“One of what kids?”

“That you weren’t used to thinking about certain kinds of stuff,” she said.

It makes me a little angry, going over this conversation in my head. For some reason I want to say to Mabley, “You were the one who laughed when Sam and Mr. Tomski argued about the football field.” But I also remember telling my dad, when I left the apple core on the sofa: Maria can clean it up. That seems like a long time ago, like something that happened in a different world. I want to explain myself to Mabley. I want to say, “Maybe I’ve changed.”

Eventually the bus rumbles onto the highway, and all I can see is the other cars and sometimes a strip of shops by the side of the road. Then we come off the highway and drive through quiet, hilly streets with big new houses on them. Their front yards have fences along the sidewalk so you can’t see in. But Murchison itself, when we pull into the parking lot outside the gym, looks pretty much like our school. It has brick walls and pillars by the entrance.

The parking lot’s already full, and when we walk in the side door, I can see that the gym is filling up, too. It’s starting to get that hot, loud feeling I remember from the pep rally. My heart beats quicker again, and I can feel my hands sweat.

In the locker room, I give out the uniforms. Afterward, there’s still one left over at the bottom of the bag: number 22. Mr. Tomski says, “Folks, we got a new teammate. Somebody y’all know pretty well.” Everybody stares at me; nobody says anything. “Against these guys,” Mr. Tomski goes on, “we can use all the help we can get.”

On the way out to the court, Blake Snyder notices my shoes. He can’t think of anything funny to say, so he just says, “Look at his shoes!”

A few people laugh, but not Pete. “Don’t worry,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I don’t think we’ll need you today.” He’s sort of kidding and sort of not.

The gym has big windows on either side, like a church. It’s five o’clock and sunlight fills them—the baskets come down from the ceiling on poles and cast long shadows onto the court. The overhead lights make shiny patches on the wooden floor. I see sparkles everywhere. It’s hard to focus, and suddenly I remember that my dad might be in the crowd.

But I don’t get a chance to look for him because Mr. Tomski tells all the players to get into layup lines. We have a couple of balls and take it in turns to dribble up to the hoop and shoot. Then somebody else comes from the other side and picks up the ball and passes it to the next person in line.

I’ve watched this drill a hundred times but have never gone through it myself. The ball keeps slipping out of my hands; my palms are too sweaty. And I feel clumsy in my heavy school shoes. The first time I try to lay the ball in, it clangs off the bottom of the rim and bounces away.