Freshman Year (29 page)

As I watch Kate running the court during the freshman game, I'm reminded of my talk with Ms. Morvay. I hadn't noticed before tonight, but Kate is getting pretty darn good at basketball. I imagine how cool it would be if we were on the same team next year. We could dominate the entire city! But mostly I imagine how cool it would be if we could just be friends again. Then the buzzer signals the end of her game and the JV teams start to warm up.

During the first half of our game, I am a total embarrassment to my Nikes because I get three fouls for trying to snag rebounds over the backs of my opponents. Those are cheap fouls, but I can't help it if everyone on Sabino High's team is height challenged. Nevertheless, a foul is a foul and now I only have two left before getting benched for the rest of the game. But, seriously, me trying not to attack the basketball each time it's loose is like telling someone to not close their eyes when they sneeze: it's impossible.

And Coach Riley yelling at me every time I run by isn't helping matters at all. “Brooks, hustle!” “Brooks, screen!” “Brooks, rebound!” God, I swear if he doesn't stop it, I'll have my own commands for him. And they won't be pretty.

I finally get a chance to calm down during halftime because, as if he's sensed my homicidal irritation with him, Riley actually lets me leave the team meeting a couple minutes early to see the trainer about replacing my knee Band-Aid and to shoot around a bit. Then Keeta shows up to ruin my new relaxed mood.

She sits up at the top of the bleachers with Tai and Jenn and just hangs out with them like she isn't a cupid killer. For the first time, I detest the jersey number we share and wish I could trade with someone for the last two games of the season.

So, thanks to Keeta, I get all angry and crazy again and start off the third quarter by “accidentally” tripping one of my opponents, causing the whistles to blow.

“White twenty-one, pushing.”

Then Garrett gets all over my case. “Crutch, get it together!”

I try to get it together as I have been instructed, but Sabino's number two is being such a pain in my ass, and part of me wonders if she isn't another one of Keeta's exes, which is why I let myself feel free to push her around and attempt to make her look like she's a sucky b-ball player. When I see my chance, I fake her out, dribble under the basket, and toss the ball over my shoulder showing off my no-look, reverse layup that I have been practicing with Keeta in the park. And I make it! Well, well. Maybe all those afternoons in the park with Keeta weren't a complete waste of time, after all.

Then number two starts to fight back. It begins with a little shoving, but then we both pull out all the sneaky moves when the refs have their backs turned. She's short and thick, so each time she drives to the basket, she lowers a shoulder and ploughs into me like a raging bull, making me hit the floor hard. I look to the ref who surely saw her intentional charge, but the ref claims it was clean. Then, with two minutes left in the game, number two “accidentally” elbows me hard in the face as we struggle for a rebound. A second later, we're both on the ground like dogs fighting for a bone. Finally, the ref whistles and our teammates break us up. I'm pulled up by Garrett and Eva. Along with my reddening eye, I'm bleeding from my knee again and my braid has totally come undone. I'm a mess, literally and figuratively.

“Pushing,” the ref says. “White twenty-one.”

“What!” I scream and throw the ball I won fair and square against the wood floor. The slam and my
what
echo throughout the gym.

The ref blows her whistle again and throws up her hands to form a T, a player's least favorite letter of the game. And there you have it: my first technical foul.

Coach Riley is too pissed off to even look my way, so I walk to the end of the bench, plop down on the folding chair, and cover my head with the towel Matti hands me. She also hands me an ice pack for my eye, but I tell her to leave me alone because I'm enjoying the intense pain and don't want it to stop. Finally, something else is causing me to hurt besides my broken heart.

Meanwhile, my mom, who came to the game to cheer me on and to prove that she still loves me (even though I'm pretty sure she is just spying on me), is probably confirming her drug addiction suspicions and calling the Solstice House this very second. To make things worse, Kate's actually watching the game, since Derrick got kicked off the team for his bad attitude and she doesn't have to rush off to watch him play. She's probably thinking that I suck at basketball and that it should have been her that got moved up to JV. And, to make things even
more
worse, Keeta is still up in the stands, along with the entire varsity team. She must be so embarrassed to ever have been my non-girlfriend. I hide my face until the game ends. We lose by ten.

On the way home, while we're stopped at a red light, my mom turns off her talk radio program and says, “Abbey Road.”

I can't look at her.

“What happened to you out there? It's not just basketball making you so angry, is it?”

But I can't speak either.

By the time I get home, my head is killing me and, instead of heading straight to my room, I walk into the kitchen with my mom to get some water to wash down some ibuprofen. That's when she sees how bad it is.

“Oh my gosh, Abbey. Your eye. That's it, I'm taking you to urgent care.” She grabs her purse and her keys.

I take them out of her hands. “Mom, I'm fine. It's just a black eye. Calm down.”

“But what if—” she starts, but lets it go. “All right, but let me at least ice it.”

I succumb and sit down because I don't have the energy to fight with anyone anymore. She gets a package of peas out of the freezer and wraps them in a soft dish towel, but I still wince when she places them on my face.

“Oh, honey. It looks so bad.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You know, I'm not sure I want you to play next year. It's too rough out there.”

I laugh because I already know there's no way I'll let her take basketball from me. Sure, it didn't seem like it was my favorite activity tonight, but I do love the game. I love the feeling of flying downcourt, working up a sweat, sinking bank shots, seeing the faces of my opponents when I reject their shots, singing our songs of victory in the locker room, road trips to every corner of the desert, and even wearing that funky thirty-year-old polyester uniform. After all, it's what says I'm on the team. And, despite everything, I loved tonight's game and making that impossible shot. Then, thanks to my fanatical mind, the thought of loving basketball makes me think of loving Keeta, which makes me think about what Garrett said, which makes me mad all over again. I shouldn't have to share Keeta. If she cares enough about me, she should only want to be with me.

“Abbey Road”—my mom's voice puts the brakes on my manic train of thought—“what made you play like that tonight? Did something happen at school?”

I don't answer until I know where she's going with this.

She adjusts the peas a little and continues. “And what is it that has become more important to you than good grades, or best friends, or me? Is it basketball or something else?”

I shrug. “I don't know.”

“That's not good enough.”

“It's all I can say, Mom,” I tell her, being honest. “I'm sorry.”

She puts my hand over the peas to hold them in place so she can stand in front of me. “Okay, but there is one thing I need to know.”

I consider fleeing the scene, but I'm also too tired to run from anyone anymore, so I stay. And since my guard is down, I actually consider telling her the truth. I can't believe it, but I'm actually hoping she'll finally ask the big question.

“What, Mom?”

She puts her hands on my shoulders and says, “If you ever feel like hurting yourself, or turning to drugs or anything like that, promise you'll come to me for help?”

All that panic for nothing. I didn't think I'd feel so disappointed, but I guess this stupid secret has worn me out. Why hasn't she seen the signs? Is she totally clueless or just too afraid to say it? I wish I could tell the difference, and I wish I had the guts to tell her myself. “Mom, I'm fine. I just got a little PMS-y tonight. Don't worry. I'm okay.”

“Promise me, Abbey.”

I take the peas off my stinging eye and look at her. “I promise.”

*

It's two thirty in the morning and I'm no closer to sleeping than I was at eleven or one. I take another dose of ibuprofen because my head is beginning to hurt again. And since there's no sign of sleep in my future, I take out the letter Keeta wrote to me and read it one more time:

Dear Amara,

I just opened the Valentine you made for me.
Que bonita está
,
Amara
. It is by far the sweetest thing I've ever held, besides you, of course. I'm sorry we ran out of time this morning. I really wanted a chance to explain things better. So I guess I'll do it in this letter and hope that I can clear everything up. First, and most importantly, I meant all those things I told you, Amara. You are beautiful. When you're near me, my body melts like ice. I care so much about you and my heart is aching to see you so I can show you how much I care. I want to kiss you
de pies a cabeza
; from your head to your toes.

Please understand, though, that I just can't commit to you right now. Can't we just keep on going like we were? Nothing's really that different. When I am with you, I am yours. I promise. We have something so cool. Why make it end, Amara?
Eres mi amiga y mucho más
. I still want to be with you, but I guess you need to be the one to decide what will happen now.
Asi quedamos.
I mean it, whatever you want. But please remember that I never meant to hurt you.

I'm thinking about you this very second and I'll be watching you tonight as you run up and down the court (you're so sexy in those little blue-and-white shorts). Don't forget, you're wearing my number. Make me proud.

Besos y abrazos
,

Your Keeta

At three forty-five in the morning, I decide it's time to take action or I'll never get any sleep. I choose some plain stationery so I won't look too immature or desperate, and since I don't know what I'm going to write, it's important to stay neutral. I begin her letter very simply:

Dear Keeta,

Then I stare at the paper for about ten minutes.

What exactly am I supposed to say?
It's okay that you're a slut and are using me for cheap thrills.
No, probably not that. Part of me wonders why I'm even wondering. Of course we should go on seeing each other. But there's this nagging part of me that keeps on saying what I already know: I deserve better. I bite on my pen and crumple up my paper. Maybe I should start with something less complicated and work my way up to a decision. I throw the ball of paper across the room into the recycle bin next to my door: two points.

On a fresh piece of paper I draw a handy pro/con chart titled: Dating Keeta.

Cons:

1. She can't commit to me.
   
2. Why would I want to kiss her if she's maybe kissed someone else that same day? Gross.
   
3. She'll probably end up breaking my heart even more in the end.
   
4. I miss spending time with Kate.
   
5. I have to lie to my mom.
   
6. Uh, hello? 1.89 GPA?
   
7. I'm worth more than this.
   
8. She's never told me she loves me.
   

The con side ends up being a little longer than I intended. But now it's time for the good things.

Pros:

1. I love her.

2. I need her.

3. I want her.

I don't know what else to write so I add:

4. I love her.

5. I love her.

6. I love her.

7. I love her.

8. I love her.

There. Now at least they're even.

I re-read the con side, and as I get halfway through, it's finally obvious that I need to do something that I've been avoiding for too long, something even more important than Keeta's kisses.

I put my pro/con list aside and ready another piece of paper. This time, I don't chicken out. I know the letter has to be written. So I begin again, simply and honestly:

Dear Kate,

Walking past the performance hall this morning feels like that shot I made last night: nearly impossible. After I pass its first set of double doors, I can't help but look back and wonder if Keeta and Osiris are already in the instrument room together. I finally make it up the front steps of Gila, and then to the hallway, and that's when I notice that the rest of Gila hasn't changed at all. In fact, “Oh my God. What happened to your eye?” is all anyone says to me as I walk through the hall. Good thing they can't see how badly my heart has been battered.

Since the second semester began, Kate's taken to using her own hall locker again because it's closer to her new classes, so I look over my shoulder to see if she's coming before I slip the letter in the ventilation slot and head over to algebra. As soon as I let it go, I feel a wave of regret. What if she won't take me back? What if she laughs when she reads it? What if it's too late?

Fifty-five minutes later, I rush over to PE to find Kate. I even take an extra-long time to dress out to make sure that if she does want to talk, she won't have to search all over for me. But then Mrs. Schwartz opens the locker room door and bellows, “Whoever is in here has exactly five seconds to get your butt on your number.” Before she turns to leave, she catches a glimpse of my face. “Nice shiner, Brooks, but you're still playing today.”

I roll my eyes. After I'm sure the locker room door is shut and she can't hear me, I say, “Whatever.” I quickly tie my shoes and run outside, but there's still no sign of Kate, which means she's sick or ditching. Jenn didn't tell me she was sick, but then again, I think Jenn's finally given up on trying to get us back to being BFFs.