Hanging around the old rec building. Ruel had sat on its back step once, in August, to drink a bottle of water in the shade. Once.
Perpetua took his arm. Her hand was small and dry and stronger than it looked. "Come sit down."
"I didn't do anything."
"I know. Come sit down. Sitting down is good. Sitting down is what we do now."
They sat on the bench by Court 3. Ruel put his racket in his bag and zipped the bag. Then he unzipped it and took the racket out again, because he realized that if a police officer came he did not want to be the person reaching into a bag, and then he realized that holding a racket was also a thing a person could be described as holding, he's got a racket, and he put it on the bench beside him and put both of his hands flat on his knees where anybody could see them. He did all of this without thinking. Some part of him had been rehearsing it since he was nine.
"Should I call my grandmother?"
"In a minute," Perpetua said. "Let's see who comes."
On Court 4, the men had started to warm up. Cheever came back from the fence and picked up his racket and began to hit with the man with the earpiece, short easy ground strokes from the service line, pock, pock, pock, as if nothing had happened, as if everything had already been decided and all that remained was the paperwork.
"Why does he want it so bad," Ruel said. "It's one court. He could've had Court 4 at nine. Nobody's on it at nine."
Perpetua did not answer right away. She was looking at the board.
"He doesn't want the court," she said finally. "He wants the story. He's got a committee vote on the app in three weeks. If a police officer comes to Wick Park on a Saturday morning because of a fight over the board, that's a story. He can stand up and say, I'm sorry, but the old system is causing conflict. The police had to be called. That's not a court, Ruel. That's a speech."
"So I should just leave."