tell you my side of the story. But maybe that’s the last thing you need to hear.”

A car drives past the house, with the lights on. The front door has glass panels on either side, and the lights flash against them and then flash away. For a second, I think that Mom is coming home early.

“When am I going to see you again?” My heart’s beating very quickly, like it does when you’re doing something that could get you into trouble.

“Soon. As soon as I can. I thought it might be easier for both of you if I stayed away for a while.”

“Maybe it is easier. For Mom.”

I can hear him shifting around in bed, adjusting the pillows or something. There’s a kind of sound the phone makes, as if it’s brushing against his face, and he hasn’t shaved. A crackling sound. But maybe that’s just the telephone connection.