Double Exposure

by Bridget Birdsall

  Martha calls for a sub after she takes an elbow in the eye. With an eight-point lead and less than two minutes, Coach puts in everyone who’s been warming the bench. Except me.

  She studies my knee. “That doesn’t look good. Let’s rest it today.”

  All the starters return to the bench, without Pepper, who Coach leaves in to cover West’s center. Stephanie is ecstatic. She flashes a V for victory into the stands. I look back and see Mr. Wexler wearing one of his famous duck ties, sitting, straight-backed, on the top bleacher. Sure that the game is sewn up, he flashes Stephanie a V back.

  When the buzzer sounds, Cudahy fans pour out onto the wood floor yelling and cheering.

  “What’s with the knee, kid?” Suddenly Grizzly’s arm is around my shoulder.

  Mom and Grandpa are there, too, and ask to see the damage. I peel away the ice. Mom puts her hands to her mouth. “Oh, Honey.”

  “It’s okay,” I lie.

  Grizzly scratches his head. “When did you go down? First half?”

  Pepper sidles over, Peter and her dad at her side. Peter stares at my knee with a concerned look on his face.

  “Hey, good game, Alyx,” says Pepper.

  I bite my back molars so hard Mom whispers in my ear, “You okay?”

  Mr. Pitmani’s wearing an orange shirt with the Blackjack Realty playing-card logo. He pats Pepper, then me on the back. I want to barf.

  “Yeah, I didn’t see Alyx go down,” Grizzly growls. He steps toward me to ward them off.

  “West is tough, but so are we, right, Alyx?” Pepper covertly defends herself.

  Mr. Pitmani beams. “That’s my girl.”

  He smells like stale beer.

  Standing with Pepper and her dad makes me want to turn and run as fast as I can in the opposite direction.

  Fortunately, Coach comes by and herds us back to the locker room.

  When I emerge from the school, Mom’s already squeezed in the backseat of the Sunbug. Grandpa leans forward, so I can crawl in next to her.

  I lean my head on Mom’s shoulder as we drive home. My knee is throbbing and I want to lie in her lap and sleep. Forever. Sometimes I feel like such a baby.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she whispers. She strokes my head, and I get weepy.

  Grizzly just drives.

  Grandpa’s fallen asleep in the passenger seat. He’s snoring softly.

  Back home, I don’t even thank them for coming, just scurry to my bedroom trying not to think about how much I hate Pepper Pitmani.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Cudahy Courier

  Grizzly drops me off early the next morning. My knee isn’t as red today, but it’s tender to the touch, and I limp to my locker not wanting to see or talk to anyone.

  When I open my locker, a letter drops out. I pick it up off the floor. My name’s written neatly on the outside. I open it. Staring back at me is a note from Pepper:

  “Dear Alyx: Hope your knee’s okay. I’m doing the next feature piece for the Cougar Courier. I want to write an article on what a great basketball player you are. Let’s set an interview time at practice. Go Cougars! Pepper.”

  A postscript is scribbled underneath:

  “Peter still doesn’t have a date for TWIRP. I’m going with Joel’s brother, Clay. Hope to see you there!”

  Is she crazy? And I decide then and there I’ll never give her an interview.

  Mr. Anderson hasn’t arrived to homeroom yet. A copy of the Cudahy Courier sits on every desk. This week’s featured athlete is Pepper Pitmani. The cover lists Pepper’s accolades. There’s also a picture and an article about the dance states that Peter is one of its main organizers. I shove the paper into Dad’s book, along with Pepper’s note. Why does Peter have to be her brother?

  From behind her glassed-in office, Coach watches as we file by for practice.

  The juniors clump around Pepper, congratulating her on breaking the school scoring record. Shana reads off statistics from the school paper: “Hot Pepper on the Court! Pepper Pitmani’s fierce defense on the boards along with an all-time high of twenty-four game points helped Cudahy trounce West in a game that may send the Lady Cougars to State.”

  Over Shana’s shoulder I read the caption beneath the article: “Baby Jocks.” There’s a picture of one-year-old Pepper playing in a sandbox and next to it a current photo of her all suited up, basketball in hand, smiling in front of her huge house.

  “A basketball goddess?” MJ laughs. “Nice spin, Pepper. Write it yourself?”

  On the bench, Pepper is sitting, unrolling a pair of socks. “Nope, but I did help write the one on Stephanie last week.”

  I jog over to the bubbler, remembering how the first time I played with her, Pepper had slammed the ball against the backboard and ran off, laughing.

  “Yeah, thanks, Pepper!” Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Next time leave out the interview with my dad. And where’d you get my baby picture, anyway?”

  Sucking down the cool water, I listen to Pepper explain how she searched face-prints online and tracked down Stephanie’s grade-school yearbook by using her picture.

  The juniors giggle in unison.

  “No shortage of pictures in that house, I’m sure,” MJ whispers behind me.

  “Tell Peter he needs a signed release if he’s circulating yearbook pics,” Stephanie huffs.

  “Don’t get your undies in a bind. I used our team photo.” Pepper laughs and slaps my butt as she and her fan club stroll by. “It’s amazing the stuff you can dig up.”

  The fake lilt in her voice makes me want to puke.

  We sit while Coach paces up and down holding her clipboard.

  “Okay, girls. First, if you want to take this team to State, last night’s game was proof positive that we’ve got something good going here. We have the depth, the talent, and the ability. That is, if we learn to play like a team.” She slaps the clipboard with her hand. “Those joining us for the first time have the good fortune of playing with a seasoned team, a team that realizes every cog in the wheel is critical to our success.”

  Roslyn nudges my arm.

  Coach continues to pace. Her eyes flicker like fireworks. “However, it has come to my attention that certain players caused an altercation in the locker room during half-time last night.”

  Pepper shoots me a steamy look.

  Everyone shifts uneasily, and I stare straight ahead, thinking about how much my life sucks right now.

  Coach’s voice gets louder. “Shana, could you please spell the word team for me.”

  Shana clears her throat. Her voice wavers. “T-E-A-M.”

  Coach stops and looks directly at Pepper, “Good. Pepper, you write for the school paper, correct?”

  Pepper nods.

  “So, as a writer, name one vowel that’s never found in the words my team or better yet our team?”

  Pepper studies her fingernails.

  Coach slams her clipboard down on a bleacher seat. Roslyn jumps beside me. We’re all startled, even Pepper.

  “Are you stuck? Seniors, help her out.”

  In unison the seniors sing, “I.”

  “Good.” Coach resumes her pacing. “Now, how about my juniors? No matter what the final score is, a team player is always a—”

  “Winner,” they chant.

  Coach nods. Next to me, MJ’s legs begin to wiggle, while Stephanie lets out a moan and wraps her arms around her knees.

  “How about our sophomores?” Coach steps toward us so we have to meet her eyes. “Let’s see if you girls have been paying attention.”

  Roslyn swallows and I run my tongue over my braces, my mouth becoming desert-dry.

  Coach’s voice raises an octave. “This is basketball-player math, girls. It’s simple.” A shiver travels down my spine. “On or off the court, the common denominator is what?”

  MJ says quietly, “One.”

  “That’s right, ‘one team.’ Because every player holds what value?”

  Roslyn and I look at
each other. Everyone else stares at us. A couple of petrified rabbits, we sit side by side, shaking.

  Coach laughs, “Come on, I’m not that scary, am I? Come on—”

  “Equal value!” Almost everyone says at once.

  “We are a team—on and off the court. Don’t let me see or hear about anything that belittles, demeans, or shortchanges any of our players. Is that understood?” She picks her clipboard up and points with it toward the door. “Because if anyone has a different definition of team, if any of you want out, now is the time to go!”

  The only sound in the entire gymnasium is the caged fluorescent light buzzing above us.

  “Looks like we have a team, then. For the next three months, we will live, breathe, think, and behave like one. That means we look out for one another. We support one another. We speak out if one of us happens to step out of line. Understood?”

  My cheeks grow warm as Coach stares in my direction.

  “That’s being part of a team, too. If a single player gets hurt, I will be the first to know, got it?”

  We all nod, including Pepper, who’s shooting me a death-stare.

  Coach tucks the clipboard under her arm and claps her hands together. “Good. Line up.”

  “But we won,” Pepper groans.

  Coach turns to face her. “Basketball is academic, Ms. Pitmani. As with any subject, we need to go over and over that until we get it right, don’t you agree?”

  “Narc.” Pepper hisses to me under her breath as we line up. I ignore her. Coach keeps us running until my legs feel like they’ll fall off. When she finally lets us rest, she assigns us partners—someone to challenge us to play our best.

  Roslyn gets stuck with Shana.

  Lucky me, I get Pepper. She’s as thrilled as I am, and now she’s super pissed because she thinks I’m the one who told Coach.

  During the drills, I silently avoid eye contact with her.

  Our passes are like wild punches, which we slam back and forth at each other. As we weave in and out of the cones, I speed up alternatively whipping the ball at her face or her feet. Making her work. Hard.

  Pepper curses under her breath. Coach keeps us running, around and around the gymnasium. The banter of the other girls and the sound of squeaking shoes surround us.

  Relentlessly I fire the ball back, wanting to hurt Pepper, inflict pain. Wanting to make her see how it feels to have someone purposely try to hurt and humiliate you.

  Then, when Coach’s back is turned, she blows a big gob of spit on the ball, and it makes a wet slapping sound as it smacks back into my hands. Now, I’m pissed, too, and I’ve had just about enough of her, so I purposely fling the ball way over her head, past half-court, and this, finally, tips her over the edge.

  Pepper stops. She’s winded; she leans over and puts one hand on her knee and with the other she flashes me her middle finger.

  I stop, too. She looks up. Her eyes are like two shotgun barrels. Mine are torpedoes, and both of us are fuming with hatred.

  “Pepper, get the ball, take five, solo!” Coach is watching, and she’s not pleased.

  Pepper starts to whine, “Shhheee—”

  Coach points to the end of the gym. “Solo! Dribble all five. That will give you something productive to do with your fingers.” Then Coach blows her whistle for everyone else to stop.

  Panting, soaked in sweat, we all wait for Pepper to dribble five extra laps, then we watch as she collapses to the ground to rest. The other girls are laughing, shaking hands with their partners, but I’m just glad the stupid drills are over. I lean down, rub my sore knee, turn, and head for the bubbler, not bothering to look back.

  After practice, Pepper runs up to me in the locker room. Roslyn and MJ glance over but say nothing.

  “Alyx, you didn’t have to tell Coach.” Her eyes are two slivers in her face. “You got my note, right?”

  I stare at her, biting down on my lip.

  “Here I offer to do something nice. But nooooo, you go and blame me, and I didn’t even do it!”

  I just look at her.

  She throws up her hands “So, you gonna ask Peter to TWIRP, or what?”

  Not expecting these words to shoot out of my mouth, I blurt, “What kind of a loser are you? Why would I want to ask your brother to some stupid dance?”

  Her eyes narrow even more. Stepping back, she pokes her finger at my chest. “First, you’re the loser. Second, the only stupid thing about Peter is he wants you to ask him, which God knows why. And third, Pitmanis never lose!”

  “You didn’t say you were sorry,” I spit back, not caring about Peter or the dance or anything else. For once, grateful for the extra testosterone I do have, I step toward her, balling my hands into fists. “You said you hoped my knee was okay.”

  “Same difference!”

  “Not!”

  She gets right in my face. “What do you want me to do, Alyx? Grovel? And Peter won’t either, especially once he realizes who the real liar is.” She grabs her gym bag and disappears through the door.

  Roslyn and MJ plop down on a bench and begin to quietly peel off damp socks and shoes. It’s dead silent in the locker room.

  I grab my bag and bolt, splashing home in the rain, sleet, and snow.

  CHAPTER 28

  Do or Die

  That night, I smuggle Grandpa’s phone into my room, throw Q fish and friends some food, then crawl under Grandma Clara’s quilt and dial Peter’s number. Screw Pepper, I’m not going to let her bully me. Roslyn’s right—even Pepper all but admitted it. Peter likes me, and it’s not his fault he got stuck with her as a sister.

  Peter’s phone rings twice. “Pitmanis,” a gruff male voice answers.

  I gulp. “Is Peter there?”

  “Pitmanis,” the voice repeats impatiently.

  Louder, I say, “Is Peter there?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Alyx . . . Atla . . . Kowalski.” My voice is wobbling all over the place.

  Silence on the other end, and then I hear something rumbling around.

  “Yeah?”

  I almost hang up. “Peter? This is Alyx.” Breathe, Alyx.

  “Who?”

  “Alyx.” I’m straining to be heard.

  “Oh, hey, hi.” His voice brightens, then he whispers, “I can barely hear you. It’s this damn phone. Listen, long story but can you Skype?”

  He waits for me to say more. But my tongue’s stuck in my throat. I’ll have to use Grizzly’s laptop, which probably doesn’t even have a mic or a camera.

  “Alyx? You still there.”

  When I still don’t speak, he laughs. “I hear you breathing! Okay, how about I hang up and IM you?”

  “Okay.” I manage to give him my info. After we hang up, I throw myself down on the quilt, groaning into it.

  Why am I such a loser?

  Q fish sticks near the glass, keeping an eye on me. I sit up to stare at the hideous bottom feeder Grizzly recently added to the tank. Its big suckerfish lips are glued to the glass.

  “That thing is uglier than you,” I say to Q fish, then sit up and point with the phone receiver at the suckerfish. “You’re so ugly you don’t deserve a name. Go suck all the scum off the bottom of the tank and tell Grizzly to stay the hell out of my room!” I throw the receiver against the door. It cracks into pieces.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on in there?”

  Instantly, Mom’s footsteps are in the hallway. I grab the receiver pieces and shove them under the quilt just as the door flies open. Mom stands there with Grandpa behind her.

  “When’s Uncle Joe gonna be home?” I yell at the ceiling.

  Mom motions Grandpa back to the living room.

  “I need his computer.”

  “What about your dad’s laptop?” Mom glances at my messy desk where Dad’s laptop is open, the wallpaper clicking through pictures of every known galaxy in the universe.

  “Mo-om. I need to get online.” She’s clueless about computers.

&n
bsp; “Can’t you do it from here?”

  “No! This room has no phone jack, and we supposedly can’t afford wireless.” I’m stuttering in disgust. “I need a friggin’ phone!”

  “Don’t swear.”

  “Friggin’ is not a swear.”

  “Is this school related?”

  “Yeah,” I lie, though it sort of is.

  “He’ll be home around ten.”

  “Ten!”

  Mom’s eyes widen. “Fine, call him at work. And what broke? I heard something.”

  I sigh and lie back on my pillows as she scans the room. “Some privacy, please?”

  She puts her hands on her hips, not budging.

  I think about telling her the basketball hit something, but she’ll just keep standing there with a wounded animal look so I yank back the quilt.

  “Really, Alyx, what’s gotten into you?” She stares at the little pieces.

  “I can fix it.”

  She takes a step toward me but I put up my hand. “Mom, you always say I need to solve my own problems. I’m fine. Leave, okay?”

  Finally, looking hurt and worried, she backs out of the room, reminding me to call Grizzly first before using his computer.

  I reassemble the phone and call Grizzly, who gives me permission. As ordered, I don’t touch anything in his room except the baby piranhas, which I poke at with a wire net. They know it’s not food, so they pretty much ignore it.

  I type in Grizzly’s password: !-Y-O-B-T-A-F, and smile. His tattoo, backwards.

  Then I see Peter’s IM under Pitbullrules—Bingo! Tld Wxler mde U late bball photo shoot 4 yrbk. He wnt 4 it!!!

  I pause. Thnxs!

  No prob!

  I pause again. Suck in a deep breath. U going 2 TWRP?

  An immediate response. No!

  U wnt 2 go?

  Wth U?

  My fingers freeze. Who does he think? He answers before I can.

  Thn yes!!!

  Grt!

  Breathe, Alyx. Tlk tom?

  K.

  CU

  CU.

  CHAPTER 29

  Polka

  At dinner the next night, I break the news about the dance to everyone.

  “I asked Peter Pitmani to TWIRP.”