He has to repeat himself before I nod.

“But I’m warning you,” Mr. Tomski says. “If you put on that uniform, I might just have to play you. There’s a rumor on the grapevine that you can shoot.”

Twenty-Four

FOR THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON, all I can think about is the game. After practice, the players shower and throw their shorts and shirts on the locker room floor, and I go around with a laundry bag, picking up the wet clothes. These are just the practice uniforms. We have a different set for games.

It’s my job to make sure the real uniforms are clean, to carry them on the bus for road games, and to hand them out to all the players before tip-off. (There’s a big Whirlpool washing machine in the office, with a Maytag dryer stacked on top of it, next to the restroom door.) Mr. Tomski has found a spare uniform for me, but I’m still wearing my school shoes. That’s what worries me most, but I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I’m not going to play anyway. And if Dad sees me sitting on the bench, he probably won’t notice.

After the final school bell, the boys head for the showers and get changed. Everybody comes out looking sharp, in jackets and ties. Pete Miller’s tie has a picture of Michael Jordan on it. I’m wearing an old green tie that used to belong to my dad. I’ve also got a checklist of things to remember—Mr. Tomski’s clipboard; the medical kit; and, most important of all, the big duffel bag of fresh uniforms. I sling it over my shoulder on the way to the bus.

It’s only about a twenty-minute drive to Murchison Middle School. I know the first part of the way pretty well—it’s the same road the school bus takes driving me home. The neighborhood seems to be changing, like Sam says. There are fancy new houses, made of metal and glass, some of them still under construction, and a few run-down-looking houses, with sagging roofs, and leaves still on the roofs, and wooden porches. One of the front yards has an old car propped up on the grass—it’s missing a few wheels. There are cement blocks holding it up.

Staring out the window, I remember something Mabley told me once. It was early in the morning, and she had squeezed in next to me on the bus. I said to her, just for something to say: “I guess the people around here like to hang on to their cars.”

“They don’t have much money.” There was something in her tone of voice that made me blush.

“When I lived in New York, we didn’t have a car,” I said.

“That’s different.”

“Why is it different?”

She looked me over. I didn’t know if she was teasing me. “I could tell when I met you that you were one of those kids.”