There is a lady behind the desk who is wearing a blue short-sleeved shirt with Bayside Club embroidered on it. She looks at me like she knows I’m not a member and she can see that I live in a basement apartment and my mom sleeps in the living room and we don’t have enough money to take our dog to the vet.

I hang back.

Moses heads for the counter with long strides.

Moses gives the lady his member number and then hands her a guest pass. She nods, and then she asks me to enter my name, address, and phone number on a tablet. I figure that’s in case somebody steals something. They’ll know where to look.

I keep one eye on Moses as I’m typing in my address. He won’t peek, will he? Nope. He’s walking toward a room with a movie-theater-size TV and a blender bar with fruit drinks. There’s a basketball court, a pool, and rooms for exercise and yoga classes.

Big windows look out on the indoor tennis courts, where people are playing. The courts aren’t the usual green, but blue, and there isn’t a single crack in any one of them. The nets are the perfect USTA height, not pulled too tight or sagging too low in the middle. The ball makes a funny sound when it bounces inside the cool, echoing courts. The ceiling is tall enough to lob, so long as the lob isn’t crazy high.

Guys with iced drinks watch the tennis players through the big windows. When Moses and I get out there, they’ll be watching us. If I’m playing well, I don’t feel embarrassed when people watch me play. I kind of like it.

On the courts we put our stuff on a bench next to a water cooler. I look down the row of courts. There’s a water cooler on every one!

Moses gets his racket out of a big bag with two rackets inside. My racket sticks out of my backpack, along with a can of used balls. I wonder if they even let you play with used balls here.

When you play with someone who hits hard, they make you look good. If you play with someone who hits sloppy, loopy balls with weird backspin, you don’t.

At first my feet stick to the court and my racket slips around in my hand. The ball floats up. A moon ball, really?

My chest tightens. I hope those guys with the drinks aren’t watching me now.

But then I forget about everything except Moses’s hard topspin balls clipping toward me. I have to stand way behind the baseline to hit them.

Moses and I rally until I find my groove. Now that I’m hitting better, I’m hoping somebody is watching—somebody who will ask me to join Moses’s other team. The one he plays on here.

We hit for a long time; then we take a break to guzzle water.

“You want to play or just hit?” Moses asks.

What, is he crazy? Of course I want to play him. “Play.”

Moses grins. “Good, because I’ve been holding back. Being real gentle with you.”

“Yeah, right.”

He laughs. “Too bad kids in our class aren’t here. They’d be rooting for you.”

“No they wouldn’t.”

“Yeah they would, but I’m going to beat you anyway.”

We start the real game. Moses serves first. His serve kicks right. The trick is to know the kick is coming and watch the ball extra hard. Moses makes some unforced errors and I win the first game. Then he wins, then I win, then he wins.

My hair is wet with sweat. It’s humid in here, and the rain pounds on the canvas roof. I wipe the sweat off my hands. But when we change sides, I see he is sweating too and he doesn’t look so confident as he did when we started.

Now we are at 6–6, and I imagine the guys watching are tennis scouts and they’re going to offer to sponsor me and give me my own tennis bag.

We have just decided to play a tiebreaker when, out of the corner of my eye, I notice a man approaching. This is my chance!

But when I turn around I see he has gray hair, cut short, and he’s kind of stooped. He’s wearing weird black yoga pants, black socks, and Birkenstocks.

Mr. Torpse.

He shakes his crooked finger at me. “I thought I saw you out here.”

I can’t help but be proud he saw me playing so well. Maybe he’ll tell my mom and she’ll get me tennis lessons from a pro, like Crash suggested. If your landlord says something, then don’t you have to do it?

“Your mother is always telling me she’s just scraping by, and here you are.”

“I have a guest pass,” I mumble.

He snorts. “You tell your mother she has three days to get that dog out of there. Three days. That’s it. No one pulls the wool over Melvin Torpse’s eyes. No one!” He turns and limps away.

“Yes, sir,” I mutter as Moses leaps over the net. “What was that all about? Are we out of time?”

“He didn’t say,” I mumble.

Moses nods. “Everybody wants to play in here when it rains. They don’t cut you any slack. I’ll go check.” He trots off the court and in the door that leads to the lobby desk.

While he’s gone, I think about Torpse’s words. Mom said we had a week. Did Torpse move the deadline?

When Moses comes back, he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek. “We can play a tiebreaker, but then we have to stop.”

Now all I can think about is Cupcake curled up under the table. Cupcake licking the sleep spit off my face. Cupcake shoving her dish around the kitchen when it’s time for dinner. Cupcake with her black lips that always look like she just ate licorice. Cupcake loving me with all her big, loyal heart even when I’m in the world’s worst mood.

Moses wins the tiebreaker: 7–1.