“Right, right,” President Allington says, as Dr. Kilgore joins us with her tray, apparently not noticing she is being followed by an angry-faced Sarah. “Well, I think we all know each other—”

“Excuse us, President Allington?”

Five cheerleaders are lined up in front of our table, all staring at the president.

“Uh,” he says, looking anxiously at Dr. Kilgore, as if for assistance. Then, remembering he’s supposed to have a reputation for being accessible to the students, Dr. Allington attempts a smile and says, “Hello, girls. What can I do for you?”

Beside the president, Coach Andrews heaves a sigh and lays down his fork.

“Look, girls,” he says to them slowly, clearly continuing a conversation that had started elsewhere, “we already discussed this. And the answer is—”

“We aren’t talking to you,” Cheryl Haebig says, a slight flush rising on her cheeks. Still, she holds her ground. “We’re talking to President Allington.”

The president glances from the girls to the coach and back again.

“What’s this all about, Steve?” he wants to know.

“They want to retire Lindsay’s cheerleading sweater,” Coach Andrews says, beneath his breath.

“They want to what?” President Allington looks confused.

“Let me handle this,” Coach Andrews says. To the girls in front of the table, he says, “Ladies, I feel as bad as all of you do about Lindsay. Really, I do. But the thing is, I think a formal memorial service, with input from Lindsay’s family—”

“Her family’s all here tonight,” Megan McGarretty—Room 1410—informs him tersely. For such a tiny thing, she looks pretty intimidating, with her arms folded across the big letter P on her chest, and one hip jutting out like a warning. “And they don’t want a memorial service. They’re expecting somebody to say something tonight at the game.”

“Oh.” President Allington’s eyes widen. “I’m not sure that would be appropriate.”

“You can’t just pretend like it didn’t happen,” Hailey Nichols—Room 1714—declares.

“Yeah,” Cheryl Haebig says, her luminous brown eyes swimming with tears. “’Cause we won’t let Lindsay be forgotten. She was as much a part of your team as any of the boys.”

“I believe we all recognize that,” Dr. Kilgore says, trying to come to the president’s rescue. “But—”

“If any of the boys on the team died,” Tiffany Parmenter—Megan’s roommate—interrupts, “you’d retire his number. You’d hang his jersey from the rafters, along with the championship banners.”

“Er.” Dr. Kilgore appears flummoxed by this. “That is certainly true, girls. But basketball players are athletes, and—”

“Are you saying cheerleaders aren’t athletes, Dr. Kilgore?” Sarah’s voice is icy.

“C-certainly not,” Dr. Kilgore stutters. “Only that—”

“So why can’t you retire Lindsay’s sweater?” Hailey wants to know, her blond ponytail swinging in emphasis of her words. “Why can’t you?”

I glance at Kimberly Watkins to see if she’s going to chime in, but she remains uncharacteristically silent. All five girls are in their cheerleading uniforms, white sweaters with gold letter P ’s on the fronts, and very short, pleated gold and white skirts. They have on flesh-colored hose beneath their skirts, and white footies with fuzzy gold balls on the back of them. Their white sneakers are by Reebok and their hair color almost unanimously by Sun-In. Except Kimberly’s, which is dark as midnight.

“Look.” Coach Andrews looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes. “It’s not the jerseys themselves we retire when a player dies. It’s the player’s number. And Lindsay didn’t have a number. We can’t retire an article of clothing.”

“Why not?”

All eyes turn toward Manuel, who, from the table he’s sharing with his uncle and various other members of the custodial staff, blinks back.

“Why not?” he asks again, as his uncle Julio, beside him, looks mortified with embarrassment.

I glance around the table and happen to see Magda at the far end of it, watching the cheerleaders with a troubled gaze. I know what she’s thinking without even having to ask. Because I’m thinking the same thing.

“I agree with Manuel,” I hear myself say.

Of course, everyone turns to look at me. Which must be a relief to Manuel. But which causes me a certain amount of discomfort.

But I hold my ground.

“I think it could be a lovely gesture,” I say. “If done tastefully.”

“Oh, it will be,” Cheryl assures us. “We already asked if the band can play the school song real slow. And we all chipped in and bought a wreath made out of gold and white roses. And I’ve got Lindsay’s sweater, all nice and pressed.”

I notice that everyone—including Dr. Jessup, the head of Housing—is staring at me.

But what’s the big deal? It’s just a stupid basketball game. Who cares if they—what is it again? Oh, yeah—retire a girl’s sweater during it?

“I think it would be a touching tribute to a girl who had more Pansy spirit than just about anybody else in this school,” I say to President Allington, who is still looking confused.

“But”—he looks worried—“the game is going to be televised. Live. The entire tri-state area will see Lindsay Combs’s cheerleading sweater being retired.”

“We’ll be the laughingstock of college basketball,” Coach Andrews mutters.

“And you’re not already,” I say, genuinely curious, “with a name like the Pansies?”

Coach Andrews looks sad. “True,” he says. I’m sure when he was applying for coaching positions, he never dreamed he’d end up at a Division III school with a flower for a mascot.

He sighs, looking heavenward, and says, “It’s all right with me if it’s all right with President Allington.”

The president looks startled—mostly because he’s just taken a big bite of potatoes au gratin, and, from his expression, it’s clear the bite included a big clump of flour.

After chugging half a glass of water, the president says, “Whatever. Do whatever you want.” He’s been beaten, by five cheerleaders and a lump of flour.

Cheryl Haebig immediately stops crying. “Rilly?” she asks brightly. “Rilly, Mr. President? You mean it?”

“I mean it.”

Then, as Cheryl and her friends scream—shrilly enough to cause Dr. Kilgore to put her hands over her ears reflexively—Coach Andrews, raising his voice to be heard above the ruckus, says, “They won’t broadcast the halftime show, anyway.”

President Allington looks relieved. “Well,” he says. And brings a forkful of turkey to his mouth. Then, relief turning quickly to disgust, he says, “Well,” in a different tone of voice.

And reaches hastily for his water glass again, signifying to all that this will probably be the last meal the president will choose to enjoy in the Fischer Hall cafeteria.

Okay, so I’ll admit it. I’ve never been to a basketball game before. Not a professional one (although Jordan used to beg me to accompany him to Knicks games all the time. Fortunately, I was usually able to come up with a good excuse… such as needing to wash my hair), not a high school game (I dropped out of high school after my first album took off), and certainly not a college game (I have generally been able to find other ways to occupy my time).

I can’t really say what I’d been expecting, except… not what greeted me as I came through the gymnasium doors, which was hundreds of fans—because Division III games evidently do not attract thousands of fans, even if they are being held in the busiest metropolis in the world—with their faces painted the colors of their team—or, in some cases, wearing basketballs split in half, with little slits cut out for eye holes, as masks—stomping their feet against the bleachers, impatient for the game to begin.