This is the first time all season Abba and I have driven home in daylight. There’s a field in the distance full of giant windmills. They’re taller than trees, moving with the wind. Watching the blades spin helps my thoughts settle.

Coach reamed me out in the hallway this afternoon. He said I was disrespectful and made him look bad in front of the other coaches. He said if I was upset about Spence forfeiting, I should have talked to him privately. Instead, I caused all this “drama.”

Where has he been all season? The drama didn’t start with me.

I can still feel Coach’s hand clamped on my shoulder. “I’m angry now,” he said, “but we’ll work it out.”

“I don’t want to work it out. I don’t want to wrestle anymore.”

Coach Billy’s eyes were dark but not mean. “No, Lev. Number one, you’re a Gladiator. Number two, you can’t help Mickey if you quit.” He held me by both shoulders, so I couldn’t look away. “Middle school is the hardest age for wrestlers. You’re going to tournaments, competing against studs from states where wrestling’s practically a religion.”

He didn’t understand. Wrestling wasn’t fun today. Every time I stepped on the mat, I saw the guy from Glenmont High, his face covered in blood.

“Promise me you’ll hold out for high school,” Coach said. “You’ll be wrestling guys who are new to the sport, and you’ll be the stud.”

Coach didn’t look like Billy the Kid anymore. I saw frown lines on his face, a knot of muscle on his forehead.

“I don’t want to lose you, Lev. You’re a good kid, a good wrestler. You know that, right?”

But I don’t know it. Not anymore. My stupid plan to mess with Nick Spence, to beat him by helping Mickey, it backfired. Nick keeps finding ways to avoid wrestling her, and now she hates me. I was so mean to her this week. I acted like what happened with Evan was Mickey’s fault.

You think you’re better than everyone, Lev Sofer.

Abba keeps checking on me in the rearview mirror.

“Stop looking at me,” I say. I can’t wait until I’m old enough to sit in the front of the car. Thirteen. It’s a big year. I get to move up to the front seat, and I’ll be a bar mitzvah.

I wrap myself in the blanket Abba keeps in the backseat, fold my pillow behind my head, and dig out my notebook. I don’t feel like a vampire wrestler anymore. I don’t feel like anything.

I start a new poem.

Who am I

if I’m not

a Gladiator?

Who am I

without

this sport?

I don’t

even know.

It’s so

much

of who

I am.

I don’t

have anything

else.

Abba sends me to the shower when we get home. From the serious look he gives Mom, I know he’s going to tell her what happened. They ask me if I want to go out for dinner, as if it’s a special occasion.

“Let’s stay home,” I say.

I play with Grover as Mom and Abba make a salad. Dalia is at an indoor field hockey clinic. This is how it’s going to be two years from now, when she’s in college. Me, Mom, Abba, and Grover.

“How about a walk after dinner?” Abba asks. He points at Grover. “Just the guys.”

It’s one of those strange warm nights we get sometimes in the middle of winter. All I need is a hoodie, no coat. Grover woofs at the door while Abba clips on his leash.

“What happened today?” Abba asks.

“I don’t know. It felt like everything was crashing down on me.” The moon is big above the trees. I remember the owl I heard, that morning at the start of the season. Abba said it meant I would wrestle smart. He was wrong, for once.

Grover stops to sniff a tree and Abba waits in the light of a streetlamp. I stay in the tree’s shadow and stick my hand in the light, making shapes on the ground.

“What do you love about wrestling?” Abba asks.

I shrug. “We don’t talk about that, even me and Josh and Isaiah. We brag about winning, but never about what it feels like when a kid’s pinned under you, kicking like he can’t breathe. We never talk about how hard it is to lose.” I walk along the edge of the shadow, one foot in front of the other, with my arms wide.

“You’ll be twelve this summer,” Abba is saying. “When you’re thirteen, you become a man. That’s our tradition.”

“Abba, you know the other night, when we sat at the table and ate soup and talked? I wish we weren’t so busy with sports. I wish we had more time like that, the four of us together.”

Abba nods. “Competition makes your sister happy. Your mother and I assumed the same was true for you. But you’re not your sister.”

Don’t my parents know how different Dalia and I are? Abba says when something is bothering me, he sees it on the mat. I can’t focus. Dalia is the opposite. It doesn’t matter if she has a fight with my mom or a big test, when it’s game time, all she thinks about is winning.

Abba pulls me close. “Mom and I value you much more as a person than as an athlete.”

“You’re not mad that I quit?”

“You stood up for your friend. I’m proud of you,” he says. “Whatever you decide about wrestling, Mom and I support you. We just want to make sure you’re thinking it through. Do you really want to quit? Or are you acting out of anger?”

This is Abba’s superpower. It’s not extreme strength, or speed, like the superheroes Bryan’s doing his mythology project on. Abba gets me to talk about difficult things, because he wants me to think about what’s right and what’s wrong.

“I’m still having that nightmare,” I tell him.

“Some people say it wasn’t an angel Jacob was wrestling, but himself.”

“Abba, what does that even mean?”

He grins and turns for home. “Do I look like a dream interpreter to you?”

“No. You look like Abba.”

“Good.”

When we pass the Hongs’ house, I ask if Grover and I can go visit Bryan. I ring the bell. Grover sniffs at empty flowerpots. A red-and-gold braid is looped over the door handle. It must be time for Chinese New Year.

Bryan opens the door. “Hi.”

Even though it’s January, he’s wearing shorts. His T-shirt is sweaty. The Hongs have one of those movable basketball stands. For someone who’s not interested in playing on a team, Bryan’s out here a lot. He leans down to pat Grover’s head. “Hi, fuzzbutt,” he says. Grover’s long tongue shoots out and covers Bryan’s hand with a lick. “Ugh. Slobbery.”

“Grover misses you.”

“It’s wrestling season. We’re both used to it.”

I kick the concrete step, to make myself say the words. “I quit Gladiators.”

“Why would you do that?” Bryan pushes his glasses up his nose. He grabs his basketball and comes outside. I tie Grover’s leash to the doorknob. He’s happy to lie down and take a rest after our walk.

Bryan and I take turns doing layups. “So what happened?”

“Too much drama. Also, I may have mouthed off to my coach.”

“That’s not good.” Bryan passes the ball to me. “Does this mean you’re free Friday night?”

“It means I’m free every night.”

“School social?”

“Yeah. Gotta have something to look forward to.” No more Gladiators. No more States. No more Josh, Isaiah, or Mickey.

By the time Bryan and I are done talking, we’ve got solid plans for the social.

It’s the strangest week of my life. When I’m at school, or if Bryan’s free, everything is great. Bryan, Emma, Marisa, and I get permission to eat lunch in the media center so we can work on our mythology projects. It’s still warm enough to play basketball or ride bikes after school. But after dinner, I don’t have anything to do. I get my homework done and delete texts from Mickey. I don’t know what to say to her, so I say nothing. I watch the History Channel, then go to bed early.

I don’t even want to open my wrestling notebook, because then I’ll have to ask myself who I am. The kid who writes poetry, who thinks it’s not worth it to fight? Or the athlete, working to show everyone that I’m the best because—win or lose—I tried my hardest. I’m still not sure. What I do know is I’m a better friend since I stopped wrestling, at least to Bryan and Emma.