“I think you and I should have something in our back pocket in case Julian craps out of this prank thing,” she says. “I told Julian a long time ago that I wasn’t going to help him come up with anything because it had to come from him, but I’m beginning to think he’s going to need a little, um… help.”

“You think he’s going to back out?”

“I think I know Julian. And I think I wouldn’t put it past him to get cold feet and start worrying, again, that he’s going to somehow get in trouble,” she says. “And that’s where you and I come in. If we already have some kind of plan in place, he’ll be less likely to back out of it. Even if he doesn’t do the prank himself, he’ll at least have to let it happen, if the wheels have already started turning.”

“So, I guess we ought to start brainstorming, right?” I say.

“Blue food coloring in their ice-bath tubs?” she says. “A ton of those plastic ball-pit balls in their locker room? A singing telegram or a mariachi band in the middle of their afternoon practice? It’s got to be something good, but nothing that will make Julian turn tail and run.”

“I agree.” I try to think of other options. “How about a flash mob performance of the Crenshaw fight song at their next home game?”

“Ooh, that’s a good one, but I think it might be too hard to coordinate,” Camille says, tapping her lip as we near Rudy Street.

“I’ll keep thinking,” I say as we pause at the top of the street.

“We got this. Even if Julian doesn’t, we’ll make it happen,” she says, hugging me. “Bye, ’lijah.”

“See you in the morning,” I tell her.

Ms. Birdie isn’t home yet, so I use the key to let myself into the empty house. I leave my bags on the floor of my room and head into the kitchen. There are plenty of leftovers from last night’s feast at Camille’s, and I help myself to a plateful of tostones and a small bowl of Pastor Ernie’s gumbo. What is it about gumbo that makes it so much more delicious the next day? I cut myself a tiny sliver of Ms. Birdie’s buttermilk pie and eat it while I wait for the microwave.

Once the food is warm, I set it down at the table and call Frankie on speakerphone.

“How’s my favorite brother?” she answers.

“I’m your only brother,” I say, laughing.

“Then you didn’t have much competition! Seriously, how are things?”

“Pretty good,” I tell her.

“Oh, I hear something in your voice. What’s going on?”