We finally make it to Kate's school, Abraham Lincoln High School -- home of the Railsplitters. I don't know what a Railsplitter is - it sounds like an alien from one of Pop-Pop Moe's books. Probably something to do with trains, though. Either way, it feels like stepping into an alternate universe, but not the cool kind with like, wizards or laser piranhas. The outer walls of the school building make the first impression, freshly painted. Well, fresh if you consider maybe two or three years ago as fresh. Someone's been trying to put a good face on a tired building.

But the sidewalks, man, they don't lie. They're cracked and uneven, worn down by the weather and, I guess, hundreds of feet every day. The lawns, too, are a dead giveaway. Spots of brown and yellow, like bald patches on a dude desperately clinging to his last remnants of hair. I feel a pit in my stomach as I walk, kinda like the pit you get when you're nervous, except it's not fluttery or sick. It's just… there. Just sitting there like a lump, all heavy and obstinate.

And then there are the banners. Yellow and black, the school colors of the bumblebee, hanging limply from the lampposts and clinging to the school walls. You can tell someone tried to spruce up the place, to make it feel inviting, but it's like slapping a "New and Improved!" sticker on a years-old laptop. You're not fooling anyone; we all know what's underneath.

But what really catches my eye is the graffiti. Like, it's EVERYWHERE. Tags sprayed on the walls, doodles etched into the benches, initials carved into the trees. An entire sculpture of gum, or maybe clay, emerges like the limb of a cactus out of a nearby trash can. A school staff member -- maybe a teacher or janitor or both? -- is out on the lawn, scrubbing fiercely at one of the graffiti marks. There's a bucket of soapy water next to them, and their brush moves in aggressive swirls, as if they could erase not just the graffiti but whatever drove someone to make it in the first place.

They pause, looking up, their eyes meeting mine for just a second. Then they go back to scrubbing, their movements a little slower now, a little more defeated. It's like they're fighting this never-ending battle against the spray cans and the restless energy that keeps putting marks on these walls. And that thought, that they keep going even when it looks hopeless, makes me feel kind of sad. More than kind of, actually. It makes me really sad.

I look away, shaking off the feeling. Jamila's going to meet me here, and I don't want to bring all this weird energy into watching Kate's game. But as I stand there, on the cracked sidewalk of this too-big school, that feeling, that this place is living a life very different from mine, doesn't go away. It stays, lingering like the last notes of a song you can't get out of your head. And I can't help but wonder what tune this place would hum if it could.

Just when I'm about to pull out my phone and text Jamila to see where she's at, a taxi pulls up to the curb. The car's not one of those shiny yellow cabs you see in movies; it's more like someone's used sedan that's seen better days, but still manages to do its job. The back door swings open, and out steps Jamila, a swirl of colorful hijab and a backpack that looks like it's seen just as many highs and lows as this school.

She pays the driver, who speeds off as if eager to get away from this place, leaving a brief cloud of exhaust that lingers in the air longer than it should. Jamila spots me and her face brightens into a smile, as she walks over. As she gets closer, I notice her eyes scan the building and the worn surroundings. She doesn't look surprised or taken aback, just kind of… accepting, like this is par for the course.

"Hey, Sam," she greets me, pulling me into a quick hug. It's warm and comfortable, and for a moment, that pit in my stomach feels less heavy.

"Jamila, you made it. I was starting to think I'd have to sit through Kate's scrimmage alone. Did you have trouble getting here?" I ask.

"Nah, just the usual Philly traffic. It's a mess, as always," she replies. "This is the school, huh? Reminds me a bit of King High. They could be cousins, honestly."

"Yeah?" I feel a bit relieved to hear that. "I was just thinking how different it is from my school."

She shrugs, but her eyes stay sharp, like she's weighing what those differences mean. "Different or not, it's still a school. Kids learn, make friends, get into trouble. The paint on the walls doesn't change that."

"Yeah, it's big," I say. Abraham Lincoln High School is eight times -- eight times! -- the size of my school. And they don't have admission requirements or anything, which, I guess, has its pros and cons. More people can get in, but then you got to deal with, well, more people. My mind races a bit, wondering what kind of people Kate has to deal with here. Is she okay? Is she happy? Why does thinking about that make me feel kinda weird and kinda sad? "Eight times bigger than mine."

"Eight times bigger," Jamila adds, "But not necessarily eight times better."

"Tell me about it," I reply, taking her hand. Obviously, the funding issues of Philadelphia schools are legendary, even for someone my age - it's just kind of startling to see it in such stark relief.

"C'mon," Jamila says, letting go of my hand so she can hook her arm through my arm instead. "Let's go find good seats before the game starts."

I laugh. "It's a scrimmage. I don't think we're gonna be, like, at a loss for seats."

As we walk, my eyes keep darting around, like, taking in all the details. The asphalt beneath our feet is cracked, filled in places with weeds stubborn enough to grow through the fractures. The school's walls, those look new. Fresh paint, a bright yellow that catches the sun. But the newness stops at the walls.

"Look at that," I say, pointing to graffiti sprayed over a door that probably leads to some janitorial closet. They've painted over it, but you can still see the outline of the letters. Rebellion seeping through the cracks.

Jamila sighs. "They try to clean it up, but it always comes back. Graffiti's like that. Persistent."

I smirk, squeezing her arm a little. "Kinda like you."

She rolls her eyes but smiles, and my heart does this little flip thing that I pretend not to notice. "I'll take that as a compliment," she says.

We reach a side entrance, the words "GYMNASIUM" written in all caps above the door. Seems like they've given up on the fancy aesthetic here. It's just a plain, metal door, dinged up and scratched. I push it open and we step inside, and my senses kind of get hit by this wave of, well, gymnasium-ness.

The air is, like, a mix of rubber from the basketballs and that clean-ish smell of industrial cleaning products. And sweat. Sounds echo in a weird way; the squeak of sneakers, the bounce of balls, and random conversations blend together, bouncing off walls. It's a cavernous space, big enough to fit probably four of my school's gyms inside it. There's a sort of lobby area connecting the gym to the rest of the school, with glass trophy cases that are half-full--or half-empty, if you're into being a pessimist--showing off awards from years past.

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"Some collection," Jamila says, her eyes scanning the trophies.

I nod, my own gaze wandering. There's a glass case filled with team photos, a history of Railsplitters past. Some wear triumphant smiles, some look like they'd rather be anywhere else. "Yeah, they've got history."

"Do you think Kate will end up in one of those pictures?" Jamila asks. "I don't really know much about her, you've been remarkably reticent about your non… after-school friends."

"You heard what they said about professional life and personal life, Jams." I reply, flicking hair out of my face. I sigh, feeling a sudden lump form in my throat. "Yeah, Kate and I go way back. Kindergarten. We used to think fighting each other was how you became friends. Got into trouble more times than I can count. We didn't know any better, we were just kids with too much energy."

Jamila chuckles, probably imagining tiny me and tiny Kate scrapping in the schoolyard. "And then?"

"Then we got smart. Figured out that there are better ways to channel all that energy. I went for soccer, she went for basketball. We still competed, but it was friendly, you know? Not like the schoolyard wars we used to have."

"So what happened? You still look like you miss her."

My mouth opens, but it takes a second for words to come out. The ache in my chest grows. "We grew up, I guess. I started doing my… after-school activities," the last part said with a wistful heaviness. "Plus we don't go to the same school anymore. Blame my parents for that one."

I try not to blame them too much. They just want what's best for me. I walk over to a glass case, tracing a finger lightly over the surface, over faces frozen in time. I'm looking for her face among the team photos, even though I know she's too young to be in these archived shots. But the search is comforting, even if it's futile.

"Plus, I haven't been a great friend lately," I add softly, not sure if I'm talking to Jamila or to the ghosts behind the glass. "My life got… complicated. More secrets to keep, more reasons to drift apart. And the worst part? Kate's the sort of person who'd understand if I could tell her, but I can't, and that sucks. I can't put her in danger of a freaking… random dinosaur attack."

Jamila nods, her expression gentle but serious. "I get it. The stuff we've got to do, it's not easy on friendships. Or on us."

"Yeah." My eyes finally leave the glass case, settling back on her. "It's just… seeing her school, thinking about her life here… the world doesn't stop spinning just because I'm off saving it."

We're both silent for a moment, and then Jamila breaks it. "Hey, life's messy, complicated. Friends drift, but they can also drift back. We're here now, right? Maybe it's a chance for you to reconnect. Even heroes need to maintain their friendships."

I smile, a genuine smile that pushes away a tiny bit of the melancholy. "You're right, Jams."

She grins back, hooking her arm in mine again. "Of course I am. Now, let's go find those seats. The night's still young, and who knows? Maybe you'll get a chance to cheer Kate on."

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The gym at Abraham Lincoln High School doesn't look too bad, actually. Not like the rest of the place. Which is weird, because most of the school gives off that "in need of renovation" vibe. It's like someone dumped all their care into this single gym and then shrugged at the rest. Kinda unfair, if you ask me.

Jamila and I find a spot on the bleachers, and they're pretty much empty. Like, there's only a handful of people here, some random friends, and maybe one or two parents. Makes me wonder why they bothered making it look so good if no one's showing up. I guess basketball isn't a big deal here, or maybe it's just that it's a scrimmage and not an official game? Either way, it's weird, because Kate is super into basketball. She used to tell me it was like therapy, only way cheaper.

My legs bounce up and down, bumping against the bottom of the bleacher in front of me. It's like a nervous habit or something, except I'm not the one playing. But Kate is, so that's kinda the same. Right? Jamila, ever the calm presence, rests a hand on my knee, giving me that "It'll be okay" look. She's not saying it, but I know that's what her eyes mean. I try to take a deep breath, but it doesn't help much.

The whistle blows and the game starts. Right off the bat, Kate's in the zone. She's like this miniature tornado on the court, dodging, dribbling, zipping past people like they're standing still. She's got her short hair in a small ponytail, sandy and short, bobbing with every move she makes. Then there's Olson, or that's what her jersey says, towering over the rest, this wall of a person you'd think could block out the sun. Her eyes are locked onto Kate like a missile, and you can tell she wants to put an end to this one-woman show.

Kate's dribbling down the court and Olson's right there, mirroring her every move. But Kate's fast, almost unnaturally so, and she pulls this spin move that leaves Olson lunging for air. For a heartbeat, it's like watching a matador and a bull. Kate takes her shot, a clean arc, and--swish--it's nothing but net. I let out an involuntary cheer, not caring that I might be the only one. "Go Kate!"

But Olson's not giving up; you can see it on her face. I wonder momentarily if anyone is sitting on the bleachers, watching her, knowing her first name and thinking of Kate only as "Smith". Next play, she gets the ball and drives to the hoop. She's got the height, obviously, and uses it to shoot over her defenders. The ball bounces on the rim, teeters for a moment, and drops in. Score one for the giants.

Kate's back with the ball, a glint in her eye. She dribbles to the three-point line, feints a pass, and then--surprise--it's a quick sidestep and she's going for it. Olson lunges, arm outstretched, fingertips just millimeters away from the ball. But she misses. The ball is airborne, flying, sailing--and it sinks through the hoop like it's got GPS. Another perfect three-pointer. Jamila beside me claps, her eyes lighting up; she's not a basketball fan, but she loves seeing people excel, and Kate's doing just that.

Olson growls, almost inaudible, but I catch it. She's mad, and it's like watching a volcano right before it erupts. This time, she's dribbling down the court, not even passing, it's a one-woman mission. Kate tries to guard her, but Olson's strong, shoves a bit with her shoulder, makes room, and leaps. She slams the ball through the hoop, a resounding dunk that makes the backboard shudder. And she lands, a smug look on her face, like she's just conquered Everest.

"Team sport, girls! Share the rock!" The coach yells from the sidelines, her voice breaking through the tension like a clap of thunder.

The atmosphere is electric, almost palpable. Kate dribbles down the court, swift as ever, but this time she's got something different in mind. Just past half-court, she sends a quick pass to Martinez, jersey reading "27," who's hovering near the three-point line. Martinez fakes a shot but dishes it off to Kim, her jersey reading "8," who's cutting toward the basket.

Kim takes the pass and immediately faces resistance. Two defenders converge on her, and for a moment, it looks like she's cornered. But then she spots Kate, who's managed to shake Olson for a split second. A rapid pass back to Kate, and it's game on again.

Kate and Olson lock eyes. The tension peaks; it's a showdown, a duel for the ages. Kate starts her move, zigzag dribbling designed to confound. Olson is unyielding, every muscle coiled like a spring, ready to strike. But then Kate pulls a fast one--instead of driving, she suddenly stops, just a foot from Olson, and goes airborne.

The shot is like something out of a fairy tale; it arcs high over Olson's outstretched fingers, hovering for an eternity before it descends. Swish--the ball sails cleanly through the net, no backboard, no rim, just net. The buzzer for halftime blares, echoing through the gym.

And the gymnasium comes alive. Sure, it's not an ear-splitting roar, but the energy level definitely spikes. Jamila's clapping is so vigorous it's like she's trying to start a one-woman wave. And me? I'm grinning so wide it feels like my face might split.

The halftime whistle blows. Kate's team is ahead, and not just on the scoreboard. They're jelling, playing like a unit, and it's beautiful to watch. It's a scrimmage, yes, but the spirit is pure competition. Kate's not just a star; she's a team player, and that makes the win--even a scrimmage win--all the sweeter. She's fighting her battle out there, same as I fight mine. And in that moment, pride swells within me, not for my feats but for hers. Sometimes, that's victory enough.

I start to get up, thinking maybe I can catch Kate before she disappears into the locker room or whatever they do during halftime. Jamila tugs gently at my sleeve. "You sure you want to go talk to her now? She might be busy."

"I just wanna say hi," I say, but I hesitate, my hand hovering over the edge of the bleacher. "Should I? Or is that weird?"

"It's your call, Sam," Jamila says. But she's got that concerned look, the one she gets when she's not sure what the best thing to do is but doesn't want to tell me what to do. It's a nice look. It doesn't help right now.

I sit back down, my legs still restless but maybe a bit calmer now. "Let's just watch. She seems like she's in the zone, and I don't wanna mess that up for her."

Jamila nods, and we turn our attention back to the court, waiting for the second half to start. My fingers drum against my thighs, forming a rhythm that only makes sense to me.