She laughed. “How long's this diet gonna last?”
“It's not a diet. I've just, uh, lost my taste for him.”
She looked at me skeptically. “Uh-huh.”
“Well, I have. But thanks for, you know, caring.”
All through first period I was still feeling strong and right and certain, but then Mrs. Simmons ended the lesson a full
fifteen minutes early and said, “Clear your desks of everything but a pen or pencil.”
“What?” everyone cried, and believe me—I was right along with them. I was not prepared for a quiz!
“Everything!” she said. “Come on, you're wasting valuable time.”
The room filled with grumbles and the sound of shuffling binders, and when we'd all pretty much complied with her request, she picked a stack of bright yellow papers off her desk, fanned them with an evil grin, and said, “It's time to vote for basket boys!”
A wave of relief swept across the room. “Basket boys? You mean it's
not
a quiz?”
She ticked through the stack, counting ballots as she spoke. “It
is
like a quiz in that I don't want you conferring with one another. It's
also
like a quiz in that you have a limited amount of time.” She slapped a set of ballots down on the first desk of row one, then went on to the second row. “I will collect them from you
individually
when the bell rings, and I will inspect to see that you have complied with the following instructions.” She scooted over to row three. “Choose five, and only five, of the boys on the list. Do
not
put your name on it, and do
not
discuss your choices with your neighbors.” She was on to row four now, talking faster and faster. “When you've made your selections, simply turn your sheet over.” She slapped the remainder down on the last desk. “Do not, I repeat, do
not
fold your ballot!”
Robbie Castinon raised his hand and blurted out, “Why do guys have to vote. It's lame to have guys vote.”
“Robbie …,” Mrs. Simmons warned.
“Seriously! What are we supposed to do? Vote for our friends or our enemies?”
A lot of people snickered, and Mrs. Simmons scowled, but he had a point. Twenty of the school's eighth-grade boys would be made to pack a picnic lunch for two and be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
“Being a basket boy is an honor—” Mrs. Simmons began, but she was interrupted by Robbie.
“It's a joke!” he said. “It's embarrassing! Who wants to be a
basket
boy?”
All the guys around him muttered, “Not me,” but Mrs. Simmons cleared her throat and said, “You
should
want to be one! It's a tradition that has helped support the school since it was founded. There have been generation after generation of basket boys helping make this campus what it is today. It's why we have flower beds. It's why we have shade trees and a grove of apple trees. Visit another junior high sometime and you'll begin to realize what a little oasis our campus really is.”
“All this from the sweat and blood of basket boys,” Robbie grumbled.
Mrs. Simmons sighed. “Robbie, someday when your children go to school here, you'll understand. For now, please just vote for whoever you think will earn a high bid. And class,” she added, “we're down to nine minutes.”
The room fell quiet. And as I read down the list of over one hundred and fifty eighth-grade boys, I realized that to me, there had only ever been one boy. To me, there had only been Bryce.
I didn't let myself get sentimental. I had liked him for all
the wrong reasons, and I certainly wasn't going to vote for him now. But I didn't know who else to vote for. I looked at Mrs. Simmons, who was eagle-eyeing the class between glances at the clock. What if I didn't choose anybody? What if I just turned it in blank?
She'd give me detention, that's what. So with two minutes left to go, I put dots next to the boys I knew who weren't jerks or clowns, but were just nice. When I was through, there were all of ten names with dots, and of those I circled five: Ryan Noll, Vince Olson, Adrian Iglesias, Ian Lai, and Jon Trulock. They wouldn't make basket boy, but then I wouldn't be bidding, so it didn't really matter. At the bell I handed over my ballot and forgot all about the auction.
Until lunchtime the next day, that is. Darla cut me off on my way to the library and dragged me over to her table instead. “Have you seen the list?” she asked.
“What list?”
“The list of basket boys!” She shoved a scrawled copy of twenty names in front of me and looked around. “Your main dish is on it!”
Five from the top, there it was—Bryce Loski.
I should have expected it, but still, this awful surge of possessiveness shot through me. Who had voted for him? Out of one hundred fifty names he must have gotten a lot of votes! Suddenly I was picturing a swarm of girls waving stacks of cash in the Booster ladies' faces as they begged to have lunch with him.
I threw the list back at Darla and said, “He's not my main dish! As a matter of fact, I didn't even vote for him.”
“Oooo, girl! You
are
stickin' to your diet!”
“It's not a diet, Darla. I'm … I'm over him, okay?”
“I'm glad to hear it, 'cause rumor is, that bimbette Shelly is already stakin' her claim on him.”
“Shelly? Shelly
Stalls
?” I could feel my cheeks flush.
“That's right.” Darla waved her list in the air, calling, “Liz! Macy! Over here! I've got the list!”
Darla's friends fell all over themselves getting to her, then pored over the paper like it was a treasure map. Macy cried, “Chad Ormonde's on it! He is so cute. I'd go ten bucks on him, easy!”
“And Denny's on it, too!” Liz squealed. “That boy is”— she shivered and giggled—“fi-yi-
yine
!”
Macy's top lip curled a little and she said, “Jon Trulock? Jon
Tru
lock? How did he get on this list?”
For a moment I couldn't believe my ears. I snatched the paper out of Macy's hand. “Are you sure?”
“Right there,” she said, pointing to his name. “Who do you suppose voted for him?”
“The quiet girls, I guess,” Darla said. “Me, I'm more interested in Mike Abenido. Have I got any competition?”
Macy laughed, “If you're in, I'm out!”
“Me too,” said Liz.
“How about you, Jules?” Darla asked me. “Bringin' spare change on Friday?”
“No!”
“You get to miss the second half of school….”
“No! I'm not bidding. Not on anyone!”
She laughed. “Good for you.”
That afternoon I rode home from school brooding about Bryce and the whole basket boy auction. I could feel myself
backsliding about Bryce. But why should I care if Shelly liked him? I shouldn't even be thinking about him!
When I wasn't thinking about Bryce, I was worrying about poor Jon Trulock. He
was
quiet, and I felt sorry for him, having to clutch a basket and be auctioned off in front of the whole student body. What had I done to him?
But as I bounced up our drive, basket boys bounced right out of my mind. Was that green I saw poking out of the dirt? Yes! Yes, it was! I dropped the bike and got down on my hands and knees. They were so thin, so small, so far apart! They barely made a difference in the vastness of the black dirt, and yet there they were. Pushing their way through to the afternoon sun.
I ran in the house, calling, “Mom! Mom, there's grass!”
“Really?” She emerged from the bathroom with her cleaning gloves and a pail. “I was wondering if it was ever going to spring up.”
“Well, it has! Come! Come and see!”
She wasn't too impressed at first. But after I made her get down on her hands and knees and really look, she smiled and said, “They're so delicate….”
“They look like they're yawning, don't they?”
She cocked her head a bit and looked a little closer. “Yawning?”
“Well, more stretching, I guess. Like they're sitting up in their little bed of dirt with their arms stretched way high, saying, Good morning, world!”
She laughed and said, “Yes, they do!”
I got up and uncoiled the hose. “I think they need a wakeup shower, don't you?”
My mom agreed and left me to my singing and sprinkling. And I was completely lost in the joy of my little green blades of new life when I heard the school bus rumble to a stop up on Collier Street.
Bryce.
His name shot through my brain, and with it came a panic I didn't seem able to control. Before I could stop myself, I dropped the hose and dashed inside.
I locked myself in my room and tried to do my homework. Where was my peace? Where was my resolve? Where was my sanity? Had they left me because Shelly Stalls was after him? Was it just some old rivalry making me feel this way? I had to get past Bryce and Shelly. They deserved each other—let them have each other!
But in my heart I knew that just like the new grass, I wasn't strong enough yet to be walked on. And until I was, there was only one solution: I had to stay away from him. I needed to rope him
out
of my life.
So I closed my ears to the news of basket boys and steered clear of Bryce at school. And when I did happen to run into him, I simply said hello like he was someone I barely even knew.
It was working, too! I was growing stronger by the day. Who cared about auctions and basket boys? I didn't!
Friday morning I got up early, collected what few eggs there were in the coop, watered the front yard, which was by now definitely green, ate breakfast, and got ready for school.
But as I was running a brush through my hair, I couldn't help thinking about Shelly Stalls. It was auction day. She'd probably been up since five, making her hair into some impossibly pouffy do.
So what? I told myself. So what? But as I was throwing on my windbreaker, I eyed my money tin and hesitated. What if …
No! No-no-no!
I ran to the garage, got my bike, and pushed out of the driveway. And I was in the street and on my way when Mrs. Stueby flew right in my path. “Julianna,” she called, waving her hand through the air. “Here, dear. Take this. I'm so sorry it's taken me this long to get it to you. I keep missing you in the mornings.”
I didn't even know how much she owed me. At that moment I didn't care. All I knew was the top bill in her hand was a ten, and it was striking terror in my heart. “Mrs. Stueby, please. I …I don't want that. You don't have to pay me.”
“Nonsense, child! Of course I'm going to pay you. Here!” she said, and waved it out for me to take.
“No, really. I …I don't want it.”
She wedged it in the pocket of my jeans and said, “What utter nonsense. Now go! Go buy yourself a rooster!” then hurried back up her walkway.
“Mrs. Stueby… Mrs. Stueby?” I called after her. “I don't
want
a rooster… !” but she was gone.
All the way to school Mrs. Stueby's money was burning a hole in my pocket and another in my brain. How much was it?
When I got to school, I parked my bike, then broke down and looked. Ten, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. I folded the bills together and slid them back into my pocket. Was it more than Shelly had?
All through first period I was furious with myself for even thinking it. All through second period I kept my eyes off of
Bryce, but oh! It was so hard! I'd never seen him in a tie and cuff links before!
Then at break I was at my locker when Shelly Stalls appeared out of nowhere. She got right next to me and said, “I hear you're planning to bid on him.”
“What?” I took a step back. “Who told you that? I am not!”
“Someone said they saw you with a whole wad of cash this morning. How much do you have?”
“It's … it's none of your business. And I'm not bidding, okay? I …I don't even like him anymore.”
She laughed, “Oh, that'll be the day!”
“It's true.” I slammed my locker closed. “Go ahead and waste your money on him. I don't care.”
I left her there with her mouth open, which felt even better than getting her in a headlock.
That feeling carried me clear through to eleven o'clock, when the entire student body assembled in the gymnasium. I was not going to bid on Bryce Loski. No way!
Then the basket boys came out on the stage. Bryce looked so adorable holding a picnic basket with red-and-white-checked napkins peeking out from either side, and the thought of Shelly Stalls flipping one of those napkins into her lap nearly made the bills in my pocket burst into flames.
Darla came up behind me and whispered, “Rumor is you've got a wad of cash. Is that true?”
“What? No! I mean, yes, but I … I'm not bidding.”
“Oooo, girl, look at you. You feelin' all right?”
I wasn't. I felt sick to my stomach and shaky in the knees. “I'm fine,” I told her. “Fine.”
She looked from me to the stage and back to me. “You got nothin' to lose but your self-respect.”
“Stop it!” I whispered at her fiercely. It felt like I was having a panic attack. I couldn't breathe. I felt light-headed and wobbly—like I wasn't in control of my own body.
Darla said, “Maybe you should sit down.”
“I'm fine, Darla, I'm
fine
.”
She frowned at me. “I think I'll stick around to make sure.”
The Booster Club president, Mrs. McClure, had been fluttering around the basket boys, fixing ties and giving them last-minute instructions, but now suddenly she was slamming her gavel on the podium, calling into the microphone, “If you'll all settle down, we're ready to begin.”
I'd never seen six hundred kids quiet down so fast. I guess Mrs. McClure hadn't either, because she smiled and said, “Why, thank you. Thank you very much.” Then she said, “And welcome to the fifty-second annual Basket Boy Auction! I know that your teachers have gone over the procedures with you in homeroom, but I've been asked to remind you of a few things: This is a
civilized
proceeding. No whistling, catcalls, or other degrading behavior will be tolerated. If you wish to place a bid, you must raise your hand high. Bidding without raising your hand is prohibited, and should you decide to be a funny guy, you will be caught and detained or suspended. Are we all clear on that? Good.” She looked from one side of the gym to the other. “Teachers, I see that you are in position.”