Chapter 02

Usually, I'm into the basketball games that we watch on live TV, but I was distracted every quarter. I kept playing what happened over and over in my head, trying to make sense of what I saw, what I felt. Nothing scientific made any sense. It was so far-fetched that I just gave up on it. I wasn't sure if I'd ever figure it out, but I couldn't ignore it or push it out of my head.

Even as I was trying to sleep, that feeling of ice sent shivers in my bedsheets. It was almost like falling asleep or just waking up. Like being stuck in some weird limbo. Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep that night. I sure wasn't telling my mother. I didn't want her on my butt about anything else besides my struggling grades.

The next morning was a bit of a blur. Morning stretches, my pre-game meal that I struggled to eat, my mother complaining about me not eating enough. The norm.

John's dad picked me up in their big, black SUV. They weren't rich, but they certainly didn't live in a cardboard box or drive a rock with their feet. When I say they, I just mean John and his dad. His mom died when we were both five in a train wreck. Her car basically folded like a sandwich. John wasn't okay for a while after that. My mom and I tried our best to make him feel better. He eventually rebounded when we both found an interest in something: basketball. That, and Xbox.

"Morning, Adam," Mr. White said.

"Sup, Adam," John said.

Fist bumps followed. "Nothing much. Just ready to get on the court."

The radio was playing some modern pop. Taking off down the street, Mr. White looked in his rearview mirror at me. "You've got bags under your eyes. Are you that excited to get out there?"

"Something like that," I said while playing on my phone. "This is the big one. We can't screw this one up. This one gets us into the semifinals."

"We're gonna kick their asses, per the usual," John said.

"Some good ass-kicking always puts me in a good mood," Mr. White said.

"Oh, you too? There will be plenty of that today. For the other team," I smirked after saying.

Scrolling through Facebook, I saw where my mom was having her birthday soon.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot to tell you. My mom was talking about wanting a new watch to go with her pearl earrings. She was looking at one that looked like it was skinny with a gold finish."

"Perfect. I know where to find that," he said. He secretly told me he liked my mother a while ago. They had common interests, even similar pasts. My dad bailed on us just after I was born, so she didn't hesitate to divorce him and lived her parenthood as a single mother. He knew her before she had even gotten married, and he felt like them being in a relationship was right. I liked him a lot. He was pretty much my father. I was even willing to have my last name changed to White. John was stoked when we talked about it a couple of years back. Us becoming brothers on paper was a cool thing for him.

"She's turning thirty-six, right?" John asked. "Man, is she getting old."

"If thirty-six is old, then I don't want to know what forty feels like," his dad laughed.

"Sometimes, I think about getting older, and realize how much it sucks," John said. "Not turning twenty-one though. I'd love to buy my own beer." John looked at his father. "And not be limited to one a day."

"The wonders of youth," Mr. White said. "Beer doesn't make the world go round."

"No, but it sure makes the world spin when you drink enough of it," John laughed.

"Not entirely wrong, I'll give you that."

The car took a sharp turn into the school parking lot. Meridian High was as generic as schools go. Old brick buildings, constant need of repairs, concrete padding surrounding the premises, tall windows in case of a fire (because that was still a real threat, thanks to the lack of funding), broken stall doors on one hinge, the occasional smoker in the bathroom. Yup. Lots of class. Pun intended.

At least we haven't had to deal with bullies except once. John gave him a sharp kick to his sternum when he tried to old-school give us swirlies. It was considered self-defense when the principal saw our clothes had been torn to shreds from trying to get away from his henchmen. He got smart after that one and left us alone. That was when we were freshmen new to the school. Now we're as popular as the football quarterback. To beat us up would be like swearing at a reverand in the middle of a church. He would be shamed so hard.

We went past white windows peeling paint to the gym. Cars parked just behind the gym next to the woods, which is where most of the players parked or carpooled to. I'd been saving up for a few months to get an older car. Not as shiny or new as most, but it would at least be mine. It's a little embarrassing to have a license at seventeen and no car. At least by senior year is the plan. Summer is just a few months away. Charging hourly for some yard work for a few weeks will get me there. I can pay for it in cash.

"What kind of car do you think I should get?" I asked when we stopped.

"I dunno. Maybe something that isn't losing its tires. Or having the transmission go bad."

"I can help you search," Mr. White said. "Facebook Marketplace has lots for sale. I've been looking on there for a work truck. I'll shoot you some links on some good ones."

"Thanks. I'd prefer automatic, but I'm fine with a manual. Mom's is, and it's not that bad. But if I'm working that much to get an older car or truck, I at least want an automatic."

"You got it."

He popped the trunk open with our duffles, both red to match the school mascot the scarlet macaw. SQUAW-D! Corny as it was, the logo was pretty cool, and the cheer wasn't bad. At least we weren't the pirates, where we "take your booty and your balls." Yeah, whoever thought of that slogan should just not, and the person that approved it should be fired. Just saying.

"The cyclones have got nothing on us," I said. "You know? Everything should be fine."

"I'm sensing a 'but' in there," John said.

"But... I don't know, since we got those new refs, there have been some sketchy calls. Not all of them in our favor, either."

"Then when you make a play," Mr. White said, "Make it blatantly obvious. Make sure everyone can see the ball. If they make a wrong call, let everyone see it."

"Sounds like a smart idea."

"You think they're bribed?" John asked.

"I don't know. Just keep an eye out, I guess."

A few groups of people made their way from their cars to the ticket line. Us being part of the basketball team, of course, we didn't have to pay for admission.

"I'll catch you guys later," Mr. White said. "I'll grab a ticket and go to the concession for a coke."

"Okay. Don't steal anything," I said.

He accidentally pocketed a pack of sour patch kids one time when he was buying stuff. It didn't end well.

The familiar smell of stale B.O. invaded my senses when we walked into the gym. Lots of the bleachers were already filling to the max. Shoes squeaked on the gym floor from the opposing team. They were already in their gray uniforms and warming up. We walked past them, watching their movements. They were swift and limber. They weren't anybody to sneeze at. Definitely far from rookies.

"They're decent, I'll give them that," John said. "But what they have in skill we have in spirit. You proud of me? I read that on a cereal box once."

"Ah, the reliable source of wisdom. Good 'ole cereal boxes."

Speaking of cereal, my stomach was growling from eating a light breakfast. It was a good thing to not fill your stomach up before a game. Like waiting for half an hour after eating to go swimming. It helped us stay in shape for the game. Luckily, I had an emergency granola bar for times like this. When we got to the locker room, I quickly scarfed it down while changing into uniform. Coach Kennedy came in, gave us the usual spiel, swore a few times, and basically said to win the game or he was disowning us. Which sucks because one of the players was his son. Guess he's gonna be an orphan if we lose.

We exited at the call of the announcer one by one by name and number. Bradley, number five, got the biggest cheer out of everyone. He was like the Babe Ruth of basketball. His field goal percentage was sitting at a pretty high fifty-seven percent for a junior. John and I weren't near as good as him, but it's not that bad either. Either way, he was the one the colleges were looking for. A young underdog. He sucked when we were freshmen. Now he's freaking Kobe out here.

First quarter went by with the basic excitement, fourteen to twenty-two. Basically a warm-up for the next three. The second quarter, John and I were put in. Every move we made, they nearly mirrored perfectly. They were a blur of gray and a rainbow of skin colors. Our halftime started with a score of twenty-eight to thirty-six. If history repeats itself, they should fall back in third quarter with nearly a score as ours then surge ahead in the last quarter. Lo and behold, that's what happened.

The fourth quarter was stressful. Even Bradley was struggling to keep up with the Cyclones. One of their players, I think number seven, elbowed him in the side trying to jump and block while Bradley was taking a shot. It was easier to see on ground zero, but the referees didn't call him out. There were boos in the stand from the home side while the away side chanted "We will we will whip you" with their feet and hands going with the rhythm. Someone on our side said, "That's what your mom did last night." I would have laughed if Bradley wasn't still lying on the floor in pain. Everyone took a knee on the court, even the other team. Coach Kennedy ran into the court to his side. The bleachers hushed. I tapped my foot nervously sitting on the bench, silently begging for him to get up. The clock had forty-eight seconds left. The score was nearly tied. He could get us the two more baskets we needed to win the game.

The sight of a stretcher made my heart sink. John sighed and put a hand to his forehead. He had that "we're screwed" look on his face. Basketball became his life. Getting to the semifinals was his chance to get noticed. To better himself. To move on from his mother's death. If we didn't get the score--

"Kelly, you're in."

What. Me?

I got up, unsure of why I was being summoned onto the court. The stretcher went by us with Bradley in tow holding his side. His ribs must've taken a beating from that one hit. A man with a towel was wiping the spot where Bradley had fallen. The coach walked up to me.

"I don't think I need to stress how important this is," he said. "I want you to do the free throws. We are two points behind winning the game. If we tie, they can pull ahead. You land both shots... we are in the semifinals. Don't choke, and don't hesitate. You've got this."

"Okay, coach."

He patted me on the back. He had more confidence than I did.

I took my place. Teammates lined up on either side of me. I stared up at the basket. I sighed and took a deep breath. I wish I wasn't put in this position. If anyone deserved to be throwing the ball, it should've been John or at least Bradley. I looked over at John. He was biting his lip. He looked tense, but he nodded slowly. He had faith in me. I couldn't just chicken out. He was counting on me. The whole team was. Heck, the whole school.

I didn't think another second about it. I pushed up with one arm. The ball went through the air and swooshed into the goal. A short cheer followed, but I still had one last goal. The ref bounced the ball back to me. I looked back up at the goal once more. Deep breath. Exhale. My feet were off the ground. My arm stretched out, the ball already out of my hand. It had the perfect arch.

It went through the basket. I smiled.

But what I heard wasn't cheering, or not as much as there should be. I turned to look at home. Lots of disappointed faces. I spotted Mr. White look down at his feet with a frown. John had his face in his hands. I was so confused that I didn't even register the game was still going. The ball went whizzing past me to number seven's hands. On just muscle memory, I started jogging after him, but I was so lost. I just got the goal. Why was everyone so upset?

It wasn't until I saw the numbers on the scoreboard. sixty-six to sixty-six. It was still tied? How?

Seven threw a two-pointer. It landed in the basket four seconds before the buzzer went off. The game was over. We lost.

I was so confused. We lined up and clapped hands in good sporty fashion. When seven went by, he said, "Thanks for the win."

When we returned to the locker room, everyone besides John was giving me dirty looks. I didn't understand what had happened. I thought I saw the ball go in the basket. The coach, like he promised, said he was disowning the team and apologized to his son. Half-hearted laughs followed. He was trying to lighten the mood. He basically told us good job all-round. He said nothing about my shot, just that we're good enough to get it next year for sure.

When everyone was at the showers, no one spoke. We had worked so hard to get where we were. The defeat was on everyone except me. How the hell did I miss that shot?

Leaving the gym, John's dad had bought a couple of sodas and offered to buy us lunch and ice cream fro the nearby McDonald's. John barely ate anything. I chewed on my cheeseburger, still trying to wrap my head around what happened.

"John," I said. "I thought I landed the shot. What happened?"

"You missed," he said. "Your shot fell short."

"But that can't be right. I had the perfect throw. I saw the ball go in!"

John fingered with his phone for a few seconds and showed me his screen from across the table. "One of the cheerleaders was recording when you were shooting. This is the second shot."

I watched the video play. It was from a Facebook stream. I watched my figure closely. My feet came off the ground, ball arched in the air, and...

It brushed the net. It fell short like he said.

"What?"

I was so confused. I saw the ball go into the net.

"I swear that's not what happened," I said.

"The camera doesn't lie," John said.

"God, John, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," John said. He pushed his nuggets away. "I just want to go home."