In West Virginia, part of the world I'm from, girl's not supposed to be better than the guys at basketball. Not so much they didn't like it as they couldn't hardly believe it. Every day they'd be bringing some new kid to the house, seeing could he beat me one-on-one. My father'd be like, Charmaine! 'Nother sucker at the door! I'm Give me a minute, Dad. I'll be right there. Because I knew he loved it. He loved to see me take it to the hoop. He'd get on the boys: You lettin' that girl spin 'round you like that? What wrong with you, boy? Whenever I'd do something cool, or win or something, he'd jump down from the steps where he'd be watching, and he'd want his high-five. I used to love that. Jumpin' up to high-five him. At his funeral that's what I was thinking the only time I cried: No more high-fives. He taught me the game. He played in high school and even got some offers for college, but Grandpa was already sick by then . . . Long story. Where I'm going with this is: I can't abide some drooling old fool disrespecting me like that. I grew up scrappy. Some boy hit me with an elbow, he'd get an elbow back. He pushed off, I'd push off harder. I'm not puttin' up with that dumb-ass making a big show out of closing the office door behind me so no one can see in from the hall, and then leaning close to me and staring. So he didn't literally touch me. It's still the same. And I swear, I didn't ever realize I picked up the book. It was like a head fake or something, you just do it, you're not thinking: oh, perhaps a head fake would be effective in this situation. I just did it. I cleaned his clock. Afterwards I looked up for a second, like my father might be there, waiting for his high-five.