IN FRONT OF HER HOUSE—a brick row home under a faded and ripped yellow awning—Erin says that she’ll be over just as soon as she’s showered, and then she kisses me once on the lips before disappearing behind the front screen door.

I jog the one block home down O’Shea Street.

The neighborhood is gray and dingy and littered with trash, but all the row homes are occupied and therefore not condemned, so our blocks look pretty healthy compared to most around here.

When I cross the street to my block, I notice Coach Wilkins’s old Ford pickup truck parked in front of our house.

Coach has come to pay me a visit and he’s now alone inside my house with Pop, who sometimes gets drunk during the day and starts dancing with family skeletons—talking freely about stuff I don’t want anyone to know, especially Coach.

I sprint into my house and yell, “Coach?”

“Finley, I’m right here. No need to yell.” He’s wearing a summer suit with no tie and fancy shoes. Why’s he dressed up?

He’s on the sofa in the living room. My pop’s wheelchair is parked next to the couch and thankfully Pop looks relatively sober.

“Coach Wilkins would like to take you out to dinner,” Pop says. He’s in a wife-beater undershirt and his tan pants are pinned under his stumps. Pop’s white hair is tucked behind his ears and falls to his shoulders. He’s not trying to look cool with the long hair; he just doesn’t care enough to make the trip to the barber. Grandmom’s green rosary beads make a V on Pop’s chest and Jesus hangs on a black cross right around Pop’s outie bellybutton.

“To a friend’s house, actually,” Coach says. And then, noticing how sweaty I am, he adds, “Looks like you’ve been working out pretty hard today.”

“With Erin Quinn,” Pop says. “That’s his lady friend.”

“She’s a fine ball player and a fine young woman,” Coach says. “So, Finley.”

I like the fact that Coach doesn’t call me White Rabbit, especially since my teammates are always trying to get him to use the nickname.

Coach says, “You want to dine with me tonight?”

I nod.

I do whatever Coach asks of me. He’s my coach.

“Why don’t you shower up and we’ll talk about it on the way. And wear something nice,” Coach says.

“I’ll be needing your assistance before you go,” Pop says.

I push Pop’s wheelchair into the bathroom, where I quickly help him change his soiled diaper.

When we return to the living room my father’s up. (Dad sleeps days and works nights.) He and Coach are talking hoops and smiling so I park Pop next to them. Pop says, “Hurry your ass up,” as I jog up the steps.

In the shower I wonder where Coach is taking me.

He’s never asked me to dinner and he’s only visited my home twice before. Once after I was beat up by Don Little, and once after I hurt my ankle sophomore year.

I can’t imagine where he would be taking me tonight, but I’m excited to find out.