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try again to see how I do.
    So I plant my feet and hold the ball in front of my face and think about how Sean looked when he threw the ball.
    I will myself to put as much into it as I can, and then I aim and take my shot.
    The ball hits the side edge of the backboard and ricochets off at an angle.
    I hear a yell:
    At least you hit something this time, faggot!
    My ears get hot right away. I know whose voice it is before I turn around.
    Victor is across the street, behind me, smoking a cigarette.
    He’s watching us with a big grin on his face, a grin that looks nothing like Sean’s.
    Then he notices Sean, and that smile falters. Just a bit, but I can see it from where I am.
    He says, Hey, Sean!
    I turn back. Sean is staring across the street at Victor. He doesn’t respond, just looks at Victor in this strange way.
    I watch Sean and Sean watches Victor.
    Then I say, I gotta go home.
    And I walk past Sean on the court and untie Charlie and walk away.
    When I get home, Dad and Mom and Toby are watching a movie. I recognize it right away:
Marley and Me.
It just started, I can tell. I’ve seen this movie a thousand times.
    Dad looks over as I walk in.
    He says, Just in time, buddy. Pull up a couch.
    He pats the space next to him.
    I let Charlie off the leash, and he bounds over to the living room and jumps up right where Dad patted. Dad tells him to get down and Charlie jumps off without stopping, his tail still going crazy.
    I go over and sit down next to Dad.
    We all really like this movie even though it’s kind of stupid. But part of why is because we make fun of it as it goes on.
    It’s not a bad way to spend a Saturday.
    The next Monday Sean isn’t sitting with Victor.
    I leave the lunch line with my tray and make my way to Ronald and Jared at our table, and glance over and see Sean sitting with the other basketball kids on the other side of the cafeteria.
    I look at Victor’s table. He and Tristan and Fuller aren’t really talking. Victor’s eyes keep darting over in Sean’s direction. He’s scowling.
    I sit down with Ronald and Jared, smiling just a little.

This is my dad:
    Stern, sensible, serious.
    He has rough hands that look especially big and wrinkled next to Mom’s tiny smooth soft hands. He has hair growing out of his knuckles, and his nails are irregular from sloppy clippings and calcium deposits. They are a man’s hands.
    They are attached to a man’s arms, to a man’s shoulders, to a man’s body.
    His dark brown hair thins out on top. He combs it down neatly, but sometimes it sticks up when there’s wind.
    He doesn’t smile or laugh much, and his dark eyes usually make him look businesslike.
    He shaves every day, even weekends, but there’s always a bit of stubble by afternoon.
    He wears a tie on a button-down every day, even weekends, but loosens it at home.
    Toby asked him once why he wears good clothes all the time.
    This was back in Wisconsin. We were all sitting at the dinner table.
    She said, Dad, why do you keep your tie on when you get home? And why do you always wear it on the weekends?
    I think she was asking because she’d been hanging out with Marla a lot and noticed how different her family was from ours. How they just wore casual clothes and how Marla and her younger brothers didn’t have to call them ma’am and sir and how they even let Marla have her own iPhone.
    Dad stopped with his fork and a piece of chicken an inch from his open mouth. He put the fork down and looked at Toby like he was about to say something serious, which is how he always looks.
    Then he said, It’s important always to look your best, every chance you get, Toby.
    Like that.
    Toby just shrugged. Everyone kept eating.
    Mom seems to agree.
    She wears khakis and cardigans all the time. Like Martha Stewart, sort of. Not anything fancy, but still.
    I don’t think that kind of stuff is as popular as it used to be, since a lot of other kids’ moms wear regular pants or shorts or whatever they want around the