"Well, you still played great. You were the best player on the court. You always are."

"Because the other players are white girls. I need to play against black girls if I'm going to get good enough to play college ball and then go pro."

"You're only thirteen. You have time."

"I'm just the designated black kid at the school."

"Designated black kid?"

"Like a designated driver."

"Are you still getting bullied?"

Pajamae looked down, so Boo answered for her.

"The mean girls-like the blonde, her name is Bitzy-they post mean tweets about her on Twitter."

"How do you know?"

The girls had no Facebook page, no Twitter account, no Snapchat, no Instagram, no pierced ears, no cable TV, and no tattoos. They had books.

"Other girls showed me."

"And what do they say?"

"No, Boo," Pajamae said.

"He needs to know."

"I do, Pajamae."

"They say she's ugly because she's black. And they posted, 'Your mother was a hooker so you'll be a hooker, too.' And 'If my mother was a hooker, I'd kill myself. Why don't you?' "

Pajamae cried. Boo hugged her.

"Pajamae," she said, "I'm going to kick their asses."

Scott sat back. He had been bullied in middle school, but back then bullying was being shoved in the hall by the older boys. It wasn't mean tweets on Twitter. They had dealt with the bullying since Pajamae had started school in Highland Park. Scott had gone to the principal several times; he thought it had gotten better. But it had only gotten worse.

"Honey, you're beautiful just like your mother. She took care of you the only way she knew how. Because she loved you so much."

"I know, Judge Fenney."

"And your teammates like you. They gave you high-fives."

"They like me on the court because I win the games for us. But off the court, they ignore me, act like I'm not even there. Like I'm invisible. In the hallway, I'll say 'hi' but they don't say 'hi' back."

She looked so small. She frowned, and her wet brown eyes turned up to him.

"Judge Fenney, what's wrong with me?"

She needed consolation, but how did he console her? What was a father supposed to say in such a moment? He felt utterly helpless. So he said the only words he knew to say.

"Nothing is wrong with you. Everything is right. I love you, doll."

"I know."

Then he remembered. He dug into his pocket.

"Toffee?"

That brought smiles to both faces. They were also addicted.

"Honey, we can move out of Highland Park."

"No, sir. This is my home. I have you and Boo and basketball. No one can ignore me on a basketball court. Just like they couldn't ignore Jackie Robinson on a baseball diamond."

"Good girl. But I'll talk to the principal again."

"No, please. It'll only get worse. I'll be like Jackie and turn the other cheek."

"I'll be like Ali and punch them out," Boo said.

"Boo, you can't go around punching other girls."

"Of course I can."

"You'll get suspended again. You'll probably get suspended for tonight."

"It was worth it."

That brought a bigger smile from her sister. "Gosh, I wish I could've seen it, Bitzy on her butt."

"It was awesome," Boo said.

Scott had to confess-privately-that it was pretty awesome.

"If I was the star football player," Pajamae said, "those white kids would treat me like a god, beg me for my autograph. But I'm just a black girl playing basketball. Judge Fenney, no one's ever asked me for my autograph."

"And having a federal judge for a dad gets us bullied even more," Boo said.

The other federal judges were older with grown children and grandchildren. He was the only judge with young children.

"Why?"

"Charlene said her dad said you're a liberal apologist for the president, whatever that means. He hates the president."

Pajamae jumped in. "And then I said, 'Your daddy hates the president because he's black.' But she said, 'No, he hates him because he's a liberal Muslim who wasn't even born in America.' " Pajamae frowned. "Is the president Muslim?"

"No."

"Was he born in America?"

"Yes."

"What if he wasn't?"

"The Constitution requires that presidents be 'natural born citizens,' which means a citizen from birth, either born in America or born outside of America to an American parent."

That tidbit of constitutional law impressed the girls.

"Look, girls, kids hear their parents talking and they just repeat what they heard. They're just trying to get under your skin. Ignore them."

"But why would they tease us about your job?" Pajamae asked.

"When so many people live together, we have to have rules, like speed limits and laws against stealing. Otherwise, life would be chaotic. But then people disagree about what the rules mean. In some countries, when people disagree, they shoot each other. We think that's a bad way to resolve differences, so we have courts. People who disagree can come to court and ask a judge to decide who's right. But both parties think they're right and they want the judge to say they're right and the other party is wrong, so if he doesn't, they get mad. In America, we don't start a war if a judge rules against us, but people still get mad about it. That just comes with the territory when you're a judge. People are going to be mad at you."

The girls regarded him with contemplative expressions. He enjoyed these teaching moments when he could share his experiences with the girls and prepare them for life. He was pretty sure other parents didn't talk to their seventh graders about constitutional law and judicial theory. But his seventh graders loved to learn about such matters. And they were so smart. Pajamae raised a finger as if gauging the wind. They often asked insightful questions after a teaching moment, which made Scott proud-and made him feel like a good dad.

"Yes, honey?"

"Do you think I should do my hair in cornrows again?"

Boo's eyes popped wide. "I will if you will. And we can get tattoos. Right above our butts."

"I'll do it if you will."

And the tears were gone. For now. But they would return, as would the bullying.

"No tattoos, above the butt or anywhere else," Scott said. "You can do the cornrows, but no tattoos."

"No tattoos, no pierced ears, no cable TV-we get more Spanish channels than English."

Pajamae shrugged. "Our Spanish is better."

"A. Scott, all the other kids have that stuff."

"I gave you a cell phone to share. Is this about Facebook?"

"Facebook? Kids don't have Facebook, just their moms. This is about our becoming independent young women."

"With tattoos? Boo, I'm scared to send you off to college. You're going to come back with tattoo sleeves."

"No, I'll just get a couple where no one can see them."

"Oh, well then ..."

His teenaged daughters had no tattoos (yet) and no longer wore their hair in cornrows. When Pajamae had first done Boo's hair in cornrows after she had moved in with the Fenney family, Rebecca had gone ballistic. Her daughter now looked up at her father.

"Mother got a tattoo, after she left."

"Another good reason not to get one."

"She said I should never depend on a man. Except you. She said I could always depend on you."

Scott had last seen his ex-wife a year and a half before in Galveston after her acquittal on murder charges.

"She also said a woman's life is a complicated life. Will Pajamae and I have complicated lives?"

"Only if you get tattoos."

Pajamae giggled; Boo rolled her eyes.

"A. Scott, did you have a complicated life?"

"I did when I was married to your mother."

Boo frowned, which meant she was pondering the notion of a complicated life. The frown left her face.

"I think I want a simple life."

His daughter was a thirteen-year-old girl trapped in a thirty-year-old woman's body. He had said that for years, just updating her biological age.

"I wonder where she's at? Mother."

Boo could tell from her father's face that A. Scott was thinking of her mother. Again. He would never be free of her, so Boo would never be free of her. Pajamae's mother was dead. Her mother might as well be. They needed to move on, as they say. But they couldn't. A. Scott had told her that he had taken a vow: Till death do us part. He had taken it, but they were both living it.

"Find them a mother," Dan Ford had said that afternoon. "A man can't raise women."

This man had a good job with a good salary and great benefits. A home. Two wonderful daughters. Good health. But they had no mother and he had no one. No woman in his life. God created Adam and Eve, not Adam or Eve. A man needs a woman, even if the man is a federal judge. At ten-thirty on a Friday night, A. Scott Fenney lay down in bed. Alone.

He hated to sleep alone.

But he did.

He had.

He would.

Forever?