Her mother had never played organized basketball, but she had watched enough missed bank shots in empty gyms to know what bothered her daughter. At the bus entrance, a freshman from their school asked whether Imani had really challenged Mariner to a fight. The girl sounded ashamed to ask. Imani stopped instead of making her guess. “No,” she said.

“Two people shoved me. The school filed a report. I’m here to play basketball.” “That’s what Zora said.” “Then Zora was right.”

“Why don’t you just show everyone the video? Because I want the people responsible to see the whole thing. And because I don’t want strangers picking apart anybody’s face just to decide what happened to me. The freshman considered that. “Okay,” she said.

“I was scared you wouldn’t play today.” “So was I for a minute.” The admission made them both laugh. It also made Imani’s breath easier. People could be uncertain without being enemies.

She needed to remember that before Brielle’s crowd convinced her every spectator came to watch her fail. Mariner’s second day game took place before South Dock. Ward had the team sit together in the back third of the bleachers not to boo or applaud, but to study an opponent they might meet in the final. Brielle was exactly as good as her posters suggested. She did not need a referee’s favor or a lazy defender to score.

Her first basket came from a sharp hesitation move that sent her defender a step toward the lane before she rose into a jumper. A minute later, she stole a careless pass and finished at full speed without looking down at the ball. Harper ran beside her on fast breaks. A strong wing when she wasn’t busy performing for the front row. Their teammates knew the lanes they liked.

It was a real team, a dangerous one. Imani refused to pretend otherwise merely because she disliked the people wearing the jerseys. By halftime, Brielle had 19 points. Zora lowered her voice. “How many of those are we stopping?”

“Not enough if we watch the ball,” Imani said. “Talk me through it.” On her left-to-right move, she pushes off the outside of her right foot. When she wants the jumper, her shoulders square earlier. When she’s really going to basket, the right shoulder drops first. But, if you chase it too soon, she changes hands.

Ward heard them from the row below. You think there’s a pattern? Everybody has one. I just don’t know what it means yet. Then don’t claim you do.