“I’m not on the basketball team. That’s just something you make me do. The kids there . . . they make fun of me.”

A car comes by, and we have to move to the sidewalk.

“What do you mean? Who makes fun of you?”

“I don’t know. Pete Miller. Everybody else on the team.”

“That’s not true. Tom said . . .” But she can’t remember what he said, and sighs again. “Ben, it’s still . . . it’s early days. Give it a chance.”

“Mom, it’s been almost a year.”

“The first year is always the hardest. It was hard for me when I first moved to New York.”

“Granma says it’s the first twenty years.” Mom sort of shakes her head, exasperated. “How long did you live in New York before we left?” I say, and she looks at me but doesn’t answer. “Did it get better after that first year?” I ask.

She starts walking again. “We can talk about it this weekend.”

“Is he coming to Granma’s house?”

“We thought it might be easier for everybody if I dropped you off at his hotel. But we can talk there, too. We can all talk.”

We get to the bus stop early. Only a couple of other kids are waiting; more cars go by. It rained in the night (it woke me up, clattering on the roof), and the roads are still wet. You can hear the tires squeak on the asphalt, but the sky looks clean and blue. A woman from the house on the corner walks outside barefoot to pick up her newspaper from the grass.

Mom says, “Apparently, they’ve got an all-you-can-eat breakfast. At the hotel. Apparently, it’s famous. You’ll have a good time.” Then she says, “Don’t worry about it, Ben. We’ll sort everything out.” But she doesn’t sound like she believes it.

Then the bus comes and I have to get on it with everybody else.

For the first few classes, all I can think about is my dad. He’s coming to see me. This makes it hard for me to pay attention to the teacher. One of them, Ms. Kaminski, says to me, “I know you’ve got a big game today, Ben. But right now, we’re talking about triangles. That’s what you need to be paying attention to.”

I stare at her.

“Triangles,” Ms. Kaminski says again, pointing to a picture on the blackboard. “Not basketballs.”

“I’m not on the team,” I tell her.

“I thought you . . .” she begins to say, looking puzzled. Mom has made me dress in a jacket and tie that morning, so I look like all the other players. “I thought you were.”

“Well, I’m not.”

After lunch, the whole school gathers in the main gym for a pep rally. Mr. Tomski and the rest of us wait in the second gym, next door. All the boys apart from me are wearing basketball uniforms, long shorts and tank tops that look shiny under the lights. I’m still wearing my jacket and tie and big-soled school shoes.