Jillian had had hopes at the end of fifth grade, when she learned that a girl her age was moving in next door, but it was obvious right away that she and Lindy would never be friends. Lindy liked popular girls. It was like she waved a magic wand at someone—Katie Brown, who had a pool; or Liz Godwin, who wore mascara—and suddenly they’d be best friends. They’d walk down the hall laughing loudly together and eat lunch side by side. Then, just as suddenly, the magic would wear off. Lindy would roll her eyes when anyone mentioned the girl’s name. “She sleeps with a night-light,” she’d say, or more famously, “She has sex fantasies about the janitor.” Lindy was tall for seventh grade. There were rumors she’d been held back.

The Starlight, the Katonah. Jillian named houses while she waited for Mr. Cox to back out. The Rodessa.

Why didn’t they just go? Were they secretly laughing at her? At her yellow pharmacy flip-flops? At her stupid hair? If they ran over her, her parents would probably move away so they wouldn’t have to live with the memories. Then Mr. Cox would buy their house, knock it down, and build another big one on their block.

She was about to close her eyes and just make a run for it when Mr. Cox backed into the road and sped away, spraying construction dirt on her. Jillian pressed her teeth into her lower lip, the tears pricking at her eyes. The Arcadia. The Hollywood.

TED MILLER SAT AT HIS DESK AT THE FOGGY BOTTOM UNIVERSITY alumni magazine office editing an article about the championship-winning basketball team of 1962.

“Once they called him ‘Hoops.’ Now they call him ‘Pops.’ These days, you’re more likely to see him at the food court than on the basketball court.”

It was impossible to concentrate on a guy called Hoops or Pops when Ted’s head kept filling with images of Nick Cox grinning at him through the leaves of their red maple. Ted had planted the tree for Jillian soon after she was born. He’d chosen it for the color its leaves would turn in fall, imagining the sun shining through the redness—a soft, rosy light under which his little daughter would play, followed, years later, by her own children. Ted would be the grandfather then, the old man puttering around the garden. He had been telling Jillian about that tree from the time she was little. She was bored with the story now, but Ted’s brother, Terrance, still liked to hear it.

“Once they called him ‘Hoops.’”