“How do you think Ben feels about it?”

“Ben likes him. He told me so.” Mom gets up—the coffee must be ready, and she pours herself a cup and sits down again. “Anyway, there’s no it. We’re just friends.”

“That’s what I mean,” Granma says. “You have to be careful. For Tom’s sake.”

“Of all the people involved, he’s probably the last person I’m worried about.”

Then the game comes back on, so I turn up the sound again. It’s Spurs/Knicks—I can’t decide who to root for. Austin isn’t far from San Antonio: it’s like my new home playing against my old one. But San Antonio is also where Mabley’s grandparents live. That’s one of the things I write in my diary when I go to bed: the final score, which is 111 to 98. Kawhi Leonard had 25 points and 11 rebounds; Tim Duncan blocked four shots. San Antonio won.

Seventeen

THE NEXT MORNING, Mabley and I sit at the opposite ends of the bus, but somehow we end up in line together on the way into school. “Hey,” she says. “What’s going on? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Nothing much.”

“You’re not still mad about anything, are you?” she says. She stops in the hall and puts her hand on my elbow—other kids go past.

“About what?” I can hear my heart beat in my ears; it’s pretty loud, and a drop of sweat runs down the side of my ribs.

“I don’t know,” she says. She’s wearing a white shirt, buttoned up all the way: her short yellow hair doesn’t reach the collar. I’ve realized that I’m taller than she is now—she has to look up at me. Her eyes are very pale blue. “Because of the . . . stupid thing at LBJ, and Peter and . . .”

“I thought you were mad.”

“I’m not mad at you,” she says.

Somehow we get pushed into the crowd of kids walking to class. For maybe a minute, we don’t say anything—we just walk, navigating the hallways. But our homerooms are in different directions, and Mabley touches me on the shoulder with her hand. “If I don’t see you later, I guess I’ll see you at the game.”

The Hornets are playing at home today. There’s a pep rally during lunch; everybody has to go.

I run into Laura on the way to the gym after math.

“I hate sports,” she says. Sometimes she makes me laugh—she has all these strong, private feelings. When you look at her, you think she’s just a quiet, shy, nerdy type of kid. “Everybody acts like it’s such a big deal to be on the basketball team. Why should I have to spend my lunchtime watching them run around like idiots?”

“I don’t know. No reason. I hate it, too.”

“It’s like the only thing that anybody really cares about is throwing a ball. Music, math, everything else . . .” Then she stops. “Hey, wait. Aren’t you on the basketball team?”