That night after dinner José went outside and asked his father, “Dad, has a girl ever beaten you at anything?”

His father was watering the grass. His pale belly hung over his belt, just slightly, like a deflated ball.

“Only talking,” he said. “They can outtalk a man any day of the week.”

“No, in sports.”

His father thought for a while and then said, “No, I don’t think so.”

His father’s tone of voice didn’t encourage José. So he took the racket and a tennis ball and began to practice against the side of the garage. The ball raced away like a rat. He retrieved it and tried again. Every time, he hit it either too softly or too hard. He couldn’t get the rhythm of a rally going.

“It’s hard,” he said to himself. But then he remembered that he was playing with a tennis ball, not a racquetball. He assumed that he would play better with a real ball.

The next day school was as dull as usual. He took a test in history and returned to his regular score of twelve out of twenty. Mrs. Flores was satisfied.

“I’ll see you later,” Estela said, hoisting her backpack onto one shoulder, the history quiz crumpled in her fist.

“OK, Estela,” he said.

“Stinger,” she corrected.

“Yeah, Stinger. 3:45.”

José was beginning to wonder whether he really liked her. Now she seemed abrupt, not cute. She was starting to look like Dolores “Hit ‘n’ Spit” Ramirez—tough.