Of course Keshawn wins the tip-off. We run up and down the court, and except for him, we all suck, even the athletes among us. It’s sad and embarrassing really, and the only thing we’re learning is how to humiliate ourselves in front of our peers.
Every single time Keshawn makes a basket, he acts like he’s just won the state championship. He’s barking orders at his team and dribbling behind his back and through his legs and making these impossible jump shots, and honestly it’s like playing against LeBron James, if he were a six-foot-six-inch baby. At some point, Mr. Levine grabs the ball from him and says, “This is not Keshawn hour. It’s about helping out your teammates. It’s about we’re all equal. It’s about pulling together.” He sinks a perfect three-pointer. “Take a time-out, Mr. Basketball.”
“What?”
“You can sit on the bleachers for a few minutes. It’s not going to kill you.”
“Man.” Keshawn goes dragging off, the slowest human on earth. We wait for him to leave the court, and, two years later, he finally sits down.
Natasha rolls her eyes. Shakes her head at the ceiling.
Mr. Levine says, “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll sit out too. Even numbers. Whatever’s best for the group, right, Keshawn?”
Keshawn looks at him, then past him at Natasha, who raises a single eyebrow. He says to Mr. Levine, “Sure.”
So now we’re three and three. We keep the lead until Jack passes the ball to Andy, who’s on the other side. After Andy shoots and scores, Keshawn is on his feet. “WTF, Mass?” Only he doesn’t spell it out and he shouts it.
Mr. Levine says to him, “Language,” at the same time Jack mumbles something about the ball slipping.
When it happens again, I think Keshawn’s going to LOSE IT.
Jack says, “Hey, man, just trying to do my civic duty.”
Andy goes, “What does that mean?”
Jack shrugs. Does this kind of cocky half-smile. “I’m just saying it looked like your team could use some help.”
Andy throws the ball at him, a little too hard. Now they’re having some sort of standoff, bristling at each other like two cats in an alley. “Why don’t you keep the ball, Masselin? I’ll get it back in about sixty seconds.”
Mr. Levine goes, “Enough, both of you. Jack, stop wasting time.”
For the next few minutes, Andy and Jack are each trying to win the game single-handedly. Andy is shouting at Natasha and Maddy, and Jack isn’t even passing anymore, just moving the ball from one end of the court to the other and taking every shot. Until Natasha gets him cornered, and Jack has to get rid of the ball. To Andy. Again. The following thirty seconds go like this: Andy does a layup and walks by Jack, ramming him in the shoulder. Jack says, all sarcastic, “You’re welcome.” Andy gets in his face like he wants to take a swing. Jack stands there, like he wants Andy to punch him. Mr. Levine gets in between them and rattles off this speech about getting along and playing out our feelings.
That’s the moment I look at Jack, and he looks at me. And I know what’s going on here. He’s getting Andy confused with Travis. Same build. Same height. Same hair. Same color shirt. I try to imagine that Andy and Travis are strangers to me, that I’m face-blind, that every time I look at them and then look away, I have to put them back together.
I tell myself, Let it be, Libbs. Let nature do what it’s going to do. After all, doesn’t he deserve to be shamed in front of not only these people but all people everywhere?
And now we’re playing again, and suddenly I’m yelling at Jack, “Hey, pass it to me.” Even though I am the worst shot in this room, maybe in the world.
But instead of passing me the ball, he drives down the court himself. The next time he gets the ball, I jump up and down and wave my arms in his direction. “I’m wide open over here.” He shoots me this look, and I think, Fine, if you don’t want my help. But then he’s called on a foul. We stand next to each other, watching Maddy shoot free throws, and I say, “Just give me the damn ball before Mr. Levine makes us stay an extra hour.”
A minute or so later, Jack throws me the ball. As I start to dribble, Maddy steals it away, but when he throws it to me the next time, I aim for the basket. By some miracle, I make it.
I hold the door open as everyone files out into the parking lot. We won by thirteen points, and Keshawn is carrying Natasha like she’s his NBA trophy.
As Libby brushes past, I think of sunshine. It’s her shampoo or her soap, or maybe it’s just her. I think, Did she smell like sunshine before she was cut out of her house, or did this come after, once she was back out in the world?
She looks up at me and says, “You should really tell someone what’s going on with you.”
“I already did.” I’m irritated because now here’s this girl saving my ass. Like I am a person in need of saving. Which, apparently, I am.
“Someone other than me. It’s not like you’re the only one who has this. I know that may be what it feels like to you, but statistically it’s not that rare. At least, it’s not as rare as being so super-fat you got stuck in your house. Have you been on the Prosopagnosia Research Centers site? Because they have this wallet card you can carry with you and give to people to explain what you have. I’m not saying that’s the answer, but maybe it’s a start.”
I call Caroline as I’m driving away. “Hey, beautiful.”