I’m standing with all the other players, but it’s like, I don’t know if she’s talking about me, too. I feel like a big phony. The band plays the school song, everybody cheers, but then it’s suddenly like an ordinary lunchtime afternoon, kids talking and filing out, shuffling along the bleachers, waiting at the doors. Going back to class.

The band is the last to leave. It takes them a while to pack up their instruments; Mabley looks at me as she gathers her music up and puts her sax away. She gives me a little wave. Then one of the janitors gets out a big double broom and sweeps the floor—going up and down in rows. After the court is clear again, Mr. Tomski starts to lead the team through a light practice. Ms. Fontenot has let them skip class for the rest of the school day to get ready for the big game. I’m walking away when the coach calls out to me.

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got French,” I say.

“Come here,” Mr. Tomski tells me.

The rest of the team are practicing free throws, lining up and taking turns. I don’t move, I just stand there. Mr. Tomski jogs over to me by the doors to the hallway that lead back to the rest of the school.

“What’s up?” Mr. Tomski says. When I don’t answer, he goes on: “Come on, son. I’m not just your teacher here. I’m your friend. What’s on your mind?”

For a minute, I just stare at my shoes, the ones that give me blisters when I run. Then I look up at Mr. Tomski. “Mom said my dad might come to the game.”

He doesn’t say anything, and finally I ask, “Did you know he was coming?”

Mr. Tomski has brown eyes and wrinkles around his eyes, but they don’t look like smiling wrinkles. He spends a lot of time at his ranch, out in the wind and sun. Eventually he says, “She said something to me this morning. I’m glad he can make it to the game.”

“Well, he might come. Or he might not. Mom wasn’t sure.”

I can hear the sound of basketballs bouncing against the wooden floor and echoing against the high ceiling of the gym. It’s a nice lazy sort of sound but loud enough that I feel like I can say whatever I want to say to Mr. Tomski, and nobody else will hear us.

“Do you want him to come?” Mr. Tomski asks. He has a way of sticking his tongue into the pocket of his cheek, as if he’s got a big piece of chewing gum in his mouth.

I think about this and look down at my shoes again. “I don’t want him to see me . . . like this.”

“Like what?” Mr. Tomski starts to say but then stops himself. “I tell you what. I’m pretty sure we got a spare uniform somewhere in the office. How about you put that on?”