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the table, his father poured a glass of wine, saying nothing. Bobby glanced at his mother's empty chair. The dining room felt empty, he thought. The damn house felt empty. Ignore it. Throw down some food, go upstairs, get to bed. Period.
    Bobby huddled over the dish. It was his only food all day. One forkful after another, he shoveled the food into his mouth. Chew, swallow, take a breath. Chew, swallow, take a breath.
    At any other time of the year, his father would not have ignored such table manners. But the calendar had passed into Wrestling season. Bobby wouldn't have to sit with the family at dinner. His growing moodiness from cutting weight would be forgiven. And as the season wore on, when he became entirely self-centered, that, too, would be tolerated. All in the name of Wrestling.
    "Your face is raw," his father said.
    Bobby reached up and with his fingers touched an area below his temple where the skin was tacky. "Mat burn."
    "Did you return the favor?"
    "Of course," Bobby said.
    His father nodded, pleased. "This is going to be a special season."
    "We'll be good," Bobby said. "Six returning starters. Some of the young guys'll step up, too."
    "No," his father said. "This is going to be a special season for
you.
"
    Bobby shrugged. "Whatever."
    "No, not whatever."
    "Dad—"
    "What about the states? What about
winning
the states?"
    Bobby put down his fork. "Do we have to get into this now?"
    It was a grueling road to the states, he knew. In late February, thirty-two district tournaments across New Jersey advanced the winners and runners-up in each weight class to the eight region tournaments held the following weekend. The same was true from the regions to the states, a week later, when the top sixteen wrestlers at each weight competed for the tide of state champ.
    His father shook his head. "That's not the kind of attitude I expect from you."
    "Sorry," Bobby said, smartly.
    "I'll assume it's because you're tired."
    "Yeah, yeah, I'm tired."
    And still hungry. And, yes, he had thought about being a state champ. What wrestler in New Jersey hadn't dreamed of standing atop the winner's podium at Princeton University's hallowed Jadwin Gym to have the championship medal placed around his neck? Any wrestler worth a damn dreamed it a thousand times. But Bobby didn't feel that way right then. Not hungry and dehydrated and wondering how many more nights his mother's chair would be empty.
    His father's voice was uncompromising. "You weren't 18–5 last year on a fluke, Bobby."
    "I know."
    "You won the districts and placed fourth in the regions."
    "I know, I know. I was there."
    "Relax, young man," his father said sharply. "You can be much better this year. Everyone believes it. Now
you
have to."
    "I have other things to think about."
    "Like what?"
    "I don't know, like..."
    "Girls," Christopher said. He pursed his lips. "Kiss, kiss, kiss. He does that on the phone
all
night."
    It wasn't exactly the truth. There was only one girl— Carmelina Veloso. Bobby had met her at the Livingston Mall the month before, while she worked the perfume counter at Macy's. She was brash but soft, and she seemed to dance without moving. She had a killer smile, semi-dark skin, and eyes that reached out and held his gaze, so that even if he wanted to look somewhere else, he couldn't possibly. Bobby kept a photo of Carmelina in his shirt pocket. During class, he would look at it and wonder what she was doing at that moment in her school. Late at night, they would talk on the phone about nothing in particular, but everything, it seemed, that mattered.
    "You shouldn't be up that late," his father said to Christopher, then he turned back to Bobby. "You get one shot at your senior year. One shot, that's it."
    "I know."
    "You've got to be more selfish. Understand? You want the team to do well—fine—but think about yourself first. The state tournament has to be your primary focus. And enough with the phone."
    "Yes," Bobby said. "Focus."
    But