WHEN HE PARKS, Coach says, “There’s one other thing.”

He gets this look on his face like he has to use the bathroom or something. He looks way uncomfortable. He’s strangling the steering wheel.

“Russell isn’t exactly going by the name Russell at this moment in his life.” Coach glances out the windshield with this vacant look on his face. “Russell now likes to be called Boy21.” He nods a few times, as if to say he isn’t joking.

“Why?” I say, noting that twenty-one is my basketball number. Could this night possibly get any weirder?

“The people at his group home and his local therapist have both recommended that we all call him Boy21 out of respect for his wishes. They say he now needs to exert control over his environment in some small way, or something like that. I don’t know anything about therapy, but I think after all that’s happened the boy could sure use a kindhearted friend. That’s what this is about. We’ll call him Boy21 tonight and work on getting him back to Russ before school starts.”

I nod, but I imagine my expression says something different. Am I kindhearted? How can I be a friend to this kid when I don’t really even talk to people, and I don’t have any true friends besides Erin? Will he want my basketball number?

Coach’s eyebrows are pushing the skin on his forehead into folds and he’s swallowing every five seconds now.

He reaches across the truck, puts his hand on my shoulder, and says, “I’m doing this out of respect for my late friend. And, Finley, no matter how this goes, thank you for coming. You’re a good kid. I’m only asking you to give tonight a shot. Nothing more. If it doesn’t go well, we’ll just forget about it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Well. Here we go.”

We get out of Coach’s truck. The Allens’ street is much worse than mine. Broken bottles and fast-food wrappers litter the sidewalks, a few houses are boarded up, and just about every building is tagged with graffiti curse words, but the Allens’ place is actually pretty nice. The lawn’s cut, the bushes are shaped, and the house itself looks well kept and inviting. It’s even been freshly painted, which is a rare sight in Bellmont.

Coach rings the doorbell and soon a white-haired couple answers.

“Timothy!” The old woman is wearing a black dress. She wraps her arms around Coach’s neck so that he has to bend over. “Thank you so much for coming.”

“Pleasure, Ms. Allen.”

Mr. Allen—who’s wearing a gray suit—shakes Coach’s hand very formally and says, “Thank you again for what you said at the funeral. You’re a poet, a good friend, and a kind soul.”

“I only spoke the truth,” Coach says. Everyone’s eyes are suddenly glistening. “This here’s Finley McManus. One of the finest young men on my ball squad. Good people here. I promise you that.”

I’m a little embarrassed by Coach’s introduction, but I’m also a little proud.

Mr. Allen looks at me and says, “Thanks for coming.”

I know Mr. Allen is probably surprised that I’m white, but that doesn’t bother me. I’d probably be surprised if I were him too. Actually, I’m surprised that Coach picked me for this job. I’m not a therapist, nor do I have much in common with the Allen family at all. They’re probably thinking I won’t be able to relate to their grandson, that I might even be a liability for him in the new neighborhood, and I completely agree. Black kids with white best friends are not common in Bellmont. Maybe that’s blunt, but I’ve found that being blunt sometimes makes life easier for everyone.

“Come in,” Mrs. Allen says.