“I’m the manager.”

“Why are you doing that?”

“My mom makes me do it. She thinks it will help me make friends.”

“Who wants to be friends with those kids,” she says.

After school, I go to the PE office. Mr. Tomski is there, with the uniforms, and he pulls out a couple of bags of basketballs, which I drag out to the court. The team warms up by running drills, layup lines and shooting drills, and I have to make sure they always have balls to shoot with. It’s embarrassing, standing around in normal clothes while the guys on the team run past in their uniforms and everybody else watches from the bleachers.

Other kids have started calling me “Ball Boy,” not just Peter. Some of the players, for example . . . not in a mean way, but not in a nice way either. “Thanks, Ball Boy,” they say when I pass them a basketball. Then the kids in the crowd (some of them are in my class) pick up on it, too. “Hey, Ball Boy,” they call out.

After the game starts, it’s my job to sit at the scorer’s table and keep the stats. I have to write down every time someone misses a shot or gets a rebound or commits a foul. This keeps me pretty busy, I need to pay attention.

I never listen to what anybody around me is saying. I just watch the game.

When the halftime buzzer sounds, I stand up to stretch my legs. The Hornets are down by three points—against Lamar Middle School, our main rivals. Pete has missed a few open shots, but the truth is, Lamar is double-teaming him, sending two players to guard him at the same time, and Pete keeps trying to force his way past them. He gets called for a few dumb fouls and spends most of the second quarter sitting on the bench. “I hardly broke a sweat,” I hear him complain to Mr. Tomski at halftime.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Mr. Tomski says.

Mabley comes down to the court to say hello. I show her the score sheet, and how you have to mark it up. While we’re talking, a ball bounces against my legs and rolls away. “Come on,” someone shouts. “Get me the ball.” It’s Pete, still in a bad mood, waiting by the three-point line.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Mabley calls over. “Get it yourself.”

But I’ve already chased down the ball and passed it to Pete, who gives Mabley a funny look and turns his back on us.

“I have to go,” I say to Mabley.

“You don’t have to do what he says,” she tells me.

“I sort of do.” And I run off to chase down more balls. At least Mabley got to see what Pete’s really like. I have the feeling that she’ll like me more if I don’t complain about it.

In the second half, Pete plays much better. He starts passing more when they double-team him. We get some easy layups. So the defense has to switch back, and Pete makes a few shots, too. He looks like a different kid. Instead of angry and hunched over, he seems relaxed, almost lazy—the expression on his face has changed, too. He keeps calling out encouragement. When one of his teammates falls down, he helps him up. He pats the kid on the butt.