“You have to start helping him out,” Mr. Tomski says. He’s standing by one of the locker room showers in a puddle of water. His trousers are too long, the bottoms have gotten wet. But he doesn’t seem to care. He’s thinking about what to say next.

“You know what they’re trying to do, don’t you. They’re trying to bully you out there. But let me tell you something, I don’t care how big they are. They can only bully you if you let them bully you.”

He calls us into a huddle, and we put our hands together over our heads. “Hornets on three,” he says. “One. Two . . .” and we all shout “Hornets” together on the third count. Even me, though I feel a little silly—I feel like I’m pretending. Then we run on court again and get into layup lines. While I’m waiting for a rebound, someone pulls me aside. It’s my mom, with a plastic bag in her hand.

“I brought your shoes,” she says. “Your sneakers.”

I sit down by the side of the court and take off my heavy school shoes. There’s a little blood on one of my socks, but I can’t feel anything. Mom bends down to help me put on the sneakers.

“I can do it myself!” But my fingers are cold and clumsy; it takes me a while to tie the laces.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says quietly.

“Well, you shouldn’t be. I suck.”

“Who says?”

“Your boyfriend,” I tell her, standing up, and run off to join the others.

They’re practicing free throws now, standing around the key and taking it in turns to shoot. Clapping once for a miss and twice for a make. I squeeze into the line—last again.

Pete makes his free throws, most of the other kids miss one. For some reason, when my turn comes, I don’t care anymore, I’m not nervous. Both of my shots go in, everyone claps twice.

When the horn sounds for the second half to start, I turn around to look for Mr. Tomski. But he’s standing with his back to us, talking to the referee. So he didn’t see me. My heart sinks, and I walk with my head down back to the bench, with all the other bench players. We don’t have to worry about playing. At least, not yet. We can sit and relax and watch the game.

On the way, I hear someone calling out to me. “Big man, hey, big man.” Sam walks toward me, a little stiffly, as if his knees hurt. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans and a button-up shirt. A soft cap covers his shaved head. He looks different—it’s like he’s dressed up for the occasion.

“You know what to do when someone passes you the ball, right?” Sam says.

“What?”

“Just shoot it.”

For a second, I don’t say anything, and he asks, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Because everybody keeps telling me what to do, I feel like saying. But that’s not really Sam’s fault. “It’s scary out there,” I tell him eventually. It feels like a confession. “Everything happens so fast.”