Tournaments, Cocoa & One Wrong Move

by Nancy N. Rue

  I tried to read their faces, but everyone seemed to be wearing a mask. Through hers, Hilary said, “Coach told us what happened at the hearing.”

  I couldn’t tell what that meant to her. I didn’t want it to matter what it meant to any of them, but it did. Because if they turned me away, my decision was made. I said the only thing I could.

  “I’m sorry, you guys.”

  “For what?” M.J. blinked her dark eyes at me and so peeled back a piece of her mask. “I never thought you were a druggie—no matter what Selena said.”

  Hilary shook her mop of red hair. “I didn’t either. Not really.”

  At that point, Kara still hadn’t said anything. It seemed to be taking all her energy just to swallow.

  “You thought we thought that, though, huh?” M.J. dodged the swat Hilary aimed at her. “I’m just asking.”

  Hilary rolled her eyes at me. “So, like, why else would you not want to hang out with us, right?”

  I felt my own eyes bulge. “You thought I didn’t want to hang around with you?” I said. But as soon as the words left my lips, I wanted to bite them off. I looked at Kara again. “I guess I messed that up too.”

  A screaming silence fell. Even M.J. didn’t try to fill it in. They were waiting for me to fix it. Just like they always had. Only now, I knew I’d never really been able to.

  “Coach said you could play again.”

  I looked, startled, at Kara. She was looking back with her blue, blue eyes.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But I’m not sure I am.”

  “It’s because of Selena, huh?” M.J. leaned in. “Just so you know, Coach put her on probation for attitude. She might not even be on the team next season.”

  Hilary put her hands on her hips. “I do not get why you wouldn’t be, like, ecstatic to be back on the team.”

  “I do.”

  Again I looked at Kara. Her face still showed nothing.

  “You can’t be on a team with people you can’t trust,” she said. “And if you can’t trust them off the court, you can’t trust them on it.”

  She couldn’t have sounded any more like the former version of myself if she’d been playing a tape recorder. When she opened her mouth to go on, I wanted to beg her not to. I didn’t want to hear any more of the old me.

  “So I was thinking,” she said, “that maybe you’d want to go to lunch with us.”

  I stared at her, and then stared some more, as the blue, blue eyes filled with Kara tears.

  “You sure?” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “We gotta start somewhere.”

  “Okay!” M.J. said, like she couldn’t wait to escape from Awkwardville. “We can take my car.”

  “Y’know what—no,” Hilary said. “I don’t want to lose my appetite before we even get there, and your driving makes me nauseous.”

  “Hello! Rude to me! Where are we eating anyway?”

  The two of them bantered on as if suddenly five weeks had been wiped away. They hadn’t been. They never would be. And tempting as it was, I didn’t want them to be. I watched as they headed for the door, weaving their way among kids with cafeteria trays and brown bags …

  I whipped around toward our table, mine and Ruthie’s. She was just settling in with a thick book and a package of Oreos.

  “I can’t go, Kara,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to ditch my friend—”

  “That girl you always eat with,” Kara said.

  I nodded and began a slow backing away. “I really want to go, but—”

  “Why can’t she come with?”

  I looked from Kara to Ruthie, who was peeking over the top of the fairies, trying not to look like she was searching for me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Why not?”

  *

  “Does your old man know you’re here?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Just don’t ask me if he likes it that I’m here.”

  “He hates my guts,” Rafe said.

  “He’s not that crazy about mine either right now.”

  “‘Cause of me.”

  “Mostly because I haven’t decided whether to go back to basketball. I’m pretty sure I am, but ‘we’ll see’ only seems to be okay when it’s the parent who’s saying it.”

  Rafe wiggled his eyebrows. “Your old lady likes me, though.”

  “She’s not my old lady,” I said. “She’s my mother. Which reminds me—you probably shouldn’t call your own mom that when you see her.”

  His eyes darkened. “If I see her.”

  “What are you talking about?” I pointed to the ticket sticking out of his pocket. “You’re gonna get off the bus in Tucson, and she’s gonna be waiting for you just like she said, and you’re gonna have this great spring break together.”

  The wonderful lips twitched. “Whose world are you talkin’ about? It’s not like we’re gonna bond in a week. I haven’t seen her in two years.”

  “Only because your dad wouldn’t let you. She’s your mom, genius. She’s probably not even gonna want you to come back here.”

  Rafe took an unexpected interest in the Greyhound sign over my head. “Do you want me to come back?”

  “Okay,” I said. “That ranks up there with the ten stupidest questions anybody has ever asked. If you stay in Arizona, who’s gonna drive me nuts calling me ‘Roid’?”

  I knew I was suddenly chattering like a freaked-out canary, but how else was I supposed to react when he was suddenly looking at me like—like that?

  “I’m not calling you that anymore,” he said.

  “Why not?” I said.

  “Because I wanna call you something else.”

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Babe—My Woman.”

  “You’re serious,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “You want us to be—together? Together together?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Yes, I do!” I said—because I knew at that very moment it wasn’t a decision I had to wait to make.

  Slowly, slowly, the wonderful lips went soft into a smile.

  “There’s just one thing, though,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You are so not calling me babe—and definitely not your ‘woman.’ How gross is that?”

  “Dude—what then?”

  “Keep calling me Roid,” I said. “Because I don’t ever want to forget.”

  Something about bus number something going to Tucson squawked over the intercom. My mouth went dry and Rafe’s crumpled.

  “I’m already missing you,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  The wonderful lips brushed mine before I watched him swagger to the bus, shoes swallowed by his pant legs.

  *

  I didn’t leave the bus station right away, even though Dad had informed me it was a “rough place.” Personally, I thought it was the most romantic place I’d ever been, and I wanted to gather up the details so I could savor it.

  Besides, there was something I needed to do there.

  I picked a row of peeling vinyl seats where it looked like a lot of people sat to wait to leave, maybe for places they, too, were unsure about. The initials some of them had carved into the armrests were so much like the homemade engravings in RL, it had to be a sign. Especially after what I’d read in it the night before.

  I’d been expecting another story, but when the book pressed into my lap, Yeshua didn’t have one for me. Instead, for once the voice told me exactly what to do.

  You’ve come a long, long way in our time together, it said.

  Like everyone else who knows me, you still have far to go. But you’re on your way. Continue on the Way with Yeshua. Read his Word in the Book.

  I knew it was talking about the Bible. I’d known that from the very first story.

  I gave a little cry. “But I like the way you say it. I understand you!”

  You’ll understand. Yeshua will make sure of that.
But it’s time for you to leave me for someone else who isn’t where you are. Let someone find it the way you did.

  So here I was, in a “rough place”—where someone who wasn’t where I was might find it. I pulled RL from my bag and hugged it to my chest. One more time, it pressed against me as it had done so many times before. There must be one more thing it had to say.

  I let it open. Once more there was no story. Just a bunch of scribblings.

  “What?” I said. Out loud. “What’s this supposed to tell me?”

  I searched the page again. Others before me had left their initials, like the ones carved on the covers. Still others had done drawings or written out verses. But two things stared at me, just the way the important words always did.

  “If you ever want to talk about what you learned from RL,” someone had written, “call me. Meanwhile, I’ll be praying for you.”

  It was signed Jess K. and had a phone number next to it.

  “I’d totally love to share too,” someone had written underneath. “And I’ll never stop praying. Bryn C.” Beside it was her email address.

  I could almost hear their voices, calling to me, saying, We’ve been where you are—come, follow. We’ll be there.

  I dug in my bag for a pen. My hands were still and calm as I added my voice to theirs. Cassidy B. I’m there too.

  Only after I’d added my email address and written their names and information on my hand, the way Ruthie did—only then did RL let me close its covers.

  I was sure I heard it sigh as I placed it softly on the seat, and then I went out to find the rest of me.

  ABOUT THE RL BOOK

  Cassidy was pretty quick to figure out that when she opened the leather RL book, she was reading stories from the Bible, and I’m sure you were too. They aren’t the actual Scriptures, of course, but they are inspired by what Eugene Peterson did in The Message, which was to use modern, everyday language that makes you realize the Bible is for and about you. Jesus spoke in the street language of his day, so it only makes sense that we should be able to read his words that way. In fact, Eugene Peterson was inspired by a man named J. B. Phillips, who in 1947 wrote The New Testament In Modern English so his youth group could understand the Bible and live it. How cool is that?

  Of course, no matter what translation of the Bible you read, it doesn’t actually “talk” to you the way RL carries on a conversation with Cassidy. Or doesn’t it? Scripture is the Word of God, and a Word is meant to be spoken. When you really settle in with the Bible:

  doesn’t it make you ask questions?

  doesn’t it answer the questions that pop into your head?

  doesn’t it seem weirdly close to the exact things you’re going through now, even though the stories were told thousands of years ago?

  doesn’t it sometimes say something you didn’t see the last time you looked at that very same part?

  Reading the Bible really is like having a conversation with God, and I hope RL helps you open up your own discussion with our Lord, who is waiting for you to say, “Can we talk?” Comparing what Cassidy reads to the actual passages in the Bible might help you get started. All of them (with one exception from Psalms) are found in the Gospel of Luke, who even more than Mark, Matthew, and John showed the love and sympathy Jesus had for the people who didn’t fit, the people who others said were weird, sinful, and not to be hung out with. Luke also shows how much Jesus respected women. It seemed like just the thing for our RL girls—and for you.

  THE SCRIPTURES

  pp. 53–54: Psalm 119:25, 32

  pp. 99–100: Luke 15:4–10

  pp. 124–126: Luke 16:1–13

  pp. 133–138: Luke 17:1–10

  pp. 178–180: Luke 18:1–8

  pp. 233–235: Luke 18:9–14

  pp. 285–287: Luke 18:18–30

  WHO HELPED

  One of my favorite steps in the process of writing a book is working with experts who know things I don’t. I mean, seriously, how much time have I spent playing basketball or doing graffiti? (Answer: not much, and none.) These are the pros who helped me make Tournaments, Cocoa & One Wrong Move feel like real life.

  Jennifer Risper, former Vanderbilt University women’s basketball player, currently playing professionally in Slovakia, whom I met by divine appointment in the restroom of a Mexican restaurant. Watching her play, having her (try to) teach me how to do a layup, and talking for hours about her experiences as player and patient (she has suffered two shattered ACLs) brought Cassidy Brewster into her own as a young woman. (Any similarities between Jennifer and Cassidy are purely coincidental.)

  John Painter, RNC, MSN, FNP (in case you’re actually interested, that stands for Registered Nurse Certified, Masters of Science in Nursing, Family Nurse Practitioner), and former basketball player. John helped get Cassidy—and me—through that first scene, as well as through physical therapy.

  Lucas Daughtery, BS, ATC, Cumberland University (Certified Athletic Trainer), who literally showed up on my doorstep as the guest of a friend and spent an entire afternoon putting Cassidy through the paces in physical therapy. All three of us were exhausted when we were through!

  My Colorado Springs Consultants—Abby Wertenberger, Bree Mielke, Rachel Moore, Chelsea Baird, Evelyn Wyss, Lauren Haynes, Hannah Tackett, and Katherine Brickley— who as teens growing up in the Springs helped me to see the town through teenage eyes. Because they are budding novelists themselves, their descriptions of things like Pike’s Perk and the Black Forest Coffee Haus were exquisite. I hope I did them justice.

  I also relied on several nonfiction books written by authors far wiser than I in the ways of young female athletes:

  Warrior Girls, by Michael Sokolove (Simon and Schuster, 2008)

  Games Girls Play, by Caroline Silby with Shelley Smith (St. Martin’s Griffin, 2000)

  The Female Athlete’s Body Book, by Gloria Beim and Ruth Winter (Contemporary Books, 2003)

  Turn the page to check out an excerpt from the next Real Life book, Limos, Lattes & My Life on the Fringe

  FREE PREVIEW

  I was used to the responses I received when I walked down the hall at school.

  I could always predict that the Kmart kids—not my name for them—would cut a wide path around me, like being intelligent made me an alien. Make that tall, gawky, black, and intelligent. They didn’t get me, and I was really okay with that.

  And it was also a safe bet that the Ruling Class would ignore me, even though I was in every honors class known to adolescence with them. And that the few African Americans in my school would say, “Hey, Tyler,” with Crest-commercial smiles and then move on because we really didn’t have much in common beyond the color of our skin. According to them.

  My actual friends—a group I referred to in my mind as The Fringe—were also predictable. From them I could expect things like, “You’re looking enigmatic today, Tyler.” At which point any passing Kmart kid would scurry away as if vocabulary were a contagious disease.

  I had come to expect all of that. It was like the raspberry Pop-Tart I ate for breakfast every day. It might not be that interesting, but at least I knew what I was getting.

  But then there was that day in April when the snow had all melted for the first time since late November and I had walked to school without a ten-pound down jacket. That was the day it changed—the way people were looking at me, I mean. Three steps from my locker on the way to the lunchroom, I was already wondering what high school I’d been teleported to.

  I hiked my black-and-white plaid messenger bag over my shoulder, stuffed with all the research I’d done the night before on Andrew Jackson for my group history project. I was thinking about what an egotistical fool the man was and how we could possibly present that in our report, since Mr. Linkhart was from Mississippi or someplace and probably thought Jackson should be canonized as a saint. My head was totally wrapped around that when three girls in too-tight sweaters and too-skinny jeans planted themselves right in front of me. I tried to
steer around them, the way they would have steered around me any other day, but they shimmied themselves into that path, too, and stared at me. It was like they were waiting for me to, I don’t know, transform into another life form.

  “Excuse me—what do you want?” I said.

  Apparently that was hilarious, because they spewed giggles and looked at each other and giggled again, all the way down the hall. I decided that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with me, and I proceeded another five steps toward the cafeteria where two thirds of my group was supposedly waiting with their own bags bulging with fascinating facts about our seventh president. I was thinking they’d probably want to mooch off of my facts, as well as my lunch money, when another trio of girls slowed down to gape at me and then sidled off, tittering. I’ve never “tittered” in my life, but I knew even the crowd who saw school as a hindrance to their social lives didn’t collapse into that kind of hilarity without a reason, however lame it might be.

  I took a detour into the girls’ restroom and examined my face in one of the mirrors generations of girls had clouded with clandestine cigarette smoke. My brown eyes stared back at me as if to say What are you looking at?

  I expected to see ink smeared across my cheek, or at the very least a large wart blossoming on my forehead. But I looked the same as I had that morning when I brushed my teeth. Hair cut into a close cap on what my mother referred to as a “nicely shaped head”—like that was every girl’s idea of the perfect complement—skin still the color of pancake syrup, mouth still big enough for several people, nose still the only accusing hint that all my ancestors had not come from Africa. There was nothing in the mirror that all those kids in the hall hadn’t seen before. Definitely nothing worth “tittering” over, unless you counted the map of red lines in the whites of my eyes from studying until midnight. Did they think I was on drugs? Were they on drugs?