took a card and turned it over. His mouth fell open. “No!” He held it to his chest. “Not even if–”
I snatched his card.
PRINCESS LEIA
With a grin, I handed it back. “Better start practicing, Princess.”
Rupert held out a card at me and peered down his nose. “I hope you’ll find yours equally amusing, Mr. Maddox.”
On an average day, I’d have told him what he could do with his card, but part of me was curious. I took it, and Rupert moved to the next group of students.
STRAWBERRY SHORTCAKE
Raj went into hysterics. “I feel better now. This will almost be worth it.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” I said. “I gotta go take care of our situation.”
“Now? I’ll come with you.”
“No, it’s easier if I go alone. You stay here, Princess.”
Raj let out a breath and examined both sides of his card.
Still handing out cards, Rupert moved to a line of students sitting on the stage. I made my way along the wall to the back of the room. Keeping my eyes on him, I waited for my moment, and then eased open the door and slipped into the hall.
During class, the halls were quiet enough to hear a mouse fart two rooms away. I usually liked wandering the building alone, but right now my stomach was in my throat.
I pushed through the cafeteria double-doors. Three lunch ladies behind the counter were stirring half a dozen bucket loads of mystery meat slop. I crossed the front of the kitchen to the far wall and turned the handle of a large wooden door. With a loud creak, the door opened into a dark hall. Glancing over my shoulder a little too often to avoid suspicion, I followed the hall to the first set of doors. On the left was the locker room, and on the right was the basketball court, home of the Cannondale Cheetahs. It was no coincidence they were called the Cheetahs; fair play and talent wasn’t what put them at the top of the ladder last year. It’d been freshman year since I’d played sport, so anyone who saw me would be asking questions. With luck, I’d make it back to class without witnesses.
The squeak of sneakers on hardwood grew louder as I approached the door to the courts. With luck, some of those squeaks would belong to Fink. Pressing the handle, I nudged open the door and peeked through the narrow gap. At the far end of the court, a group of purple-uniformed players huddled around Coach Delroy. A freakishly lanky punk with a red mohawk towered over the others. Got him. I pulled the door closed and clicked it shut.
With my nerves working overtime, I crossed the hall and pressed my ear to the locker room door. Silence. With a quick scan of the hall, I pushed open the door and leaned in, almost overpowered by the stink of dirty sneakers, sweaty football pads, and gym socks.
A row of lockers lined the left wall and a wooden bench ran along the others. Tacky fitness posters declared that everyone should get fit and eat less junk, and a whiteboard in the corner was covered in magic marker crosses, circles, and arrows. A pile of school bags and clothes sat on the bench at the back. Last year, Principal Grendelmeier confiscated the locker of every student who’d been caught with drugs, like it would stop people from bringing them to school. Fink was busted selling weed to the janitor, so I was betting his bag was on the bench.
Rushing, I crossed the room and searched for a black bag with “Ramones” scrawled on the back. Two of the bags were blue and one underneath was red. I searched the room with my eyes, my heart pounding. It has to be here.
I hunted through the pile of jeans, sweaters, and jackets, working my way down to the bench. Lifting the last one, I uncovered a black bag covered in messy writing and the word “Ramones.” I grabbed the bag’s buckle, shaking like a pregnant nun, and glanced back at the door as I dug inside. An empty cigarette pack and a lighter fell out. I dug deeper and pulled out a pair of Fink’s sweaty underwear. Gagging, I stuffed them back in and pushed my hand to the bottom of the bag. Just as I thought I was out of luck, my fingers brushed against a smooth, hard object. I clutched it and lifted it from his bag. Got it.
With a press of the side button, the cell phone lit up. I swiped the screen and icons appeared, no passcode needed. Within seconds, I was scrolling his contacts. This was going to be a piece of strawberry shortcake.
Behind me, the door creaked and a voice shouted, “Hey!”
I gripped the phone, white-knuckled, and held my breath. With my only way out blocked, I looked over my shoulder.
Standing at the door in his basketball gear, Benny Krumbert waved and grinned like a dickhead. As the Cheetahs’ star bench warmer, he’d clocked up a career total of almost seven minutes of game time. Coach Delroy should have put him out of his misery long ago. Along with being uncoordinated, Benny was known for accidentally calling a teacher ‘Mom’ in freshman year. He was the guy who’d cry whenever something didn’t go his way, a total mouth breather.
“Hi, Benny.”
“What are you doing here? You don’t play ball.”
I looked around the room. “I was just–”
“Are you trying out for point guard? We need one now that Jamel’s out of action for the season. Coach Delroy says we have to give one-hundred and twenty percent now that he can’t play.”
“Oh… yeah, sure.”
The clock on the wall was at 11:51 a.m. In four minutes, Delroy would blow his whistle and a horde of freak-sized basketball players would charge into the room. I had to finish up and get the hell out.
Benny grabbed the edge of his shorts. “Do you need a uniform? I can get you one. What number do you want? You can’t have five ‘cause that’s my number.” Benny snortled and nodded.
“It’s okay. Look, I’ve got to–”
“I’m on the bench at the moment, but Coach Delroy says pretty soon I’ll get to play.” He inched forward, glancing back at the door, and lowered his voice. “I’m not stupid, Chris. I know why you’re here.”
I wiped my brow and tucked Fink’s phone back into his bag. How could he know?
Grinning mischievously, Benny put his hands on his hips. “You’re here because chicks dig ball players. Am I right?” Benny snortled again and raised his hand for a high five.
It took a lot to make me want to high five, starting with a reason to be excited, and ending in someone I wanted to be around. I looked at his hand and then at his face.
He lowered his hand and walked to the whiteboard. With the marker lid in his mouth, he added crosses and lines to the diagram. “We have new tactics this season. Player one passes to three and splits off the high post with two, that’s you. You cut to the ball-side block as player four flashes high to reverse the ball. Are you with me?”
In all my wasted youth, I’d never learned to speak basketball douche. “Benny, we’ll talk about this later, okay?”
He shot me a glare. “Chris, you need to know this stuff.” He shook his head and scrawled more basketball maneuvers while talking gibberish.
It was now or never. I plunged my hand back into Fink’s bag, gripped the phone, and scrolled the contacts till I found it: Brittany Ryerson. Kyle’s not gonna like this.
“Don’t you see, Chris? If the cutter isn’t open, player three reverses the ball to player four. Player one cuts to the wing and receives the pass from player four.”
“Yeah sure, Benny.”
Glancing at Benny every few seconds, I tapped a message into Fink’s phone. My fingers touched clumsily at the screen with the thought of Fink and his oversized teammates piling through the door. A moment later, the message read:
HEY SEXY U WANT 2 HOOK UP OR WAT? DNT TELL KYLE
Benny spun around and raised his hands. “See, Chris? And let me tell you, chicks totally dig ball players who can make a three point shot.”
This was it. No going back. I touched the green arrow, and the word “Delivered” appeared under the message. It was time to get out. I tossed the phone into Fink’s bag, threw the pile of clothes over it, and strode to the door. “Whatever, Benny.”
Benny’s shoulders sank
. He rubbed the back of his neck and his eyes roamed the room like a dog kicked by its owner. He faced rejection every day at Cannondale, but I guess it’s not the kind of thing that gets easier.
“I’m sure you’ll do great this season.” I smiled. “Once that dumbass, Delroy, takes you off the bench.”
The door swung open and Delroy marched in, hands on his hips. “Maddox, what are you doing here?”
Benny’s face lit up. “He’s trying out for point guard. Isn’t that right, Chris?”
Delroy’s mustache twitched. “Is that so?” He marched to the nearest locker, pulled out a pair of shorts and a purple jersey, and examined the tag. “Put this on.” He tossed them at me and folded his arms.
The slightly damp shorts stank of stale sweat and death. “Now’s not a good time, Mr. Peterson. I’ve got an ankle injury that’s playing up.”
His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t know what an ankle injury is. Get changed and meet me on the court pronto.” He swung open the door and marched into the hall. With a blast of his whistle, he shouted, “That’s a game, team. Into the locker room. Let’s go, let’s go!”
They’re coming.
A sledgehammer of adrenaline hit me. I flung the skeezy uniform at Benny and raced out the door.
“You can’t go onto the court like that!” Benny screeched.
A thunderous clomping of shoes echoed behind me as I sprinted down the hall, barreled into the cafeteria, and shot past a row of kids waiting in line.
Trying to catch my breath, I turned down the
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