THE SECOND GAME OF THE YEAR is the annual boy-girl doubleheader against Pennsville, our archrivals in basketball and by far our best competition for the conference championship. The day before the game, in practice, Coach has us all lined up sitting against the wall when he says, “Based on our scouting reports, Pennsville’s going to run what we’ll call a triangle-and-two on Terrell, which means they’re going to double-team him anytime he gets the ball.”

“Damn,” Terrell says. “I hate being double-teamed.”

Coach ignores Terrell and says, “Wes, Hakim, and Sir will experience a matchup zone, which will leave Finley wide open.”

What Coach means is that Pennsville doesn’t think I can make my jump shots—they don’t think I’m a threat to score. I’m not offended, because my being the weakest scoring threat on the team is a fact. I’m a point guard, not a shooter. That’s my role, and other teams have doubled Terrell before, but for some reason my jump shot seems a little more off this year than in years past. I went zero for two in the first game.

“Finley will have to shoot his way out of the triangle-and-two,” Coach says. “Which we all know he can and will do. He just has to hit a few early shots to make them switch to man-to-man coverage. And then we’ll be able to run our regular man offenses.”

Coach teaches the second squad the Pennsville triangle-and-two defense, and then we practice against it. Just about every shot I take bounces off the rim. It feels like I haven’t heard the sound of the ball spinning through net twine in years.

“Keep shooting,” Coach says. “Get all your misses out today. Save your baskets for tomorrow.”

I keep shooting, but I feel a little more anxious with every miss. When I glance at my teammates, I see doubt in their faces—or am I just being paranoid?

Coach subs in Boy21 for me at one point and Russ misses all of his shots too, which doesn’t make me feel any better. I’m really starting to think he’s missing on purpose. This depresses me and makes me feel guilty, even though I told him not to hold back.

In the locker room after practice, Wes, Sir, and Hakim all punch my arm and pat my back and say things like “You got all your misses out today” and “Tomorrow’s baskets are the ones that count, not today’s” and “Game day is the real day.”

But Terrell says, “You better get that extra man off me early, White Rabbit. You hear? I want to hit a thousand points before the season’s over.”

Coach is always saying we shouldn’t chase personal records, but we all know there will be a huge celebration when Terrell scores his one-thousandth point. He needs me to do well if he’s going to reach a grand this year.

I’m worried about tomorrow enough already, so my stomach flips and pulses when Coach calls me into his office. He shuts the door and says, “I only expect you to shoot the ball when you’re open tomorrow. You’re a decent shooter, Finley. Hakim and Wes will rebound too. Trust me.”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Maybe talk to Russ about making more shots in practice too,” Coach says.

“So you think he’s missing on purpose?”

“We haven’t seen the real Russ play ball yet,” Coach says. “And you don’t know what a show you’re missing.”

He looks into my eyes for a long time—like he’s trying to control my mind or something—and I eventually look down at my sneakers.

“See you tomorrow, Finley.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, and then go change in the locker room.

I thought everyone had left, so I’m startled when I hear, “Finley?”

Boy21 is standing next to me in a towel. He’s the only player who uses those nasty showers, which haven’t been cleaned for decades. He wears flip-flops to protect his feet.

“What’s up?”

“I told my grandfather to pick me up at your house later tonight.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping we could sit on your roof.”

I sigh. I’m tired, and the thought of talking in code with Boy21—all the cosmos and outer-space jazz—exhausts me. “I have to do my homework.”

“We could do it together maybe.”

Russ is rubbing his chin over and over again, looking at me with these crazy intense eyes. Again, I wonder if he really has been missing his shots intentionally, and for some reason I decide he probably has. Something about the way he’s standing—it’s almost submissive, like a dog with its tail between its legs. Why would anyone yield to me?