The food is spread out on several tables on the patio. Professor Robles-Garcia made pernil with arroz con gandules, and a huge platter of tostones with an avocado cream sauce that I could eat by the spoonful. Figg tells me that Pastor Ernie made the gumbo with crab legs and he brought the lentils and flatbread, so I make sure I take heaping helpings of both. Before I know it, I’m carrying a plate and a bowl, both piled high with so much food I barely know where to start.

I find a quiet spot outside at a wooden picnic table, and Julian and Camille eventually join me.

“You know you can take more than one trip through the food line, right?” Julian says, dipping a chicken skewer in tzatziki sauce.

“I’m afraid I’ll miss something. And I’ll probably take at least one more trip.” I laugh.

“Yeah, you didn’t even hit the dessert table,” Camille says, peering at my plate.

Neither Camille nor Julian says anything else about the prank for the rest of the evening. The three of us help Professor Robles-Garcia clean up the food tables, and I use that time to take small bites of all the plates I didn’t try the first time around. By the time I get to serving myself a second one of Ms. Brownie’s blondies (I know, right?), I’m glad I’ve worn elastic-waist shorts.

Everyone is quiet on the way home. Ms. Birdie’s banana-pudding bowl was scraped clean, but we’ve still got a few slices of buttermilk pie and some salad in the trunk. Not to mention the leftovers Professor Robles-Garcia put into Ziploc bags for us.

“I hope that’s not a weekly thing,” I say, leaning back on the headrest. “I don’t think my gut can handle it.”

Ms. Birdie laughs. “You’ll learn to pace yourself next time.”

Julian and I help Ms. Birdie bring the dishes in, and then she grabs a paperback and settles into her La-Z-Boy. I let Julian take his shower first, and I sit down with Ms. Birdie in the living room. The creeping realization that tomorrow is Monday started to sneak up on me on the way home from Camille’s, and I’ve had a nervous flutter in my chest ever since.

Between the excitement about the game and then the campout and then the dinner at Camille’s, Monday was the last thing on my mind. I know I have to give Coach Marcus the uniform fee tomorrow, and I don’t have enough left in my wallet to cover it. I don’t have a choice but to ask Ms. Birdie for it, and just the thought of having to do that is making me nauseous.

“Ms. Birdie? Can I ask you a favor?” I say, my stomach in knots.