Magda, however, a hardened veteran of the sport—all three of her brothers played in high school—takes it all in stride, steering me, followed by Tom (“Don’t leave me alone”), Sarah (“Basketball is so sexist”), and Pete (“I told you. Don’t put your brother’s hamster in there”), toward some bare spots on the bleachers that aren’t too high up, because we don’t want to have to walk too far to get to the bathroom, according to Magda, and not too low, either, because we don’t want to be hit by any balls.

The rest of the representatives from Fischer Hall—including President Allington, who goes to a section reserved just for him, Drs. Kilgore and Jessup, and the trustees, looking relieved to finally be brushing off the residue from Death Dorm—stream into the bleachers, and, since the impulse is contagious, begin stomping their feet as well, until the steel rafters a hundred feet overhead seem to reverberate.

It’s only after the band starts the first few notes of “The Star Spangled Banner” that the crowd quiets down, then sings happily along with a pretty blond musical theater major who seems to give the tune her all. Probably she thinks there’s a representative from a major record label in the audience, who’s going to sign her then and there to a contract. Or maybe a Broadway producer who is going to come up to her when she’s done singing and be all, “You were brilliant! Won’t you star in the revival of South Pacific that I’m planning?”

Yeah. Good luck with that, honey.

Then, when the last echo of “brave… brave… brave… ” dies away, the band rips into the school song, and Cheryl and her sister cheerleaders appear, flipping and cartwheeling their way across the court. They really are very impressive. I’ve never seen such flexibility—outside of a Tania Trace video, I mean.

The cheerleaders are followed by the gangly-legged Pansies team, in their gold and white jerseys. I hardly recognize Jeff and Mark and the other residents of Fischer Hall. On the court, in their uniforms, they look less like hapless sophomores and juniors, and more like… well, athletes. I guess because that’s what they are, really. They high-five each of the New Jersey East Devils, in their red and gold jerseys, as they stream by. I’m impressed by this good sportsmanship, even though I know they’ve been told they have to do it. The television cameras swirl around Coach Andrews as he and several other men—assistant coaches, no doubt—walk to their seats on the sideline, and shake hands with the opposing team’s coach before something happens that Magda explains is called the tip-off.

Despite the subzero temperatures outside, it’s overly warm in the gym, what with all the people and their winter coats and the screaming and all. Tempers are short. Sarah, in particular, seems to feel the need to complain. She expresses strong opinions on multiple subjects, including but not limited to the fact that the money spent on athletics at New York College would be better spent helping to fund the psychology labs, and that the popcorn tastes stale. Beside her, Tom placidly sips from his flask, which he informs Sarah he needs for medicinal purposes.

“Yeah,” Sarah replies sarcastically. “Right.”

“I could use some of that medicine,” Pete observes, after finally hanging up his cell phone. The hamster crisis has been averted.

“Be my guest,” Tom says, and passes the flask to Pete. Pete takes a sip, makes a face, and passes it back.

“It tastes like toothpaste,” he rasps.

“I told you it’s medicinal,” Tom says happily, and swills some more.

Meanwhile, Sarah has started paying attention to the game.

“Now, why’d that kid get a foul?” she wants to know.

“Because that boy was charging,” Magda explains patiently. “When you have the ball, you can’t knock people out of the way if they’ve established defensive position—”

“Oh!” Sarah cries, seizing Magda’s wrist with enough force to cause her to slosh some of her soda. “Look! Coach Andrews is yelling at one of the umpires! Why’s he doing that?”

“Ref,” Magda mutters. She dabs at her white pants with a napkin. “They’re referees, not umpires.”

“Oh, what’s that man saying?” Sarah bounces up and down excitedly on the bleacher bench. “Why’s he look so mad?”

“I don’t know,” Magda says, flashing her a look of annoyance. Her endless patience isn’t so endless, it turns out. “How should I know? Would you stop that bouncing? You made me spill my soda.”

“Why is that boy getting a free throw? Why does he get to do that?”

“Because Coach Andrews called the ref a blind son of a—” Magda breaks off, her eyes getting wide. “Holy Mary, mother of God.”

“What?” Sarah frantically scans the court. “What, what is it? A steal?”

“No. Heather, is that Cooper?”

I feel my insides seize up at the sound of the word. “Cooper? It can’t be. What would he be doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Magda says. “But I could swear that’s him down there, with some older man… .”

At the words some older man, my heart grows cold. Because there’s only one older man Cooper could be with—with the exception of Detective Canavan, of course.

Then I spot them both, down by the Pansies bench. Cooper is scanning the crowd, obviously looking for me, while Dad is… well, Dad seems to be enjoying the game.

“Oh, my God,” I say, dropping my head to my knees.

“What?” Magda lays a hand on my back. “Honey, who is it?”

“My father,” I say to my knees.

“Your what?”

“My father.” I lift up my head.

It didn’t work. He’s still there. I’d been hoping, by closing my eyes, I’d make him disappear. No such luck, apparently.

“That’s your dad?” Pete is craning his neck to see. “The jailbird?”

“Your dad was in jail?” Tom wasn’t out of the closet back when I was a household name, and so knows nothing about my past life. He wasn’t even a secret Heather Wells fan back then, which is odd, because most of my most die hard supporters were gay boys. “What for?”

“Would you guys lean back?” Sarah complains irritably. “I can’t see the game.”

“I’ll be right back,” I say, because Cooper has finally spotted me in the crowd and is making his way determinedly toward me, my dad following, but slowly, his gaze on the game. The last thing I need is my friends witnessing what I’m sure is going to be a fairly unpleasant scene.

My heart pounding, I hurry to meet Cooper before he can join us in our room. His expression is inscrutable. But I can see that he’s taken the time to shave. So maybe the news isn’t all bad… .

“Heather,” he says coolly.

Well, okay. It’s pretty much all bad.

“Look who I found ringing our doorbell a little while ago,” he goes on. And although my heart thrills at his use of the word our, I know he doesn’t mean it in the domestic bliss kind of way I’d like to hear it. “When were you going to tell me your dad was in town?”

“Oh,” I say, glancing behind me to see if anyone from my gang is eavesdropping. Not surprisingly, they all are… with the exception of Sarah, who seems to have been hypnotized by the game.

“I was just waiting for the right moment,” I say, realizing even as the words are coming out of my mouth how lame they sound. “I mean… what I meant to say was… .”

“Never mind,” Cooper says. He seems to be as hyper-aware as I am that everyone is listening to our conversation—well, what they can hear of it above the screaming and the band. “We’ll talk about it at home.”

Hideously relieved, I say, “Fine. Just leave him here with me. I’ll look after him.”

“He’s not bad company, actually,” Cooper says, gazing down at my dad, who is standing stock-still in the middle of the bleachers—unconscious that all the people behind him are trying to see around him—staring at the game. I guess it’s been a while since he’s been at a live sporting event. And the game is pretty exciting, I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing. We’re tied at twenty-one. “Hey. Is that popcorn?”