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bitches wouldn't know their asses from a—"
    Sploosh!
    The mop bucket floated above my father's head, turned upside down, and showered my father with a filthy, scummy lather. Through the glare of the sunlight, I still couldn't see my mother.
    "They're ready for you at checkout," a perky, young nurse whose polished name tag said Randi! announced to us. Her ponytail, situated too far on top of her head, sprung out in all directions like a poorly bleached tropical fern. I wondered what she was thinking when they asked her to spell her name for the name tag and she added that explanation point.
    "Careful you don't hit on too many of the nurses," Dad said as he wheeled me past checkout. "I don't want to come home from work one night and find the house full of candy stripers."
    I mustered a weak smile. Now he was overcompensating. Maybe Dad hadn't buried that postgame comment yet after all.
    Since the doctors took away my license, I'd had to beg for rides wherever I wanted to go. School would break for summer soon, and that meant I had my jobs to get to.
    If I didn't make the van on time, I'd miss the morning shift on the highway custodial crew. The late guys always got stuck with mowing the median, a much harder chore than picking up trash off the side of the road.
    My shift would end just in time for me to catch a local commuter train to the crosstown bus, which left me barely enough time to make it to the mall for the lunch and dinner shift at Schmaltzy's Cafeteria.
    I could always tell exactly how late I was by the size of the stack of dishes in the sink beside the Hobart. Good thing I was a fast washer.
    The late guy inherited the macaroni and cheese pan. All the scouring in the world couldn't scrape the crust off those things, but I did my best. I picked tiny bits of steel wool out of my hands every night before I crashed.
    In a few weeks I'd have to add the summer basketball league to this crazy schedule. I'd smell like grease and detergent, but if I hustled, I could make it on time. Throw in my nights tutoring at the Student Life Center, and it made for one exhausted me.
    The mad scramble for transportation got really old really fast. I was constantly late for everything. I felt bad when I stood up my students one night because the crosstown bus broke down.
    And Coach had suddenly stopped speaking to me, which had never happened before. I hoped it didn't have anything to do with the comment that Gary Coleman twerp made. No, it was probably just because I was always late—he hated tardiness. His usual punishment included an agonizing series of wind sprints at the end of practice. But instead Coach did nothing. He gave me the total silent treatment, which was actually worse. One night after practice I just started doing the wind sprints myself, hoping to get back into his good graces.
    Dad couldn't help me, either. Not because he didn't want to drive me, but because all my running around usually occurred during the long hours of his never-ending workday, and we depended on his overtime to pay off the third mortgage he'd raken out on the house by then.
    Eventually, I just threw in the towel, went to the garage, and pumped air into the tires of my old dirt bike. Hell, it beat walking.
    Except for when it rained. Or when you weren't in the mood for public humiliation. One day I was riding my bike to practice after work because Coach had asked to see me early. I was running late so I pedaled as fast as I could. I was more than a little annoyed when I stopped for a red light at a crowded intersection and found myself surrounded by a gang of kids on skateboards. The oldest one must have been at least a couple years younger than me. He was just getting the first whisper of a mustache on his lip.
    "You kidding me?" He spoke through a menthol cigarette that dangled from his lips. "That bike's like twenty years old. Mag wheels?"
    I rolled my eyes and waited for the light to change. When it changed to green I stood up on the bike to