The man across the street had a name, and the name was Thomas Greer, and Jayden had known it the way you know the name of a storm that keeps missing your house. Mr. Greer lived in the two-story brick colonial directly opposite the Carters, the one with the trimmed hedges and the flagpole and the mailbox shaped like a tiny barn. He was fifty-eight, retired from something in insurance, and he was the president of the Maple Ridge homeowners association, a fact he mentioned the way other people mentioned their grandchildren.
Jayden had never spoken to him until the Tuesday after Labor Day.
It happened in the late afternoon. Jayden was out in the driveway working on his left hand, dribbling low and hard, the ball smacking the concrete in a steady rhythm. School had let out an hour earlier. The street was full of its usual sounds: a lawn mower somewhere, kids shouting two houses down, somebody's music leaking out of a garage. Jayden was in the middle of a crossover drill when he looked up and saw Mr. Greer standing at the edge of his own lawn, arms crossed, watching him the way a person watches a dog that might bite.
Jayden kept dribbling. He told himself to keep his eyes on the ball, but his skin prickled, and after another minute Mr. Greer started walking across the street toward him, his loafers crunching on the asphalt. He stopped at the foot of the Carters' driveway, just short of the property line, as if there were an invisible fence there. Maybe, Jayden thought later, in Mr. Greer's mind there was.
"Young man," Mr. Greer said.
Jayden caught the ball and held it against his hip. "Yes, sir?"
"I've had a complaint about the noise." Mr. Greer's voice was flat and official, like he was reading from a form. "The bouncing. It carries. I've had residents mention it."
Jayden looked around the street. Nobody was on their porch. The mower had stopped. The kids two houses down were still shouting, louder than any basketball had ever been. "I'm sorry," he said. "I can stop. I was just—"
"It's not just today." Mr. Greer glanced at the hoop, at the base bolted to the driveway, at the chalk free-throw line Jayden had redrawn that weekend. His eyes lingered on the hoop the way they might linger on a stain. "This has been going on for some time. The early mornings especially. People work. People need their rest."
"I try to keep it down in the mornings," Jayden said. His throat felt tight. He was sixteen and six feet tall and he had never been in real trouble in his life, and standing here with the ball under his arm, he felt like he was eight years old and caught with his hand in something. "My mom asked me to. I stop by seven-thirty."
Mr. Greer nodded slowly, the way people nod when they have already decided what they think. "The association has rules about noise and about structures. That hoop — " he gestured with his chin, " — is it permitted? Most exterior structures require approval."
Jayden stared at him. "It's a basketball hoop. My dad put it up. It's been here for seven years."
"Seven years is a long time for something to go unnoticed." Mr. Greer's smile did not reach his eyes. "I'm not saying anything formal today. I'm asking you, as a neighbor, to be considerate. Keep the bouncing to reasonable hours. And you might want to have your mother check the association guidelines about what's allowed in driveways. Just so there are no surprises."
He turned and walked back across the street, his loafers crunching again, and let himself into his house without looking back. Jayden stood in the driveway holding the ball, his heart thumping harder than it had during any drill. He bounced the ball once, softly, and the sound seemed to fill the whole street. He picked it up and went inside.
That night he told his mother at dinner. Denise listened without interrupting, her fork paused halfway to her mouth, and when he finished she set the fork down very carefully, the way she did when she was deciding how angry to be.
"He said the hoop might not be permitted," Jayden said. "Mom, Dad put it up seven years ago. Nobody ever said anything."
"I know, baby." She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "Nobody ever said anything because there was nothing to say. It's a basketball hoop, not a satellite dish."
"But what if he—"
"He won't." Her voice was firm. "Thomas Greer likes to remind people he's the president. That's his hobby. You keep playing, you keep it reasonable like you always do, and if he has a real problem he can put it in writing."
Jayden nodded, but the tightness in his throat didn't fully go away. He had seen the way Mr. Greer looked at the hoop, and it hadn't been the look of a man bothered by noise. It had been the look of a man who had found something he had been looking for.
The next morning, Jayden went out at his usual time. He told himself he wouldn't think about Mr. Greer. He shot his free throws, ran his drills, and tried to bounce the ball as softly as physics allowed. Twice he glanced across the street. The first time, the curtains in the Greers' front window were still. The second time, just as he was finishing up, he saw the curtain move — a quick, small shift, there and gone. Somebody had been standing there, watching, and had stepped back when he looked.
Jayden picked up the ball and went inside. His hands were shaking a little, and he told himself it was just from the cold morning air.