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  Nielsen takes the inside position and this time Liam pivots quickly to the baseline. He slides past, rushes to the hoop, and reaches up to snag the ball as it comes off the other side.

  “Too slow, Nielsen,” Coach says. “Show some hustle.”

  Guys switch partners and Liam goes up against Drake and then Pelke. He pushes and shoves and bounces around like a pinball, going hard after every shot.

  “Way to fight, Bergie,” Coach calls. “We brought you up to rebound. We’ve got plenty of guys who want to shoot on this team. What we need are some rebounders.”

  Nielsen pushes Liam in the back and stretches for a long rebound. He pulls the ball in and swings his elbows, cracking Liam in the jaw.

  Liam bends over and checks to make sure his teeth are still in place.

  “You okay, Bergie?” Staley asks.

  “Yeah.” Liam looks at Nielsen, who’s lining up for the next rebound. Was that an accident? Or was it payback for showing up a senior?

  After everybody is exhausted, Coach blows his whistle and motions for the team to gather under the basket. “We’re eight and six now. We need a win at Plainview.” He twirls his whistle. “Each of you has a role on this team. If you concentrate on your role, we’ll succeed.” He catches the whistle. “Team basketball. We need to run our offense. Nothing fancy. Nothing clever. Don’t try to do too much.”

  Liam pulls at his sweaty T-shirt. That’s what Coach told Darius last game. He hasn’t said anything about him. Just like Drake, he’s acting as if Darius were never part of the team.

  05

  Inside Position

  “What’s for dinner?” Liam shrugs off his coat and grabs a hanger.

  “Chicken enchiladas, black beans, rice, and salad.” Dad turns down All Things Considered on the kitchen radio. Dizzy, their black cat, meows around in a circle, and Liam bends down to pet her quickly.

  “I’m starving.” He washes his hands with a squirt of Dawn at the sink.

  “Here.” Dad slides him an avocado. “Cut this for the salad. Your mom should be here any minute.” He passes a cutting board over. “How was practice?”

  “Coach was upset about the missed free throws. Everybody’s, not just mine.” Liam stands at the counter next to Dad. Dad’s still taller, but not by much.

  “What else did he say?”

  “That we need to be the best-conditioned team in the conference.” Liam picks a pecan from the salad and pops it in his mouth.

  “That sounds like a lot of fun.” Dad clicks on the oven light. “These are ready.”

  Liam slices the avocado and dumps it over the lettuce.

  “What smells so good?” Mom rushes in, sets down her leather case, and sheds her long coat. She brushes her black hair back and her bracelets clink.

  “Enchiladas.” Liam turns his cheek for Mom’s kiss. Her breath smells like garlic. “Did you eat at Martelli’s again for lunch?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hi, honey.” She and Dad lock lips like they’ve been apart for a week. Then she opens the drawer next to the dishwasher. Dizzy recognizes the sound and races to the rug by the back door, where Mom kneels down with the blue-handled brush.

  “That’s a baby,” Mom coos as she brushes her with long strokes. Dizzy rolls around on her back in ecstasy. “How was school, Liam?”

  “Okay. Coach said the whole team was responsible for the loss.”

  “That’s true.”

  “But he didn’t mention Darius at all. That was weird.”

  “What?”

  “He acted like Darius was never on the team.” Liam pours dressing on the salad.

  “Wasn’t Darius the best player?” Mom looks up from brushing Dizzy.

  “Yeah, but Coach and some of the seniors didn’t like his game.” Liam grabs two salad spoons from the jar and sticks them in the bowl. “Coach emphasizes team basketball, and Darius plays too much one-on-one. At last night’s game, Coach criticized him for playing street ball and not using his head.”

  “Does he say things like that to any of the white players?” Mom stands up and washes her hands.

  “No.”

  “That school has a problem it’s not facing up to. Some of those teachers act like they have a homogeneous group of white kids when they don’t anymore. They need to join the twenty-first century.”

  “Slow down, Kate,” Dad says. “Horizon’s changing.”

  “At the speed of a glacier.” She rips off a paper towel.

  “New people are moving in and attitudes are shifting.”

  “Yeah, but people here are so hesitant to challenge the way things have always been done.”

  “Dinner’s served.” Dad carries the steaming pan of enchiladas to the table. “Let’s pray.”

  Liam reaches out to his parents: Mom with her cold hand and jangly bracelets and Dad with his big hand that’s warm from the enchiladas.

  “Mmmm, smells delicious.” Mom watches Dad scoop up an enchilada for her. “What else is new at school, Liam?”

  “Nothing.” He does fine in school—As and Bs—but Mom’s always on him to do better.

  “Have you been studying vocabulary for the PSAT?” She reaches for her napkin.

  “Yeah.” He passes his plate to Dad.

  “What chapter are you up to?”

  “I’ve got tons of time. I don’t take it until next year.”

  “Don’t procrastinate.” Mom smooths the napkin in her lap. “The PSAT determines National Merit scholarships and it’s good preparation for the SAT. Those scores determine your college choices, so you need to give yourself the best opportunity.”

  Liam chews his enchilada. She’s so extreme. She obsesses so much about the PSAT, you’d think she was taking it.

  “Let that last game go.” Seth pours hot sauce on his taco the next day at lunch. “Forget about it.”

  Liam pushes lettuce around on his plate and tries to shut out the din echoing off the cafeteria walls.

  “Quiet down,” Mr. Einerson, the lunchroom monitor, hollers.

  “We beat Plainview by thirty on JV.” Seth sniffs his sugar cookie and takes a bite.

  “But this is varsity.”

  “They’re terrible on varsity, too,” Seth says. “Plainview’s always good in wrestling and terrible at hoops.”

  “I hope that’s true tonight.”

  “Count on it. They’re so bad, they’ll make anyone look good.”

  Liam crunches his taco. “Thanks…I think.”

  At the next table, three cute girls with straight hair and lots of eye shadow whisper.

  Liam looks over and they giggle. “Friends of yours?” He turns to Seth.

  “They’re ninth-grade cheerleaders,” Seth says. “They’re into you, not me. You’re the big varsity player.”

  In the first half of the game, Liam sits on the bench, tapping his heel. The whistle blows and Nielsen picks up another cheap foul.

  “Move your feet. Don’t reach with your arms. How many times do I have to tell you?” Coach pleads. “Bergie, go in for Nielsen.”

  Liam peels off his warm-ups and rushes to the scorer’s table.

  “Box out and grab some rebounds,” Coach says.

  Liam sets a screen and Staley hits a wide-open shot.

  “Nice work.” Staley slaps his hand.

  Plainview turns it over on a traveling call, their third in three trips down the floor. Seth is right. They’re terrible. It’s easy to see why they haven’t won a conference game this year. Gund shoots from the top of the key with his lips puckered and the ball bounces off the rim. Liam grabs it and goes back up for two.

  “Good board,” Gund calls.

  On defense, Liam boxes out his guy to keep him away from the hoop. He watches the shot and anticipates where the miss will bounce off. On offense, he fights for openings and pushes past his guy to grab the ball. So much of rebounding is desire, about wanting the ball more than anybody else.

  Drake fumbles a
pass in the post and Liam dives for the loose ball. Hands reach to take it away from him. “Time-out. Time-out,” he calls.

  The ref blows his whistle. “Time-out, Red.”

  “That’s the way to fight for the ball.” Coach pats Liam on the back. “That’s the type of hustle we need.”

  Liam sits with the starters as Coach diagrams the out-of-bounds play on his whiteboard. “Time for one shot. Drake, set a back screen for Staley. Staley, break to the corner. Bergie, hit Staley with the pass when he comes off the screen.”

  Staley turns to Liam. “After you pass it, go straight to the hoop. You can beat your guy for inside position if I miss.”

  “Okay.” Liam nods. He feels more a part of the team than he did last game.

  “Red ball.” The ref points to the spot. Liam takes the ball and waits for his teammates to set up in their four corner positions. He slaps the ball to start the play and Nielsen sets the screen. Staley flies to the corner. Liam delivers the pass and then rushes to the hoop for the rebound. Staley buries it.

  “That’s the way,” Coach shouts. “Team basketball.”

  As the first-half buzzer sounds, Drake approaches Liam. “Good hustle.”

  “Thanks.” Liam wipes sweat off his face with his jersey.

  “We missed you this morning.”

  “What?” Liam panics. Was there an early practice?

  “HAF,” Drake says as they walk to the locker room. “I told you about it.”

  “Sorry. I forgot.”

  “Don’t forget. Every Thursday morning at my house. I expect you to be there.”

  In his room, Liam picks up the framed picture of Mackenzie from his desk. Her dark hair hangs down to her shoulders and her mouth is half open in a sexy smile. He looks into her brown eyes and imagines kissing her good night.

  A raw-red floor burn stings his left knee. He must have picked it up diving for the ball. He didn’t feel it during the action, but now it hurts. It’s a small price to pay for such a good game.

  He burrows under his duvet as the wind whips against the window. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” he recites the words Mom taught him as a kid. He’s said them so many times that their rhythm is comforting. He’s grateful to Coach for giving him so many minutes. He’s grateful that he played well. He’s grateful that they won by twenty-two and nobody got hurt.

  He thinks about his day and how he treated people and what he could have done better. He didn’t get into any major arguments with anyone. Mom was sleeping by the time he got back, so he didn’t argue with her about cleaning up his room, preparing for his future, or wiping up cat vomit.

  He rolls over onto his back. He could have gotten up early this morning and gone to see Grandma. She might have liked that. There’s lots more stuff like that he could do to be a better person.

  He prays a final Hail Mary and gives thanks for his first varsity win, even though Plainview stinks.

  06

  HWJC

  “Did you get my package yet?” Mackenzie asks the second Liam answers his phone.

  “No. What is it?”

  “A secret. I can’t tell.”

  “Give me a clue.” Liam tosses clothes around as he looks for the uniform Drake gave him to wear to work today.

  “It’s something French.”

  “Big surprise. Let me guess. A black beret.”

  “No, nothing to wear. No more questions. I don’t want to give it away.”

  “French bread, French fries, a French kiss.”

  “Stop it,” she says. “Though I’d like to give you the last one. I’ve got to go in a couple of minutes. Someone’s picking me up.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “A dance. Here in Arles.”

  “Who are you going with?”

  “Some friends from school.”

  “Which friends?” Liam stares out the window at the bare branches.

  “Jacqueline and Phillippe. Bernadette and Georges. Jean-Baptiste.”

  Liam goes quiet. Sounds like couples going to a dance.

  “What’s up there?” Mackenzie asks eagerly.

  “Not much.” Dizzy jumps up on the bed, but Liam pushes her off.

  “Did you have a game Thursday?”

  “We beat Plainview.” Liam sits down on the rumpled sheets.

  “How’d you do?”

  “Two points. Six rebounds.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I miss you, Kenz.” He hears someone talking French in the background.

  “I miss you, too, Li. I’ve got to go. My ride’s here.”

  “Who’s giving you a ride?”

  “Just a friend. Jean-Baptiste. Gotta go.”

  Liam snaps shut the phone that’s already dead. Jean-Baptiste is probably handsome, rich, and drives a Ferrari. What’s Mackenzie doing going to a dance with him? He tosses the phone on the chair. He’s not going anyplace with other girls. He and Mackenzie didn’t talk about it exactly, but he thought they had an understanding.

  Jean-Baptiste. What a stupid name.

  Later that afternoon, Liam straightens display models at Shoe Source at the Prairieview Mall. So many cool shoes to use his discount on. Drake’s already shown him how to use the register, process credit cards, and remove the security tags. Liam examines his black pants, black Nikes, and black-and-white referee’s shirt in the mirror. He pulls at the shirt. He looks dorky dressed up like a referee, but Drake insists it sells shoes.

  The entrance bell rings. “Your turn, Bergie.” Drake nods at a short woman with huge sunglasses.

  “Can I help you?” Liam’s zebra shirt reflects back at him.

  “Yes, I need new shoes for my Pilates class.” The woman makes it sound urgent.

  “I didn’t think you wore shoes in Pilates.”

  “No, not in class. I need the right shoes to wear to class.” She fluffs up the back of her hair.

  “Over this way.” Liam leads her to the walking shoes. “Any of these would work to go to class.”

  “Thanks. I’ll look around.” The woman lifts her glasses to study a pair of Pumas.

  “Let me know if you want to try anything on.”

  Liam and Drake watch ESPN Classic on the TV above the desk. Dennis Rodman battles through two defenders to grab an offensive rebound for the Chicago Bulls. “What’s the deal with Rodman’s hair?” Drake makes a face like he’s swallowed a toad.

  “I think he dyed it team colors for the playoffs.”

  “Red and black? Together? Weird.”

  Michael Jordan misses and Rodman grabs another board. “Yeah, but he sure can rebound.” Rodman sets a screen and charges to the hoop when Scottie Pippen’s bank shot rolls off. Rodman tips the rebound to himself, and the Chicago crowd goes nuts. He’s a rebounding machine. Jordan delivers a no-look pass to Pippen, who finishes with a left-handed jam, and Rodman pumps his fist to the fans.

  The sunglasses woman waves as she leaves the store. “Nothing had the right energy. Thanks anyway.”

  “Thanks for stopping.” Liam turns back to the game. Can’t beat getting paid to watch old basketball games.

  “Check this out.” Drake gives Liam a red band with the letters HWJC on it.

  “What is it?”

  “My dad got a bunch of them,” Drake says. “HWJC stands for How Would Jesus Compete? You wear it in games as a reminder. Try it on.”

  Liam stretches the band over his wrist. How would Jesus compete? He tries to imagine Jesus on the court for Horizon. More likely Jesus would be in drama, maybe have a small part in Man of La Mancha, the winter play. Or band. Yeah, Jesus would play saxophone in the band.

  “So we’ll see you at HAF this week.” Drake puts his red band on.

  “Yeah. I’ll be there.” Liam runs his fingers over the letters. Why does Drake keep bugging him about this?

  “Good, we need you. HAF builds team spirit, and Coach wants boys’ hoops to set an example for other sports. He wants everybody on the team to be there.”

  “H
e who exalts himself will be humbled, he who humbles himself will be exalted.” Father Connell’s deep voice booms as he paces back and forth in front of the congregation.

  Father Connell is short and rumpled and taught Liam’s confirmation class. Liam likes that he doesn’t take himself too seriously.

  “Humility is not merely a virtue,” Father Connell says. “Humility is a necessity for a person of faith.”

  Liam pulls his coat around his shoulders and notices Coach G in the third row with his wife and daughter. It’s freezing in here. The heat must go straight up to the ceiling. He keeps thinking about Mackenzie. He remembers when he made JV and finally got up the guts to ask her out. He couldn’t believe it when she said yes. He can still picture the pink sweater she wore on their first date and how good she looked in it. The guys on JV were jealous that he was going out with her. Even the varsity guys started to notice his existence.

  That was two months ago. She’s going to be in France for much longer than that. What did she do last night at the dance? Where did she go afterward? What else did she do with Jean-Baptiste?

  “All rise,” Father Connell says.

  Liam stands. He can’t get the image of Mackenzie with some rich, handsome French guy out of his mind.

  “Hey, Darius. What’s that?”

  “What?” Darius is coming out of the art room carrying a brown, two-foot-tall, triangular tower as kids pour into the hall.

  “What you’re holding,” Liam says.

  “Ceramic sculpture.” The angular head of a person is etched into one side.

  “Cool.” Liam keeps looking at the distinctive face. The expression on it is almost a mixture of strength and fear. “Hey, sorry about those dropped passes against Crosston.”

  “Forget it.” Darius turns and walks down the hall.

  “No, they were right there. I should have had them.” Liam follows him.

  “That’s true.”

  “If I’d caught them, Coach wouldn’t have gone off on you, and you’d still be on the team.” Liam fingers the strap of his backpack.

  “Listen, you did me a favor.” Darius doesn’t break his stride. “I can’t play for Kloss. He disrespected me with that talk about street ball. He doesn’t know hoops. He doesn’t respect the game.”