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with Mr. Shockey, “My main interest in books is that my accountant keeps ’em straight once the money starts to roll in a few years from now.”
    Mr. Shockey would give him that look that was part bored and part disgusted and say, “Make sure you tell your mom that. I’m sure she’ll think you’re a riot.”
    Mr. Shockey was a good guy, and he really cared about Drew, just wanted him to be the best student he could be while he still
was
a high school student. That was why Drew let Mr. Shockey think that he could get as much out of him in school as Coach DiGregorio did on the court.
    But it was just one more role for Drew to play.
    One more head fake to put on somebody.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    After practice the next day, Drew talked Lee into driving him to Morrison that night to see if the ghost guy might come back.
    â€œBut, dude,” Lee said, “can’t we go earlier than you usually go? I’m not like you. I don’t keep vampire hours.”
    As soon as Drew asked, both of them had known Lee would go. It was like when Drew would tell Lee to go sit on the wing when he was bringing the ball up the court—they both knew he would, no matter what play Coach had called.
    All part of being Drew’s number two.
    Funny thing was, Lee Atkins couldn’t have been any more different from Drew, and not just because one of them was black and the other one was white. It was
everything.
Drew was New York, born and bred. Lee had been born in Thousand Oaks, grew up there, only moved one time when his parents wanted a better neighborhood than they were already in. His dad was a doctor, his mom sold real estate, and the two of them had made sure that Lee had never wanted for anything his whole life.
    One more thing that made him different from Drew: Lee never had to dream himself into a big house in a rich neighborhood. He was already there.
    Lee never had to want for a dad, either, the way Drew did.
    He was just the kind who had a good life going for him and seemed sure he always would. He liked basketball fine, and was the second-best shooter on the team after Drew, but he knew this last year of high school ball—he was one of the four seniors on the team starting along with Drew—was going to be the end of the line for him in hoops.
    So this season was everything for him, this shot at the league title, maybe the state title after that.
    This chance to be on the same court with somebody as good as Drew (True) Robinson.
    The first day of school, in the cafeteria, everybody having known all summer that Drew was coming to Oakley Academy, Lee had searched him out, sat down next to him with his tray without being asked.
    â€œYou’re going to need a wingman,” he’d said, “and not just on the court. I’m it.”
    Drew couldn’t help but smile at Lee’s confidence that somebody he didn’t know was going to like him. This blond, spiky-haired kid, maybe an inch shorter than Drew. Somehow being sure of himself, just in a laid-back California way, almost like one of the surfer dudes they’d see at the beach.
    â€œI don’t even get a vote?” Drew had said.
    â€œCourse you do. This is a democracy,” Lee had said. “But it wouldn’t change anything.”
    It hadn’t. The only things Lee wanted off of Drew were championships and the ball when he was open.
    And what Drew wanted from Lee, even though he’d never said it out loud to him, maybe because he was too proud, was Lee’s friendship.
    Drew had had guys he thought of as friends in his life, guys he
called
friends. But they hadn’t really been. He hadn’t ever had a real friend until Lee, and their friendship had started almost the moment Lee sat down with him in the cafeteria. Hadn’t known what he’d been
missing
until Lee just showed up like that.
    He kept telling himself he’d explain that to Lee one of these days, let him know he