27

IT TURNED OUT THAT Dad’s published denial didn’t do much good. It didn’t do much of anything. According to The Dais, and every other paper, he was still suspended--that was how the media and everyone else described his absence--“pending the results of the investigation.”

Not only had the police parked at Kirsten’s, but they showed up at my house, too. I’d just gotten off the bus when I saw the car backing out of my driveway. Had the other kids on the bus seen that? I was too busy running for my driveway to look.

“Dad?” I yelled as I entered the house. “Dad!”

I found him at the top of the stairs, on his way to the basement. “What is it, Mike? Are you okay?”

I was out of breath. “Cops,” I said. “I just saw a cop car pulling out of—”

“It’s fine, Mike. Just following protocol. Nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about? How could this be nothing to worry about?

“Mr. Morris said something about a lawyer—”

“Standard procedure, Mike. That’s all.” Dad’s voice was sharp, but he quickly softened it. “Really. It’s nothing for you to worry about, okay?”

Which was it? Nothing to worry about? Or nothing for me to worry about?

I didn’t get a chance to ask, though, because Dad had already closed the door behind him.

On page 6 of The Dais, there was a box score for the Rapid River girls’ basketball team’s latest loss. Kirsten hadn’t played.

I felt like calling Eric and telling him the good news. “Kirsten’s a Zero, Eric! Zero minutes played, zero points, zero assists, zero rebounds—nothing but zeros. You should totally email her and gain inspiration from her story!”

Dad wasn’t even eating with us anymore. He just stayed downstairs, watching tape. Mom handed me a plate of tacos and said, “Bring these down to your father, okay?”

“I don’t know if he’d like that,” I said. Even after everything that had happened, it still seemed weird to enter the basement without permission.

“He has to eat, doesn’t he?”

Maybe if you called him upstairs like usual, I thought. But I didn’t say that. Things were already tense enough between them; I didn’t want to make it worse.   

When I got downstairs, the TV was on.

“What are you watching?” I handed Dad the plate. He took it without taking his eyes off the screen.

“Game tape from the last game. Marshall brought it over.”

Marshall was his assistant coach.

“Are you sure you should be watching that?” I asked. Wasn’t that still sort of like coaching? What would Mr. Morris say? What would the cops say?

Dad turned to me. “What the hell else am I going to do, Michael? I have to be ready when this nonsense goes away.”

He turned back to the game. I waited a few more seconds, just in case he wanted to say anything else to me. I wanted him to tell me that he had a plan in the works, just as he did when he gave away the girls’ basketball jerseys, and when he put in the turnstile. My dad was a visionary—and once again I wanted him to share his vision with me. Then it could be our vision. We could watch it unfold in real life just as it had in our heads.

But Dad didn’t say anything else—just kept watching the game tape—and after a while, I gave up and went back upstairs.