“We both like baseball,” I whispered to myself as I awkwardly stepped sideways around a bunch of people to reach the aisle. Then I went forward a couple of rows and stood for a minute watching Darius as he was watching the game. He was wearing a black-and-orange Giants jersey with his own last name (OLIVERA) printed on the back, and the number 07. A shirt that meant that he was more than just the casual baseball enthusiast. He was a real fan.

Not like me, who came to one or two games a year. I barely understood the rules of baseball. I was mostly there for the food and because Pop loved it.

I couldn’t possibly talk to Darius about baseball, I decided. So what could I say?

“Do you need to get in?” asked the lady at the end of the row, who I realized all at once was Darius’s mother.

“I just came over to say hi,” I said.

She frowned. She clearly didn’t have a clue who I was.

“I’m your neighbor,” I explained. Maybe if I talked to Darius’s mother, I could then somehow work my way up to Darius himself. (Which is sort of the way it worked out with Leo, too, now that I think of it.) “From next door. Ada Bloom?”

“Oh.” Her frown didn’t go away. “Oh, that’s nice. Hi.”

“Hi.”

Something happened on the field. Everybody lurched to their feet, cheering.

Mrs. Olivera looked put out that she’d missed the action. “Well, it’s good to see you, Ava. Thanks for stopping by.”

I didn’t care that she got my name wrong or that she made it sound like I was one of those solicitors who ring your doorbell to talk you into buying solar panels. I was trying to figure out how to ask her if she wanted to have dinner: her family and my family. Something about how we never get to know our neighbors these days, and how sad I thought that was. But she wasn’t looking at me anymore.

I would have given up right then, but that’s when Darius glanced over, and his eyes brightened like I was the person he most wanted to see. He even smiled. Smiled. At me.

I could have passed out.

Then he got up and edged his way over to me.

“Hi,” I practiced under my breath. “Enjoying the game?”

He stepped into the aisle with me.

“Hi,” I said breathlessly.

“I’ll take two,” he said in that soft, rich voice of his, and reached behind me to give the hot dog guy his money. Because he was buying hot dogs, dummy.

Then, hot dogs in hand, he went back to his seat.

It was so much more than him not recognizing me. He didn’t even register that I was there.

I did not exist in his world.

I hurried back to my seat.