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the ball is in your hand—”
    “Right, thanks,” I said, not really wanting to hear it.
    It wasn’t worrying about my performance that stirred those butterflies.
    It was my teammates. In short, they all hated me.
    None of the seniors and juniors liked the idea of a lowly sophomore crashing their party.
    I could hear laughter coming from the locker room, but as soon as I pushed open the door, all sound stopped as though someone had flicked a switch. Troy Taylor, the senior captain, glared at me. To put it mildly, Troy and I had issues. I looked away and opened a locker.
    “Not there,” Troy said.
    “What?”
    “This row is for lettermen.”
    Everybody else was in this row. I looked at the other guys. Some had their heads lowered, tying their shoes too carefully. Some glared with open hostility. I looked for Buck, Troy’s best friend and a total jerk, but he wasn’t there.
    I waited for someone to stick up for me or, at least, comment. No one did. Troy smirked and made a shooing gesture in my direction with his hand. My face reddened in embarrassment. I wondered what I should do, whether I should fight or back down.
    Not worth it, I decided.
    I hated giving Troy the satisfaction, but I remembered something my father told me: Don’t win the battle and lose the war.
    I took my stuff, moved into the next row, and changed into shorts and a reversible practice jersey. After I laced up my sneakers, I headed out to the gym. That sweet echo of dribbling basketballs calmed me a bit, but as soon as I opened the door, all dribbling stopped.
    Oh, grow up.
    There were four or five guys at each of three baskets. Troy shot at the one on the far right. His glare was already in place. I looked again for Buck—he was always with Troy, always following Troy’s lead—but he wasn’t here. I wondered whether Buck had gotten injured and, cruel as it sounded, I really hoped that was the case.
    I looked toward the guys standing around the basket in the middle. If those faces were windows, they were all slammed shut with shades lowered. At the third basket, I spotted Brandon Foley, the team center and other captain. Brandon was the tallest kid on the team, six foot eight, and in the past, he had been the only one to acknowledge my existence. As I stepped toward him, he met my eye and gave his head a small shake.
    Terrific.
    The heck with it. I moved over to a basket in the far left corner and shot alone. My face burned. I let the burn sink deep inside of me. The burn was good. The burn would fuel my game and make me better. The burn would let me forget, for a few moments anyway, that I still didn’t know what really happened to my father. The burn would let me forget—no, not really—that my friend Spoon was in the hospital and may never walk again and that it was all my fault.
    Maybe that explained why all my potential teammates, even Brandon Foley, had turned on me. Maybe they too blamed me for what happened to the nerd that they all enjoyed bullying.
    It didn’t matter. Shoot, get the rebound, shoot. Stare at the rim, only the rim; never watch the ball in flight; feel the grooves on your fingertips. Shoot,
swish,
shoot,
swish.
Let the rest of the world fade away for a little while.
    Do you have something like this in your life? Something you do or play that makes the entire world, at least for a little while, fade away? That was how basketball was. I could sometimes focus so hard that everything else ceased to exist. There was the ball. There was the hoop. Nothing else.
    “Hey, hotshot.”
    The sound of Troy’s voice knocked me out of my stupor. I looked around. The gym was empty.
    “Team meeting for non-lettermen,” Troy said. “Room one seventy-eight. Hurry.”
    “Where is that?”
    Troy frowned. “You serious?”
    “I’m new to the school, remember?”
    “Lower level. Push through the metal doors. Hurry. Coach Grady hates when someone shows up late.”
    “Thanks.”
    I dropped the ball and hustled down the corridor.