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winning, how much I wanted to win, clenching my hands so tightly my fingers hurt and that’s when Mr. Leland said, “Thirty-nine divided by three!” and Travis won.
    I didn’t know the thirteens at all. We hadn’t even done them yet.
    All he got was a piece of paper that said he won and Mr. Leland shaking his hand. He sort of smiled when he got the paper, but then he just went right back to biting his bottom lip. I was mad, looking at the piece of paper I almost got but didn’t.
    And then Travis turned around and said, “Nice job, kiddo,” and even though this is all he has ever said to me and all he probably will ever say to me my entire life, I felt better. I’ve never seen him say that much to anyone.
    He shoplifts. A month ago, there was a police cruiser parked outside of Unit B, and I saw him getting out of the back, wearing a sweatshirt hood over his head, but you could still see it was him because he has curly brown hair that my mother calls corkscrews, and no one else I know has it. So now, twice a week, the school bus drops Travis Rowley off at the group home for boys in town instead of at our stop.
    He’s still doing it though, shoplifting. Last week I saw him in the Kwikshop when I was with my mother, his hands moving quickly, pushing two comic books into the sleeves of the blue sweatshirt. He reads these comic books on the bus, a ski hat pulled down over his hair. They are mostly comic books with covers of superheroes in masks and colorful body suits, swinging from ropes, shooting lightning out of their fingers, with names like Dark Avenger and Captain Victory .
    My mother calls Travis the little one, even though he isn’t really that little. She looks out the window sometimes and says, “That little one, when he gets older, look out. He’ll be the one getting whistles. He will break hearts.”

    When she finally comes out to the car, she has her sunglasses on and so in the yellow dress, she looks like she is in disguise, a movie star trying not to be recognized. She walks quickly, looking straight ahead, but Mr. Rowley has already gotten up from his lawn chair.
    “You’re looking good, Tina.”
    She keeps walking, so he stays where he is and starts to clap. Kevin and Travis have stopped throwing the knife. They turn around, watching.
    “Jesus, Tina,” Mr. Rowley says, scratching his beard. “Your ass looks like a bell ringing, I swear to God.”
    She gets in the car and shuts the door.
    “Ding dong!” Mr. Rowley yells, still clapping. “Ding dinga dong!”
    The engine starts up, no problem, Frank Sinatra on the stereo singing “My Way.” She gives the stick shift a good tug, using both hands. There is a loud, straining sound, like someone turning on a vacuum cleaner, but the stick won’t move. The Rowleys watch.
    “Please,” she says, her hand on the dashboard. She’s talking to the car. “Please?”
    Mr. Rowley walks closer, leaning on his good leg. Travis and Kevin follow and stand behind him, looking at the Volkswagen with serious faces, Kevin still holding the white-handled knife. They are shirtless, both of them, their chests smooth and already tan. My mother is still trying to move the gearshift. It doesn’t give, and it doesn’t give. Mr. Rowley is still just standing there, waiting for her to let him help.
    “I just need to get it into first,” she says finally. She pushes herself up out of her seat. The yellow dress is already wrinkled in the back. “It does this when I start it sometimes.”
    Mr. Rowley nods and lowers himself into the car, holding his bad knee with his hand. He steps on the clutch pedal, and the stick moves into first right away even though he is using only one hand, the ball of muscle in his arm sliding down like the bulge of a mouse inside a boa constrictor.
    My mother says thank you, not looking at him, but up at the sky. Travis sees me looking at him, and he meets my eyes without smiling before I can look away. “Yup,” Mr. Rowley says, patting the