“I’m sorry, coach.”

“What are you sorry about?”

“For missing that shot.”

Mr. Tomski shakes his head. “You played great, Ben.” But I don’t think he’s really thinking about the game. His tie is loose, and he’s unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. The bottom of his shirt has drifted out of his pants. He looks like he’s walked about ten miles in the rain.

There’s something else going on in my mind, which is just that I like the idea that Mabley is stuck there with Mom and Granma and Dad, standing around and talking. I mean, I’m glad they’re all talking to her and getting to know her. But I’m also glad that I’m not there, that I don’t have to listen . . . and start picking up our team balls and separating them out from the Murchison balls.

The gym is about half full now. The girls by the entrance who sold tickets are still there, gossiping with some of the other kids—they look older, like they go to high school. And the whole place feels like somewhere that something has happened but it’s not happening anymore. There’s a little breeze coming in through the open door; it doesn’t feel so hot; it’s quieter, too, just a lot of different conversations going on in normal voices at the same time. Just normal life.

For some reason, I think of Jake. I really miss Jake. Because he always did all the talking, and I didn’t have to decide what I thought or liked or wanted to do. And also because—I didn’t choose Jake. I mean, Jake was just my best friend because he lived three floors below me, and our moms used to take us to kindergarten together when we were five years old. It’s like we didn’t even have any choice. Maybe that’s what it’s like if you have a brother or sister, I don’t know. But it means you don’t have to think about it, he’s just there. At least he was. But now I feel like . . . Mom and Dad are expecting me to choose something. It’s up to me, and I have to figure out for myself what I want.

Mom is right. I can’t be miserable anymore. It makes everyone unhappy.

Mabley is still there, listening to my mother. They’re standing under one of the baskets—the basket where I missed the last shot. On the other side of the court, I can see Pete’s dad talking to some girl; maybe it’s his daughter. It’s like he’s saying, Come on, and Pete is just waiting, like he wants to go home.

It’s funny to see Mabley talking to my mom—with my dad hanging around and thinking, Now Ben is friends with girls, the kind of girls who paint their faces in school colors, and I have to find something to say to them, or something like that. He’s standing there, not saying anything, which is one of his signature moves. He’s just being tall, that’s something he does—he looks tall and important so nobody wants to talk to him. But I can’t stand around here forever putting balls in a sack.