“We’re home,” Hannah calls out as the screen door bangs shut behind us. Mom’s drying her hands on a dishtowel. She looks tired and real small, like Gram did before she died. I almost feel like giving her a hug, but Hannah does it for me.

“Pizza?” I give the air a big hungry sniff instead.

“Sorry—spaghetti again.” Mom gives Hannah an extra-long hug, but she knows I’m past hugging. “Sauce made by Mr. Ragu.”

“Sweet. I’m starved.” I drop my backpack and gym bag in the hall. “Fifty pounds of homework in there. Should be illegal.”

“How was the tryout?” Mom asks.

I shrug. “Eh. Not bad—got to play guard.”

“That’s nice, sweetie.”

I never told her about my glasses the other day. Since I mostly only wear them for sports, maybe she won’t notice. What I seriously don’t want is her going to the principal about Roy. That would be instant social suicide. He’s dangerous—and powerful, in a bad way.

“Hey, Dad.” I stop by the living room on my way upstairs. “How are ya?” I pick through the candy in the bowl on the coffee table. He looks almost normal. Only he’s wearing his orange bathrobe and it’s five o’clock in the afternoon.

“I had a good day, a really good day.” He turns off the TV. “Walked all the way to the post office. Then I met Joey for coffee. He was raving about what a big help you’ve been on the farm this year.”

I tell Dad all about the basketball tryout. Mom tries to be interested, but she just doesn’t get sports. Mostly she just gets mad watching me play the bench. Dad hardly made it to any games last year because he was having treatments for almost the whole season. It half-kills him to sit in the bleachers for a long time.

After supper, I’m dragging my butt upstairs to attack my fifty pounds of homework when Dad calls up to me. “A little one-on-one?”

I look down at him and shrug. Is he up for it? I don’t really have time, but he hardly ever asks me to play anymore. “I’ve got an essay to write for English,” I say. “But I can play for a bit.”

“I think I can still take you.” Dad punches me on the shoulder on the way by. “Just let me get changed.” He comes back downstairs wearing an old Yankees sweatshirt, gray sweats that are hanging off him, and a winter hat. Seems like he’s cold all the time now. The chemo did something to his blood, I think.

We play for a few minutes. He seems to get tired right away, so I take it pretty easy on him. His breathing’s so noisy, I figure Mom’ll come running out any minute now to see what’s going on. Sounds like Jeff before he uses his puffer, or Darth Vader.

“Wow—Joe’s really shown you a thing or two.” He chucks me the ball, then collapses back into a lawn chair. “He was a take-charge kind of player back in our day. He could always see the whole floor, like he had eyes in the back of his head.”

“I’m sorta like that, too.” I sit down beside him. My record for spinning the ball on one finger is 62 seconds. “Hey, check this out. Coach says maybe I can play guard sometime this year.” I drop the ball at 49, and it bounces off my toe. Rufus meows and scurries out of the way, just in time. “Only, I’ve gotta make the team first.”

“He’d be crazy not to take you. You’re due for a growth spurt, too. I grew six inches in Grade 8.”

I wish. Mom says I’ve gotta be patient, that my body’ll eventually catch up to my massive feet. My dad used to be six foot four. He’s smaller now since the C Monster spread from his brain to his spine.

“I know I’m way better than last year, anyway.”

“Gimme five!” Dad’s grinning. He’s like Hannah—they can always find something to be happy about.

We slap hands and get back up. Really, I get up and sort of pull Dad up out of his chair. Which isn’t that hard since he’s about forty pounds lighter than he used to be. He pats me on the shoulder. “Practice makes perfect. Thanks, little buddy.”

We play SKUNK for a while. His shooting’s still awesome. Some big universities were scouting Dad when he was in high school. He could’ve gotten a basketball scholarship, except he had to drop out and go to work when his dad died.

“That’s all my head can handle,” Dad says after our second game of SKUNK. He only gets to SKU and beats me both times. He gets these wicked dizzy headaches now if he tries to do too much. I hate cancer—even more than I hate Roy Williams.

“I’m just gonna stay out a few more minutes. Maybe I’ll get some inspiration for my English essay on ‘The Importance of Setting Goals.’”

I dribble the ball and watch him walk up the steps like an old man. He stops on every step and holds onto the railing with both hands. I get this real bad feeling deep down in my chest. My throat feels all tight and dry—like I’m gonna cry or something stupid like that. I turn around and drive in for a layup instead.

After he’s gone inside, I sprint around the block a couple of times. I’ve got this crazy idea that I’m being chased by the ugly six-headed C Monster; I keep staring into the dark bushes, waiting for it to pop out, screeching at me like one of those banshees or mandrakes in Harry Potter. Nobody ever talks about it much, but I wonder how sick Dad really is—will he even get to see me play guard? It’s hard to think about school when your brain’s got that kind of major stuff going on …