on the girls’ team, but I have too much going on this year. Maybe I’ll try out next year if I’m not in Spain.
Beresford was disappointed, but not nearly as much as the gym teacher, who’s watching me drain my seventh foul shot in a row. He’s also the girls’ basketball coach and he has made repeated attempts to get me to join the team. When I asked him if I could shoot at the other end of the gym, he basically ran into his office to get me a ball.
“Martine.”
Someone’s whispering at the door. I’ve seen too many horror movies to go skipping over, only to get chopped into little pieces. When I hear my name called again, I lean over as far as I can to the left, cocking my head to get a better angle on the slight opening in the door. I feel even worse when the door opens wider and I can see who’s calling me. It’s Greg.
He peeks in to see where the teacher is, then fixes his eyes on me, smiles, waves me over. He wants me to step outside of the gym. I look over my shoulder and see that my teacher’s distracted,trying to get between two girls who are arguing. I slip out and join him in the hallway.
“What’s up, Shorty?”
He opens his arms to hug me. He gives some serious love with his hugs, the kind that makes me feel all warm and mushy inside. I almost don’t want to let go, but if I don’t, I might faint, because this boy’s cologne is making me light-headed. I blink rapidly when he lets go, trying to keep my cool. He steps back so we can talk but holds on to my hand, rubbing the top of it with his thumb. I take in what he is wearing and notice that his lime green zip-up hoodie is open. Underneath, he has on a Bob Marley T-shirt hanging over a light pair of jeans. His sneakers match the hoodie perfectly. “How did you know I had gym this period?”
“I have my ways.” He winks and smiles. His smile is so sexy. “I work in the principal’s office, so I pulled up your schedule. This is my lunch period—I just wanted to come up and say what’s up.”
“Okay.” My heart is racing right now. After last night’s conversation on IM, I can barely make eye contact with him.
“I see you gotta nice li’l jump shot.”
I smile. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that? Your dad teach you?”
I nod my head and smile. Why did I answer yes? My dad was a soccer player and couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a basketball. It’s too late for me to tell the truth, because Greg looks through the gym door and changes the subject.
“So you got Mr. S.?”
I have no idea whom or what he’s talking about.
“Mr. S., Mr. Scarinbolasaster,” he says, referring to my gym teacher.
“Oh yeah, Mr. S.” I smile, nod my head, try to play it off. Scarinbolasaster, that’s some name. He licks his lips, and I turn my eyes to a sign showing the fire safety route. I’ve never paid attention to it before, but my neck is burning up, and I may just have to evacuate.
“I can’t stand that dude.” Anger flashes across his face but he blinks it away. “So you coming to the game later?”
“The game?”
“Yeah … the play-offs … ?”
He’s looking at me like I’m supposed to know.… “Oh! The play-off game.” I’m such a loser. I knew all about the game. There are signs plastered all over school announcing it. The local newspapers say we don’t have a chance in hell to beat Grady. God, I am so nervous. He smells so good that I’m having a hard time concentrating. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“I know the newspapers say we’re gonna get waxed, so we need all the support we can get.”
“What time does the game start?”
“Four-thirty.”
“Okay.” I knew that. Why am I asking such retarded questions? He senses it, and after a few awkward seconds, he says, “Aight then. I’ll holla at you later.”
“Okay, bye.”
We hug again and I turn to walk away but he doesn’t let go of my hand. He pulls in close and kisses me. A wave of heatrushes through
Beresford was disappointed, but not nearly as much as the gym teacher, who’s watching me drain my seventh foul shot in a row. He’s also the girls’ basketball coach and he has made repeated attempts to get me to join the team. When I asked him if I could shoot at the other end of the gym, he basically ran into his office to get me a ball.
“Martine.”
Someone’s whispering at the door. I’ve seen too many horror movies to go skipping over, only to get chopped into little pieces. When I hear my name called again, I lean over as far as I can to the left, cocking my head to get a better angle on the slight opening in the door. I feel even worse when the door opens wider and I can see who’s calling me. It’s Greg.
He peeks in to see where the teacher is, then fixes his eyes on me, smiles, waves me over. He wants me to step outside of the gym. I look over my shoulder and see that my teacher’s distracted,trying to get between two girls who are arguing. I slip out and join him in the hallway.
“What’s up, Shorty?”
He opens his arms to hug me. He gives some serious love with his hugs, the kind that makes me feel all warm and mushy inside. I almost don’t want to let go, but if I don’t, I might faint, because this boy’s cologne is making me light-headed. I blink rapidly when he lets go, trying to keep my cool. He steps back so we can talk but holds on to my hand, rubbing the top of it with his thumb. I take in what he is wearing and notice that his lime green zip-up hoodie is open. Underneath, he has on a Bob Marley T-shirt hanging over a light pair of jeans. His sneakers match the hoodie perfectly. “How did you know I had gym this period?”
“I have my ways.” He winks and smiles. His smile is so sexy. “I work in the principal’s office, so I pulled up your schedule. This is my lunch period—I just wanted to come up and say what’s up.”
“Okay.” My heart is racing right now. After last night’s conversation on IM, I can barely make eye contact with him.
“I see you gotta nice li’l jump shot.”
I smile. “Yeah, it’s okay.”
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that? Your dad teach you?”
I nod my head and smile. Why did I answer yes? My dad was a soccer player and couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a basketball. It’s too late for me to tell the truth, because Greg looks through the gym door and changes the subject.
“So you got Mr. S.?”
I have no idea whom or what he’s talking about.
“Mr. S., Mr. Scarinbolasaster,” he says, referring to my gym teacher.
“Oh yeah, Mr. S.” I smile, nod my head, try to play it off. Scarinbolasaster, that’s some name. He licks his lips, and I turn my eyes to a sign showing the fire safety route. I’ve never paid attention to it before, but my neck is burning up, and I may just have to evacuate.
“I can’t stand that dude.” Anger flashes across his face but he blinks it away. “So you coming to the game later?”
“The game?”
“Yeah … the play-offs … ?”
He’s looking at me like I’m supposed to know.… “Oh! The play-off game.” I’m such a loser. I knew all about the game. There are signs plastered all over school announcing it. The local newspapers say we don’t have a chance in hell to beat Grady. God, I am so nervous. He smells so good that I’m having a hard time concentrating. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“I know the newspapers say we’re gonna get waxed, so we need all the support we can get.”
“What time does the game start?”
“Four-thirty.”
“Okay.” I knew that. Why am I asking such retarded questions? He senses it, and after a few awkward seconds, he says, “Aight then. I’ll holla at you later.”
“Okay, bye.”
We hug again and I turn to walk away but he doesn’t let go of my hand. He pulls in close and kisses me. A wave of heatrushes through
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