The chant goes up from Mary, then Lucy, then me: “Pass it, Darla, I’m ohhh—pen!” Darla stands, stubborn. No way Darla’s giving up that ball, so on her next dribble, it’s intercepted by Fort Washington.
Ambler groans from the bleachers. In the crowd, I see Taryn grab her head and Gran frown. Then, miracle of miracles, Lucy intercepts Miss Bull and passes to me. I dribble up, with Lucy beside me pace for pace. There’s a second guard shadowing me, an Amazon, almost six feet tall.
“Maggie!” Lucy shouts to my right.
“Hey, Shorty, pass!” Darla shouts from the basket area.
“Maggie!” Lucy repeats.
“Shorty, PASS it!” Darla screams.
Double duh, it’s a no-brainer. I choose Lucy. She grabs my pass and sends it right back as we dodge past Miss Bull and Miss Amazon. All this time Darla’s hogging the key area, right under the basket, hands circling, shouting, “Pass it, Shorty! What are you waiting for?”
No one calls me Shorty and gets away with it, especially not Darla. It could rain down hail, sleet, and basketballs, and I’d never pass to her. I pivot-turn, trying to decide my next move, as Miss Amazon’s arms wrap around me. Before I can decide, the ref blows his whistle. He calls a time violation of the three-second rule—on me? I’m confused. No—it’s on Darla, who’s been camped in the key area for way too long. She turns red as a beet and stomps over as if to question the call.
After that, Fort Washington takes possession of the ball and they hold on to it like leeches, shooting basket after basket. The Ambler fans groan. The Fort Washington crowd cheers, razzes, and generally goes haywire. Up in the bleachers Gran and Taryn look depressed. They’ve stopped munching popcorn and are leaning forward, elbows propped on knees. I’m embarrassed to have them witness our humbling. Mercifully, the halftime whistle blows. We spill onto the benches.
“Darla, you must give other players a chance to shoot in the key area.” Coach Williams sighs. “That means you’ve got to get out of it and let other players circulate in. Understand?” Darla nods. He reminds her, again, to pass to her teammates. Then he lectures me about hesitating on my pass. “Whatever feud you two girls have going, leave it outside the game. We’re a team, remember?” He studies his clipboard. “Alicia, center. Katie, power forward.”
Hey, those are our positions.
Katie and Alicia run off. Coach Williams turns to us. “You two sit this one out and cool off.” I’m mortified. How am I going to explain this to Gran? What will Taryn think of me now? Not that I care. I sneak a peek at Darla. She’s frowning into her towel, wiping off sweat.
“Now who’s not passing to who, Shorty?” Darla snaps.
I slide farther away from her on the bench. “I’m giving you a taste of your own medicine is all.”
“You need a taste of reality,” Darla snaps back. “It was you who barged into basketball, even though you’re too short, and weaseled your way into my center spot.”
“YOUR center spot? It was MY center spot before you ever came to this school.” My hands clench into fists.
“Maggie.” Coach Williams motions me over. I throw my towel on the bench.
“Maggie, you’re on center. Darla on power forward. Hustle!” Coach yells, waving his hands again.
Yes! I’ve held on to the choice spot!
The ball is mine off the inbound pass. I dribble it up-court, leaving Fort Washington’s defense in the dust. My legs feel like they’re powered by jet fuel. I know it’s all that spit and fire from my run-in with Darla. Whatever it is, I’m going to use it to my full advantage! Pivot-turn, BASKET! Ambler onlookers cheer wildly.
I catch the ball off the inbound pass. The ball burns in my hands. Lucy and I work together: pass, catch, pass, catch. I leap as high as Miss Bull, grazing her hair as I sink the ball for basket number two!
Ambler stomps the bleachers with a hundred sneakered feet— boom, boom, boom! There’s no better sound in the world. The score is even now: Fort Washington 38, Ambler 38.
“Way to go, girl!” shouts Chelsea, my point guard.
“Dunk another, just like the other!” Lucy yells as I sail up the court, dribbling the ball with adrenaline-powered fury.
My thoughts flit to my canine mascot. C’mon, MacKenzie, all the way to victory, just like Gingerbread!
Just before I shoot, I glance at Gran and Taryn. They’re jumping up and down with excitement. My own personal fans! Two cheerleaders are better than one.
“Yaahhh!” I give a warrior’s cry, leap, and shoot. BASKET! In slow-mo, the scoreboard clicks to Ambler 40. It’s magic, pure magic—and it’s my magic! Ambler fans go berserk.
There are a few more charges, up and down the court, but before I know it, the game’s over and people are charging the court, dancing, singing, shouting, and slapping hands. My teammates raise me up and carry me on their shoulders. “Maa—gie, Maa—gie!”
“That’s my girl!” Gran jogs onto the court, earrings jingling, and gives me a bear hug and three red roses. “I’m so proud of you.”
“You were awesome,” Taryn agrees, slapping me a high-five.
Gran turns to Taryn. “Taryn’s quite a cheerleader. I’m hoarse from trying to keep up with her.”
A hand grabs onto mine from behind. “C’mon, Maggie, Coach Williams is giving us a victory speech, then a pizza party—and you’ll be the star!” Lucy shouts.
I manage to give Gran a quick hug before Lucy pulls me away. “Thanks for coming. You too, Taryn.”
As I walk with Lucy toward the locker room, a sinking feeling sets in. Darla wasn’t with my other teammates. She’s waiting in the changing rooms, and she’ll never let me forget that she wasn’t the one to make those three baskets and get a victory ride on team shoulders. Torture time begins.
Darla corners me in the locker room after Coach Williams’s speech, as I’m dressing after my shower. “You just had a lucky game today is all,” she says coolly, as if she doesn’t care a bit. “Oh, by the way, Brenna and I are designing a greyhound awareness poster tomorrow afternoon at her house. We’re putting some up at school next week.” Darla slants me a triumphant look.
I guess she’s going to compete with me any way she can.
“You’re not interested in helping greyhounds, Darla. You just want to horn in on my issue,” I retort.
“I happen to be very interested in greyhounds,” Darla says. “Remember, I’m the one who actually has a retired racing greyhound as a pet!” She folds her arms across her chest.
I’m so angry, my cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “Having a pet doesn’t make you an expert on greyhounds,” I answer. “I bet I’ve done lots more actual research than you.” I can’t believe I just said that.
“So that gives you the moral high ground?” Darla’s voice has a superior edge. “As your friend Brenna says, no one owns a cause.”
I don’t answer, just snap my locker closed and get ready to join my teammates for a victory party. But somehow, Darla has managed to deflate my joy, like a balloon that’s been stomped. If only we could take lessons from our dogs. Their minds are so pure—no head games, no revenge, no plotting and planning, just the here and now, one moment at a time. My mind shifts back to the game. Were those three awesome baskets just a lucky fluke?
Get a grip, MacKenzie!
Chapter Nine
Early Tuesday morning I jump out of bed and into a pair of red denims and a red-and-white-striped T-shirt. No blue jeans allowed at Ambler, but I can still wear my basketball sneaks.
As I’m about to burst into the kitchen, I overhear Gran on the telephone, making arrangements for the New Tools of the Trade conference in Connecticut this Saturday. Wait a minute—Gran’s going to Connecticut. That’s where Drescher’s Speedway is! We’ve got to confront Manny and put pressure on him to open an adoption booth. Somehow I need to talk Gran into taking me. How should I put it? Um, I’ve always wanted to hear you talk about new veterinary tools, and oh, by the way, can we take an itty-bitty side trip to the
dog track? No way that would fly. She knows I’ve heard her speech on veterinary tools a million times. I’ll just have to ask straight out.
I gather my books—and my courage—and enter the kitchen. The aroma of coffee hits me. I love the smell but hate the taste. “Uh, Gran?”
“Morning, Maggie. You’re up early,” Gran says as she hangs up the phone. She pours herself some coffee.
“Well, I wanted to read through my lit notes again. We have a test on A Tree Grows in Brooklyn today.” Not convincing. Since when have I ever studied the same notes twice before a test? Once is enough!
“That’s great, Maggie—you’re really working hard in school. Cereal?” Gran brings over a box of Cheerios and two bowls.
“Sure, thanks.” I get the milk and pour. I’m about to pop the trip question, but she speaks first.
“I’m also proud of you for such hard work at basketball. You’re really giving it your all.” Gran squeezes my hand.
Soak it in, MacKenzie!
But Gran’s almost as telepathic as a dog. She senses that I’m not thrilled by that last game. Her gaze is questioning. “Are you enjoying the team this year?”
Should I spill my guts? Before I can make a rational decision, my troubles explode out—all the Darla stuff, how Darla sees everything as a competition, how she hates that I’ve held on to my center position, how she calls me Shorty, how she won’t pass to me. “I can’t even feel happy about beating Fort Washington. Darla punches all the joy out of it.”
Gran puts down her coffee. “Maggie, I know it’s hard dealing with a bully like Darla. Bullies can say and do hurtful things. But they aren’t bad people, just insecure—threatened or jealous of others. I’m not saying you should accept her behavior, but try to have a little empathy; put yourself in her shoes. She’s a new girl at school and probably feels she has something to prove.”
I nod. But it seems my grievances are all hooked together, sort of like the links of a choke collar, because the next thing I know, I’m asking her how long Taryn will be volunteering.
Gran searches my eyes. “Don’t you think Taryn’s a good addition to our team?”
“Yeah, she’s pretty good, but you said you needed her because I had basketball practice and we were shorthanded. Well, Brenna’s back, and basketball’s almost over.” I fiddle with my Cheerios, swirling them around in the milk. “Besides, isn’t she a bit young? Especially when it comes to assisting with surgery.”
Gran’s face turns stern. “Taryn loves the work, and she’s a great help. I think she’s too valuable to let go just because your basketball season’s coming to an end. Since Zoe left and Sunita’s been so busy, the clinic is still shorthanded.” Her voice softens a little. “Come on, Maggie, I know you’re strong—strong enough to withstand Darla’s bullying and strong enough to include Taryn.” Gran gets up and puts her bowl in the sink. Then she turns around, her face slowly breaking into a smile. “You were just a little tyke when you began working at the clinic, remember? When you helped with your first surgery, you were even younger than Taryn.”
“True, but I was obsessed with animals,” I say.
“I think Taryn is devoted to animals, too. Don’t you?” Gran asks.
“Well, she did OK with Podge, I guess.”
“That’s the spirit, Maggie.” Gran squeezes my hand again. “Oh, by the way, I’m speaking at the New Tools of the Trade conference in Connecticut this Saturday. Would you like to stay overnight with a friend?”
Here’s your chance, MacKenzie. “Can I come with you, Gran? I really want to see Drescher’s track and check on the condition of the greyhounds. It’s not far from the conference. I’ll do all my homework in Friday study hall, and there’s no practice this weekend, and—”
“Whoa, Maggie, slow down.” Gran holds up her hand like a traffic guard. “A dog track is no place for a kid. Even if you are a teenager.”
“Come on, Gran,” I plead. “We’ll be able to see Speedway firsthand. Maybe if we uncover something illegal, we can report it—or pressure Roselyn’s brother to clean up his act. Brenna and David and I did research on the Internet, and we could start an adoption program right at the track, and maybe you could find a trainer who’d be willing to donate some time—”
Gran’s got her hand up again. “You’ve got big ideas. I’ll think about it.” Gran glances at her watch. “Maggie, you’d better get going. Your bus will be here any second.”
It’s almost impossible to change Gran’s mind once it’s made up, especially if it involves taking me to a place that might be dangerous. She’ll never let me go to Speedway.
After school I walk Gingerbread for the last time. Roselyn’s coming to pick her up later this afternoon.
Gingerbread is frisky and playful, catching snowballs in her mouth and sniffing the frozen drifts around the oak tree. I’m happy her foreleg is healing nicely, but I’m sad to see her go.
“Gingerbread, when Roselyn comes to pick you up, I’ll ask her for advice on how to talk to her brother. If I get to go, I won’t let you, Swift, and Yellow Bird down, I promise.” Gingerbread licks my hand. I lead Gingerbread back to her kennel and make sure she has fresh water. Then I go into the waiting room to make a final note on her chart.
Taryn greets me, waving an Ambler basketball banner. “Will you autograph this, Maggie?”
I shrug. “OK.” She hands me a pen.
Gran emerges from her office, juggling a pile of papers. “Taryn, will you get Podge, please? He needs his vitamin shot.”
“I’m on it, Dr. Mac.” Taryn runs off, waving the autographed banner.
Gran turns to me. “Maggie, after you file these papers, please bring Fletcher down. It’s time for his antibiotic shot.” I don’t have the nerve to ask Gran if she’s made up her mind about the track. I do tell her my idea about getting a handler for Swift so that he can find a new home faster. She thinks it’s a great suggestion and says she’ll call around.
The front doorbell jangles, and Brenna bursts in, whistling. Under her parka she’s wearing a Screech Owl Society T-shirt, baggy rust-colored pants, and an orange bandanna tied around her long brown hair. “Hey, Maggie, guess what?” Brenna plops down in the swivel chair and spins it. Her hair flies out around her.
“What.” Everyone’s so cheerful—I wish I had something to be cheerful about, too.
“Remember Darla, the one on your basketball team?”
How could I forget? I nod.
“Darla wants to organize a greyhound rescue club. Great minds think alike, huh? Isn’t that awesome?”
Anger rises in me like steam through a radiator. “I can’t believe Darla’s recruiting you for that!”
“What?” Brenna looks thoroughly confused. “I thought you’d like her idea.”
“Well, here’s the real deal. Darla’s mad at me for supposedly stealing her position on the basketball court. Coach Williams has kept me on center, which is the position she played at her old school. So now she’s just trying to copy my idea of rescuing greyhounds, just to get revenge.”
“I can’t believe she’s that petty,” Brenna says slowly.
“You’d be surprised,” I snap. “What does she have in mind, anyway?”
Brenna stops swiveling. “We’re meeting at school tomorrow to decide. Do you want to join us or not?”
In your dreams! Brenna doesn’t get it. Darla’s got Brenna under her spell.
“Work with Darla? Not a chance.”
Brenna flips her long hair behind her and jumps out of the swivel chair. “There are majorly bad vibes in this room.” Her tone is cold. “You’re being narrow-minded, Maggie. Stop thinking about yourself for once, and think about the greyhounds. Got to do my chores.” She disappears down the hall.
The clinic bell rings. I see from the window it’s Roselyn. What a miserable, rotten afternoon. Brenna’s mad at me, and now I’ve got to say good-bye to Gingerbread.
Chapter Ten
Time to go, pretty girl.” I pet Gingerbread’s
rust-colored back and clip on her leash. “Roselyn’s going to be so proud of you!” Gingerbread’s nails click on the linoleum as we enter the waiting room. I dread saying good-bye.
Blasts of arctic air swirl in as the clinic door opens. “Boy, it’s cold out there,” Roselyn says, stamping her boots on the mat. “Hi, Maggie. Hey, Gingerbread!” Roselyn moves forward hesitantly, as if she’s afraid Gingerbread has forgotten who she is.
But Gingerbread runs up and licks Roselyn’s out-stretched hand, her tail beating against Roselyn’s worn woolen coat.
“Gingerbread’s a real fighter!” Taryn says, bounding into the room. “You should have seen her playing in the snow, just as if she’d never hurt her leg at all.”
Taryn, give me some space—I was going to tell Roselyn that.
Gran emerges from her office and makes post-recovery recommendations: “Don’t let her run more than ten minutes at first. Make sure she doesn’t get chilled. And go easy on the people food. Gingerbread must stay trim, so she doesn’t have to carry much weight.” Roselyn nods with each instruction. “Oh, I’ve spoken to a colleague of mine, Dr. Haverford. He’s a master handler who specializes in greyhounds,” Gran adds.
“Yes?” Roselyn’s eyes light up.
“He’s offered to work with Swift,” Gran announces. “With his help, finding a new owner should be easier.”
“That’s wonderful!” Roselyn hugs Gran.
“The retraining idea was actually Maggie’s,” Gran adds. “And if you promise to relocate Swift, Mrs. West says she won’t sue.”
“Oh! Thank you so much.” Roselyn hugs me, too. “Maggie, Dr. MacKenzie, how can I repay you?” Roselyn writes a check and tears it from her checkbook. “I mean beyond this?”
End of the Race #12 Page 5