I don’t really have any good opinions about music, so I didn’t say anything and that was the end of the conversation. I think she might be smarter than me—she’s very good at long division.

When Pete shows up, he pretends to be incredibly enthusiastic. He compliments Laura a lot, and I can’t tell what she thinks of him—if she likes him or not. Sometimes I think she does, and sometimes I think she can’t stand him. She’s hard to read.

Afterward, I catch the late bus home, which means I don’t ride with Mabley anymore. Dinner is usually on the table, then I do my homework and go to bed. It’s a pretty tiring day.

At the beginning of November, we get this mini heat wave, where the leaves have mostly fallen but the skies are bright blue. It’s sunny and warm, like a nice spring day in New York. It’s lunchtime, and I’m sitting on the bench by the basketball court, when a voice behind me says, “What are you doing out here?”

My heart jumps and I turn around. It’s the groundskeeper. I’ve seen him before from a distance, mowing the grass on his John Deere mower or lining the football field with white paint. But I’ve never talked to him. He has a clean bald head, which he probably shaves. His beard is going white, and he wears overalls that make it hard to tell if he’s fat or skinny.

“Just having lunch,” I say. “Is that okay?”

“I’m not going to stop you.” He looks like he’s going to walk away again, but then he doesn’t. “Where are your friends?”

“I just like to eat by myself.” I don’t know if this sounds rude, so I add, “It gets really loud in the cafeteria.”

But he’s not really listening. “Kids used to come out here all the time,” he says. He’s still looking at me like he doesn’t know what to do. “I used to keep a ball in the hut for them to mess around with. But they haven’t come in a while.” After that, he leaves me alone—he goes back to the hut.

He shows up again the next day with a Spalding basketball in his hands—he pretends to pass it to me, suddenly. I reach out to catch it, and he laughs because he’s still holding on to the ball in one of his big hands.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he says.

“I’m sorry. I’m Ben.”

“No reason to be sorry, I didn’t tell you mine. It’s Sam.” He takes a shot and misses, then chases the ball down slowly—he’s wearing heavy boots. “I used to come out here, too,” he says. He tries again; this time it goes in. “Anyway, if you want to play, you can play,” he says and passes me the ball, bouncing it hard off the concrete surface of the court and into my hands.

I expect him to walk away, but he just stands there. “What are you waiting for. Let’s see your jump shot,” he says.