PROLOGUE

Before asking when, tell yourself how.

 WIZENARD PROVERB 

THE BUZZER WENT off, the game ended, and one boy sat alone.

Fairwood was a riot of noise. The visiting team and their fans were laughing and cheering. One spectator had brought a foghorn and was letting it wail like the awakening of some prehistoric monster. But Reginald Mathers and his teammates were quiet. The West Bottom Badgers moved slowly among one another. Curt nods. Sunken shoulders.

It was the first game of a new season, but it felt like an ending.

Reggie looked down at the palms of his hands. Professor Rolabi Wizenard had brought them magic, actual magic, and they had still lost. It seemed as if all the promise of training camp had leached through the polished hardwood floorboards and disappeared forever. Of course it had.

Tonight, Reggie had been promoted to the first sub off the bench, and he had failed spectacularly. He’d played five minutes, maybe, and been terrible the entire time. Turnovers. Missed jumpers. Burned on defense again and again. Reggie had let down the Badgers. Of course he had.

Reggie watched his teammates exchange half-hearted encouragements. Some looked near tears. He stared at his hands again. Reggie felt bad for them. Them. That was the word written in the lines of his palms. Them instead of us.

A minute later, Reggie followed his teammates into the locker room.

“Right back where we started,” Twig said softly, breaking the silence.

Reggie’s closest friend sounded defeated. Dazed. Reggie felt his stomach aching.

Lab, the Badgers’ starting small forward and corner sharpshooter, shook his head. “I thought it was going to be different this year.”

“We needed those threes at the end,” Peño said, his eyes locked on his younger brother.

Lab scowled. “We needed less turnovers before that—”

“You needed to get a rebound!” Peño shouted. “Not a single second-chance board—”

“Hey!” Rain said, cutting in. “We all need to get better before next week. Period.”

The room fell into unsettled silence and a few last glares. No one was going to argue with their star player after the incredible game that Rain had just played, but the tension remained. Reggie sensed resentment, and something sharper too.

Professor Rolabi marched into the room, stopped, waited. As ever, he wore his black pin-striped suit, pleats ironed sharp enough to cut butter, and a candy-apple-red bow tie. His strange leather medicine bag hung closed at his side, its secrets locked away. His ice-blue eyes found Reggie.

“We need more from you,” Rolabi said. “We need everything from everyone.”

The professor stormed out again, and a new silence loomed so heavy that Reggie thought it might flatten him. Twig gave him a sympathetic pat on the knee, but Reggie barely even felt it.

Rolabi had called him out in front of everyone. He had basically blamed Reggie.

He vaguely heard the others saying goodbye as they left. Finally, Reggie was alone, still wearing his yellow uniform, and he shuffled out into the empty gym. Someone had turned off all but one row of garish overhead fluorescent panels, which cast just enough light for shadows.

Reggie walked to center court, listening to his footsteps echo in the rafters. His chest felt as hollow as the gym. He had given everything to this sport, and it gave him nothing back. It pushed him away. It rejected him.

Of course it did. He had expected something different this year. He wasn’t even sure what exactly . . . but after months of magic and hard work, he thought they could at least win.

“Well,” Reggie said softly. “It was a nice thought while it lasted.”

He didn’t even know who he was talking to. Rolabi or Fairwood or grana itself. He supposed it didn’t matter. Magic was good for stories, but it didn’t belong on a basketball court.

Reggie nodded sadly, fixed his duffel over his shoulder, and headed out into the evening. The Bottom was waiting for him, as it always was.