The gym was hell on Fridays. Coach Berro came unglued, and her voice rose a few hundred decibels every time the wrestlers crossed the court or the cheerleaders screamed up on the balcony.

“Most fans watch the person with the ball,” Coach shouted over the din. “But anybody who knows anything will tell you that knowing how to move without the ball is what makes a good player.”

I leaned toward Alejo and whispered, “Why can’t we do some drills where we shoot the ball?”

Coach turned to me. “Janey, do you have a question?”

I shook my head. I could feel my face turning red.

“This drill is called Three on Three No Dribble. Janey, why don’t you show us how to do a V cut off a screen. Florina, Mickey, Nia on D, Janey, Penny, Latoya on O.”

Coach handed Latoya the ball and told Penny to set a screen on Nia, my defender, to free me up for a pass. At her whistle we scattered, and I zig zagged back and forth trying to get free.

Coach blew her whistle. “This is how it’s done.” She demonstrated a V cut off a screen. It pissed me off because she must have seen that I was doing a perfectly good V cut.

We tried again, but no matter how many stupid cuts I made Nia stuck to me like glue. Penny finally got in position to set a pick. I cut and called for the ball, and Nia crashed into Penny and went down.

“Fight, fight,” Sadie hissed.

Nia scrambled to her feet and stood in front of Penny with her arms folded across her chest. “Who do you think you are anyway?”

I think it was the first time I had ever heard Nia speak a whole sentence.

“Are you all right, Nia?” Coach asked.

“That girl thinks she’s playing football.”

I had to turn away to keep from laughing.

“Call out to your team mates when a pick is coming,” Coach said. “Nia, that was a tough pick. Let’s try it again.”

**

By seven o’clock the gym was empty except for us and the parents huddled by the door, waiting to take us home. We sprawled on the floor while coach went over an endless list of stuff—where we would meet for study hall after school during late practice weeks, parents meeting next Wednesday, what time we wanted to practice on Saturdays.

One faction wanted to sleep in and practice late on Saturday. Another faction, including me, wanted to practice early so we would have the rest of the day free. Alejo was worried that her mother wouldn’t let her practice at all on Saturdays because she had to help her clean houses. When she had first confessed to me that she cleaned houses with her mom, I asked her if she couldn’t wait until the season was over to help her. She told me she didn’t have a choice. Either she helped her or she didn’t have clothes and books. I felt like an idiot.

Finally, Coach asked if we could make it to open gym at seven in the morning, three times a week, to shoot. Everybody groaned. I pumped my fist.

“You are so pathetic, Holmes,” Sadie said.

“Last but not least”—Coach scrutinized her mangled practice plan—”we need managers as soon as possible, so put the word out. I guess that’s it.”

We scrambled to our feet and headed for the locker room.

“Hold up,” Coach called out. “Our circle.”

We put our hands into the center and touched hers.

“Team on three. One, two, three—”

“Team.”

It was bad.

Coach shrugged. “I guess we’re not a team yet.”