The last match had already started, and to be honest it was just a blur of flying balls and cheering fans. Michael was subdued, his snacks abandoned on the floor by his feet. Unlike the first half of the evening our shoulders were apart, knees planted solidly in front of us. A few minutes after we sat down I felt the strange sensation of being watched. I scanned the crowd only to find Aunt Sue’s eyes glued to our seats. She and Mr. Tulley were almost directly across from us on the other side of the tennis court. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and I felt the weight of her disapproval from fifty yards away.
I snuck a glance at Michael’s profile, noticing his eyes on the floor instead of the match. He clutched the arms of the seat and his shoulders were clenched. Misery was written al
