“I wish your father were here to keep him in line.”

“I think if Dad were here Uncle Jack wouldn’t be out of line,” I said quietly.

My mother sighed. “I’ll have to wait until morning to clean up that mess.”

“I’ll help you.”

We lingered at the window together, and watched as honey oozed into the pavement cracks like dark gold blood.

Millie had an outfit for everything, so when she showed up at the riverside courts on Saturday, I was unsurprised to find her wearing a tiny pair of shorts and the tightest basketball jersey I had ever seen. She pushed her way through pockets of other teenagers, waltzing toward me in an explosion of black and red.

“I didn’t know you were a Bulls fan.”

“Oh, didn’t you?” She smirked and plonked herself down beside me on the bottom bench of the courtside bleachers.

“Let me rephrase that,” I said as she began to wind her hair into a ponytail. “I didn’t even know you were a basketball fan.”

“I guess you could say I’m more of a boys fan.” She snapped the hair elastic into place. “The top belongs to Alex. It shrunk in the wash.” She grinned unashamedly.

I looked down at myself: my mother’s three-quarter-length jogging pants, a plain gray tank top, and an old pair of Asics with bright green stripes. My hair was tied high on my head, falling down between my shoulder blades in a straight ponytail. Already I could tell the sun was bleaching the stray baby hairs that were too wispy to be tied back with the rest.

Millie ran her gaze along my outfit, scrunching her nose.

“You look …” she began uncertainly.

“… normcore?” I finished.

Exercise wasn’t exactly my calling in life, but I was grateful to have something to distract me from my uncle’s recent behavior. He had been gone for several days since his whole honeypot-patio freak-out and still hadn’t tried to contact me. Ursula was in charge of the diner in his absence. She had reacted the worst to the death of Luis, and had resolved never to take a bath again, just in case she drowned herself. Millie and I were slightly less dramatic about it, but we were still glad to be free of her morbid rants, at least just for the day.

We never usually played in the Cedar Hill Summer Basketball Tournament. Not that the word “tournament” really summed it up. It was more of a basketball-related gathering hosted by the Cedar Hill Residents Association every July. As part of an ever-growing agenda that included park maintenance, a neighborhood watch, and outdoor movie nights, the CHRA were always coming up with ideas that would keep us teenagers off the street and out of trouble in a “socially desirable and positive way” during the summer. The basketball tournament was one of the few that had actually stuck, and over the years it had become a tradition that everyone made fun of but no one wanted to miss. It was really about the only thing the neighborhood kids actually did together; the rest of the summer we were like lazy suburban tumbleweeds, floating around the town in twos and threes.

For Millie and me, the whole thing had always been more of a spectacle enjoyed from the sidelines while eating ice cream and pointing out hot boys, but in the interest of “getting back up on the social horse,” as Millie called it, we had decided to take part this summer. I was hesitant at best; if nobody wanted to hang out with the daughter of a murderer, who would want to play basketball with one? Thankfully, Millie’s brother, Alex, had invited us to be part of his team. I suspected it was a way to make it more of a challenge for him — the trophies from the past three years were probably gathering dust on his bedroom shelf by now.

“We might actually win this thing, you know.” Millie was reclining on the bench, arms splayed out behind her as she scoped out our surroundings.

As always, there were twice as many spectators squishing themselves into the bleachers and spilling out onto the grass that surrounded the courts. Erin Reyes and the rest of her gang had already secured a prime vantage spot at the top of the bleachers. Instead of playing in the tournament, they would most likely be practicing how to eat their Popsicles as seductively as possible. They were already doing an uncomfortably good job. Just beyond the courts the river flowed lazily, reflecting the clear sky, and along the bank, rows of young trees leaned over the water like they were peering inside for something.

“I remember the last time I played basketball,” said Millie wistfully. She stared up at the sky and I could see the sun was already dusting freckles across her pale cheeks. “I was trying to pass the ball to Alex, but he missed it and it smashed the kitchen window.”

“Good times,” I remembered fondly.

“What about you?” She snapped her head down.

“Maybe never?”

Little creases rippled along Millie’s forehead. “I’m sure you’ll be good at it.”

“You better be,” someone interrupted.

Millie’s brother, Alex, was stalking toward us, his grin revealing nearly all of his perfectly square teeth. He was accompanied by two of his friends — the first I recognized as Robbie Stenson, a stockier, way less attractive version of a Ken doll, who came complete with floppy brown hair and overly groomed eyebrows. He didn’t walk so much as lope around, kind of like a stylish troll. The other boy I had seen once or twice at Millie’s house playing video games, but he never seemed to say much. He had bright red hair, gangly limbs, and a forehead that was shinier than the rest of him.