“Go on,” I say when I realize that she’s struggling to find the courage to go up to the other kids. I could play too, but this kind of feels like her thing, not mine. Finally she does go, and basically every pair of eyes in the area — girl, boy, trans — falls on her and follows her. I watch as she begins to notice it, and I see her begin to like it.

Another really gorgeous girl arrives. She isn’t as crazy hot as Aisha, but she’s muscular and tall, with spiked black hair and light brown skin, maybe a couple of years older than us. She hugs a few kids, and then she turns to Aisha and gives her a welcome fist bump. It’s like watching two goddesses connect. Like you expect lightning will strike or a band will start playing.

All the attention seems to loosen Aisha up; I see it in the way she holds her head high, the way she allows the other kids to circle her and how her face animates as she talks to them. She starts looking taller, and when I hear her melodic laughter, I know I’ve done a really good thing.

The game starts, and I recline on my elbows in the grass and watch as Aisha sets and spikes and even dives to save a point. She’s on the same team as the tall girl, and that’s clearly not fair. They are easily the two best players, and they team up on a couple of points that look almost professional. A few times her smile goes wide like I’d hoped. Aisha is finding her people.

After the first game — Aisha’s team wins, of course — the tall girl hugs Aisha. She actually lifts Aisha off the ground and spins her in a circle. Aisha hoots, and when the girl puts her down, the tall girl throws her arms around Aisha’s shoulders and looks into her eyes.

Then they kiss. On the mouth. Aisha tilts her face, and the other girl leans in and puts her hand on the back of Aisha’s head. Aisha doesn’t pull away. I swallow hard and look away. I pull up a tuft of grass and grind it between my thumb and forefinger until grass juice coats my hand.

The kiss ends and Aisha whispers something in the girl’s ear and jogs toward me. A dull ache pulses into my spine. Aisha gives me an exaggerated grin. She sneaks a look over her shoulder at her new friend, and then looks at me, her face lit up.

“What the what?” she whispers.

“You know you’re sexy,” I say. “You see how everyone had their eyes on you?”

She covers her mouth with her hand, like she’s demure, maybe. I snort.

Aisha waves her friend over and introduces me. Her name’s Brianna.

“Do you come here a lot?” I say, then wince because it sounds like I’m trying to pick her up.

She says, “Sometimes. It’s fun,” and I realize she’s nice but not interesting enough for Aisha, who would never say something as boring as that as an opener. Where are the bears dancing through a field of daisies? Where are the wolf psychopaths?

“Looks fun,” I say, feeling a bit more confident that this is not someone who Aisha will choose to replace me. She may be hot, but she’s not exactly a brain surgeon. When the silence gets awkward, I ask, “So are you in school?”

“University of San Francisco,” she says. “Pre-med.”

Great. She is a brain surgeon. Or will be. “Awesome,” I say. I tell her it’s nice to meet her, she agrees, and then they gallop back to the court for another game, holding and swinging their hands along the way.

A bubble forms in the back of my throat, and I grind up another tuft of grass between my thumb and forefinger. Time to go find Turk Braverman, I think. I’ll admit that part of my reason for this detour was that I’m nervous. What if we knock on the door at 36 Prosper Street, and Turk no longer lives there? Or he doesn’t know Russ Smith? To come all this way, and to fail right away. I’m not sure I could handle that.

But as I sit there, I begin to overcome that fear. I’m ready to find my grandfather, or not find him.

My attention is drawn back to Aisha and Brianna when I hear a series of catcalls. They are making out again. Aisha takes a smooch break, looks over and waves, and then she rolls her eyes like, Can you believe this? I force a smile and shake my head and stick out my tongue at her. She sticks her tongue out at me, and I hold the smile like someone’s taking a really long time to take my picture. My jaw is tight, and I can’t breathe.

I look down at the grass and carve into the dirt with my finger. I sketch a heart absentmindedly, and when I realize that’s what I’m doing, I cross it out.

After the third and final game, Aisha runs back over, sweat streaking down her forehead.

“Too much fun,” she says. “I hope you weren’t too bored, but I gotta figure that was entertaining to watch. Let’s be real here. I kicked ass. You should have played.”

“Yeah,” I say, trying to figure out a polite way to hurry her up. It’s getting dark, and I don’t want to be rude, but it’s Turk time. “Would’ve been fun.”

“So Brianna and a bunch of them are going out for dinner. Let’s join them.”

“Um,” I say.

“Um, what?”

“Um. How about we go do what we came here to do?”

“Carson,” she says. “I just met a bunch of gay kids for the first time in my entire life. Can I have, like, an hour to enjoy that?”

“Of course,” I say, shrugging. “You can do whatever you want. Obviously.”

She shakes her head at me. “I know you’re not bitching about me having fun. Because that would be a big-time asshole thing to do, given that you brought me here and all.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m a big-time asshole. How selfish of me to want to find my grandfather.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “Carson,” she says, really slowly. “I know you don’t get this. But this was, like, a special deal for me.”

“You’re welcome,” I say.

“Thank you,” she says, exasperation in her tone. “Really. But can we join the first-ever group of gay friends in my life for dinner, or do you need my full attention immediately?”

My shoulders hurt. I’ve tensed up my whole body.

“You go do what you need to do,” I say. “Seriously. I’m just fine. But yeah, I’m probably gonna skip the gay pride dinner, if that’s okay.”

Her mouth opens wide, and her eyes too, and I immediately feel like a jerk. But I’m still mad too. It’s confusing and I don’t know how to fix it. So I just walk away.

“Carson,” she calls to my back, her tone filled with frustration.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say in the most apologetic way I can muster. “I’ll go see Turk myself. I’ll walk, thanks. No big deal. I’ll text you all about it and when you’re done getting gay married or whatever, you can join me if you want. Or if you don’t, that’s fine too.”

And I close my ears and walk away from the volleyball game, wondering if I’ll ever meet a person who won’t trade me in for someone or something else. Yeah, probably not.

I’M SILENTLY CURSING Aisha as I leave the park, but I’m also cursing myself, because who walks away from their only friend, without clothes or toiletries or transportation, just because they’re pissed?

Carson does. Idiot Carson does.

I sit down on a bench at the far edge of the park and pull out my phone so I can see how to get to Turk’s on foot. It buzzes and I see a message pop up. Aisha is texting me, but she’s just chosen strangers over her so-called best friend at the most important moment of his life. I’ll let her think about that one for a bit. I ignore her text.

I follow the Google map to Prosper Street, which turns out to be a side street, barely wide enough for a car and lined with picturesque Victorians. I find number 36. It’s lime green and white, two stories, with a garage on the ground level and a staircase with wrought-iron fencing on either side. I stand at the bottom of the steps and count to ten. Then to twenty. This is solving nothing, so I climb the steps and ring the doorbell.