37

AFTER BASKETBALL PRACTICE, I hung around the gym and waited for the girls’ varsity game to start. I sat in my regular spot, across from Kirsten’s Krazies, just as the announcer began team introductions.

Except Kirsten’s Krazies didn’t exist anymore.

No guys had her name painted on their chests, or held up signs, or even cheered extra loud when the announcer called her name. If anything, she received less enthusiastic cheers than the other Rapid River starters.

Did the fans blame her in some way for what had happened? Was that what was going on?

Or were they somehow afraid to say or do anything—even something positive—in her presence?

Dad’s name was the last one announced, and if anyone cheered for him, I couldn’t hear them. The boos were too loud. Most of the booing came from Groveland’s fans, especially their student section, but I was pretty sure some of the adults were from Rapid River.

This was the reception Kirsten and Dad got at home games. What did it sound like when they were away?

It was clear in the first few minutes that Groveland didn’t have anyone tall enough to guard Janet Peterson, or good enough to guard Kirsten.

But the game stayed relatively close the entire first half—because Kirsten allowed it to.

It wasn’t that she played badly. She wasn’t lazy on defense or careless with the ball on offense. When she was open for a shot, she took it. But Groveland’s strategy was to keep the ball out of her hands. They put two girls on her after every made basket to force somebody else to bring the ball up the court and start the offense. As Kirsten ran through screens, Groveland’s girls immediately switched who they were guarding so the screens didn’t work.

Kirsten wasn’t doing anything wrong out there. You couldn’t call the score at the half, 22-22, her fault. Groveland was determined to make someone other than Kirsten beat them, and so far no one else had been able to do it. Despite Janet’s size advantage, she missed one short-range shot after another. Probably because she felt so out of sync. Without Kirsten running the point, the first half never gained much of a flow.

And while it wouldn’t be fair to blame Kirsten for that lack of flow, there was no question in my mind that she had allowed it to happen. Because while on paper Groveland’s strategy sounded good—keep the ball out of Kirsten’s hands—it should have never worked. Not against someone as good as Kirsten.

Two girls guarding Kirsten? Get her the ball anyway. She can dribble around or through them, race up the court and play 5-on-3 basketball.

Switching on every screen? Get her the ball then, too. She could take advantage of whatever mismatch presented itself. If she ended up with a center defending her, Janet probably had a guard on her, and it would have been Kirsten’s choice whether to go one-on-one herself or pass to Janet in the post.

None of this could happen, though, if Kirsten didn’t demand the ball.

Which is exactly what she did in the second half.

Whether stealing the ball from her opponent or catching close-range passes from her teammates, Kirsten spent most of the second half with the ball in her hands, racing up the floor, setting up her teammates with layup after layup. Once Rapid River made a few shots in a row, it was as if no one on the team could miss. Kirsten’s teammates nailed shots from all over the floor—from the corner, from the elbow, from beyond the arc.

Groveland took a few timeouts in an attempt to stop Rapid River’s momentum, but it didn’t work. The shots kept going in, and by now all the Rapid River girls were high fiving as they ran down the court.

Except for Kirsten. She didn’t have time to celebrate. She was too busy pouncing for another steal.

With six minutes left the lead was big enough, 64-32, that Dad took out all five starters to a nice ovation and brought in the reserves. He high fived each player as they ran past him to the bench, including Kirsten.

Rapid River was given another ovation when the final buzzer sounded.

I sat in the hallway and watched the Rapid River players empty out of the locker room.

Finally, Kirsten shuffled out.

As usual, she was the last one to leave. This time, though, no one else waited with me to get an autograph or say congratulations.

She was wearing nice clothes again. Jeans, brown boots, a black coat with buttons. As the door closed behind her, she wrapped a white scarf around her neck.  

She spotted me right away. “Hey, Mike.”

It was so weird: once again it had felt like she’d been avoiding me, like she didn’t want to see me, like I might never talk to her again. But now that she was there in front of me, she didn’t look disappointed or reluctant to talk. She marched right up to me.

 “Good game,” I said.

She shrugged. “The second half was okay.”

“Yeah, what was up with that first half?”

It sounded like I was criticizing her, but I didn’t mean it that way, and that’s not how she took it.

“I don’t know,” she said. She pivoted so her back was to the wall, then slid down until she was sitting next to me on the floor. “The truth is . . . the truth is I’m ready for the season to be over.” 

She said it as though it was a dark, dirty secret.

“THE Kirsten Howard?” I said. “Sick of basketball?”      

“I thought everything would go back to normal after going on TV, you know?” she said.

Man, did I ever.

“But it didn’t,” she said. “Things are different. It all feels . . . different.”

She looked different. And not just because of the nice clothes. Kirsten was clearly wiped out. She actually had her eyes closed, almost as if she was going to take a nap right there and then.

When she opened them, she asked, “Is that why you wanted to see me? To give me a hard time about my crappy play in the first half?”

“No,” I admitted.

Some headlights shined through the glass doors, then shut off. “That would be my dad,” Kirsten said.

“Oh,” I said. “This can wait.”

Of course, it couldn’t wait. At least I hadn’t thought so until right now. But seeing her like this, so completely drained—I changed my mind.

“So can my dad,” she said.

I looked out the glass doors, but it was too dark to see anything. I wondered if her dad could see us.

I took a deep breath. Now or never. “What happened between you and my dad?”

“What do you mean?” she said. Her voice instantly changed pitch. She didn’t like the question.

“I mean—”

“Did he hit on me?” she said. “Is that what you’re asking? Did he stick his tongue down my throat? Did he try to bone me?”

“Jesus.”

“Well? That’s what you want to know, right? Everyone else does.”

Who was everyone? Had jackass guys like Adam Pilsner said these things right to her face? Had girls said these things, too?

Kirsten stood up. She wanted to leave, and I didn’t blame her. But I also needed to know.

I stood up next to her. “Well, yes. I mean—”

“I already answered that question,” Kirsten said. “On TV.” Her hands were fists and she pounded me on the chest with them. “Do I really have to answer it again? For you? You know us, Mike. You were there the whole time. Of course, nothing happened. How could you think that we… how could you think that I…”

“I wasn’t blaming you,” I said. “I just—”

She started pounding my chest again.

“No, Mike. For the last time—no. Nothing happened. Okay? Are you satisfied?”

When I didn’t respond, she turned to leave.

“No,” I finally said. “I’m sorry, but no—that’s not enough. There has to be something . . . something else. There has to be. One second you’re in my life and everything’s fine, and the next you’re running away like you are now. Are you telling me my entire life fell apart for no reason?”

At long last, it was my turn to do the sobbing.

“I know I should be asking my Dad. I know I have no right to ask you. But please. Please. I need to know.”

Full-body spasms bent me in two.

Kirsten kneeled next to me, but didn’t say anything. When the spasms stopped, I said, “I am so sorry to ask you these questions,” I said again. “I am. But if there’s anything you can tell me . . .”

I let my voice trail off.

Kirsten thought about it for a few moments. When she spoke, her voice was soft: “He told me he was going to get a divorce,” she said. “Okay? The night I stormed off. He told me he was going to divorce your mom.”

She stopped talking for a moment, her head tilting, her eyes scrunching. She was analyzing my face, trying to see whether I was okay. Then she opened her mouth to talk some more, but I interrupted.

“When?”

“What?” she asked.

“When was he going to get the divorce?”

Kirsten grimaced. This was painful for her. “I don’t know, Mike. He didn’t give a specific date. Soon, though. That’s what it felt like. I don’t know.”

She kept going: “There we were watching film like always, and then suddenly he was telling me how badly your mom treated him, how she didn’t understand him and never would. How he couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t say anything. His voice got emotional, and I got overwhelmed. I told him I had to go. That’s when he told me not to tell you—to let him figure out how and when to do it. I said I had to go again, and I did. I left. That’s how you saw me when I got outside and that’s how my parents saw me when I got home. When I explained what had happened, my mom was furious. They both were. At what he said that night, and at the rest of it too. The passes out of study hall. Encouraging me to skip the family trip to Florida. I didn’t have the energy that night to tell them again that I did those things too, not just Coach Duncan. Especially since they would have just said it didn’t matter; Coach Duncan was the adult. But also because I was mad at him too. He is an adult, Mike; he shouldn’t have told me that stuff about him and your mom. He definitely shouldn’t have told me not to tell you. Mom wrote the letter that night.”

Kirsten took a deep breath. “She overreacted—even she gets that. But it was my fault. If I saw my daughter like that, I would have overreacted, too. None of this would have happened if I hadn’t gotten so upset. I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, it would have,” I said it out loud but I meant it for myself.

“What?”

“Not the stuff that happened between you, but . . . My mom left my dad the day you were on TV. . .”

I didn’t need to finish the sentence. Kirsten’s eyes had already widened with sympathy. “I’m sorry, Mike. I didn’t know. I’m so, so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said. Because it wasn’t. Of course, it wasn’t. “Dad should have never done that. He should have never said those things to you.”

He should have said them to me, I thought, or to Mom. He should have said them to the people he was planning to leave. The people he promised he would never leave. Not to you. Never to you.

“It’s his fault,” I told her. I had asked him, point-blank, if there was anything to worry about—and he lied. I blamed Mom for leaving when he had already decided to ditch us. He kept me in the dark, but he had no problem sharing his actual thoughts and feelings with one of his basketball players—with my girlfriend.

“Where are you going, Mike?”

Until she said it, I didn’t even realize that I was on the move.

“I’m sorry,” I said over my shoulder. “I need to think. I need to go.”