The guys who made the basketball team are listed on a piece of paper on the dense wire-webbed glass of the gymnasium door. You crowd around the door with the other guys who tried out for the varsity. You glance real quick hoping your name will leap out but it doesn’t and you have a little wriggle of awful in your belly and you press closer on the excuse that you have thick spectacles and you run your finger down the twelve names and you see names you expected and names you didn’t and Not You. The names are all typed on the coach’s old typewriter which screws up the letter y so it looks more like w so you check again from the top looking for Dowle, Brian and then you check again reading up from the bottom this time just in case some weird thing happened because you wear thick spectacles and the gym door has this thick old shimmery glass and maybe the two densities of glass cancel each other out or something. By now other kids are shoving you because you have inarguably been camped by the door for slightly too long and you allow yourself to get shoved to the edge of the pack and you assume an airy casual I-don’t-care face and you get ready to say man I didn’t really want to be on the team anyway, it would cut into my social life if anyone asks but the other kids are either finding their names or turning away rattled and trying to get their masks back on like you are.