Freshman Year

by Annameekee Hesik

  She laughs. “Yeah, I guess you don’t. Anyway, it’s Keeta’s. She’s had that number all four years she’s played. Of course, she has her varsity uniform now, but it has the same number, twenty-one. So, technically, you’re wearing the old stinky jersey she wore when she was on JV. Some coincidence, huh?” She winks like she still thinks I did it on purpose.

  I look at myself in the full-length mirror again and feel a bit more confident. “That is a cool coincidence.” I like that I’m in Keeta’s old uniform. It makes me feel closer to her. I try to picture Keeta as an immature freshman who didn’t know what she was doing, but that’s a joke. She’s probably always had it all figured out.

  After I pull my hair back in a ponytail that ends up lower on my head than usual, Garrett and I stuff our school clothes into our lockers and head out to the gym. “Yeah, well,”—I look over my shoulder to be sure we’re alone—“we may have the same number, but I bet she never shoots at the wrong basket like I’m sure I will tonight.”

  “You’re right, Abbey. Players as good as Keeta never make mistakes.” Garrett pushes open the gym doors and a smattering of cheers falls on us. But before we meet up with Stef in the bleachers, she turns and says, “Especially when she thinks she can shoot at any basket she wants.”

  *

  As soon as the freshman game is over, I congratulate Kate on her good game and then join the JV team as we begin jogging around the gym to get warmed up. While I run, I look up into the stands and easily spot my mom out of the dozen or so fans because she’s the only one in overalls and the only one waving a giant foam gila monster above her head trying to get my attention. I don’t want to ignore her, but I also really don’t want people to know we’re related, so I smile and give her a discreet wave. I look for Keeta next. I see her talking with Tai and Jenn by the door. That’s right about when Garrett comes up behind me and smacks my butt.

  “Keep your head in the game, pervert.”

  Then, sooner than I would like it to, the buzzer goes off, signaling game time. We run over to Coach Riley and huddle up.

  Riley points at me. “Abbey, you know what to do, so do it. No time for nerves, got it?”

  I nod and wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts for the tenth time in the past minute.

  “Stef, you have to take those threes, and Tori, look weak side. Let’s win this, ladies.”

  “Hands in, you guys,” Garrett yells. “Offense on three.”

  The team yells out the cheer and the four other starters and I take off our warm-up jerseys and head for center court. As my team’s center, I have to do the jump ball at the beginning of the game. I wipe my hands again on my tiny shorts and take in a deep breath. It’s showtime.

  The ref walks over with the game ball. I position myself in front of the Saguaro High School player standing opposite me. She is a supertall black girl with a bright orange mouth guard. She doesn’t respond at all when I wish her good luck, but I try not to take it personally.

  The ref tosses the ball up and Saguaro’s number ten and I leap into the air with our hands reaching toward the ceiling; my body slams into hers like a magnet to metal. I look up and see that my hand towers over hers, so I slap the ball behind me, right into Garrett’s hands just like I had done in practice. It’s a perfect beginning. In fact, I’m so impressed with my successful jump, I sort of lose track of everything else.

  “Brooks! What are you doing?” Coach Riley yells to help me snap out of it.

  I look downcourt and see my team setting up our offense without me. I run as fast as I can, but by the time I arrive, a feisty Saguaro High player has stolen the ball from Garrett and is making a fast break to the other end.

  “Go, Crutch!” Stef yells.

  I obey, quickly change directions, and bolt after the girl with the ball. As she runs downcourt, two more Saguaro players join her, and they start passing the ball quickly back and forth. I reach up as number fourteen lobs it over to number thirty, and as easy as teachers snatch cell phones from students, I intercept the pass. The echoing cheers from the bleachers fill me with energy and I want to do more to please them. I look down at our basket and there’s Garrett, and she’s very open. I know it’s a little risky, but I seem to like living on the edge these days, so I hurl the ball the full length of the court and pray that Garrett catches it. No one is more surprised than me when it lands perfectly in her beckoning palm. She makes the layup and we’re up by two.

  “Nice pass, freshie,” Garrett says, slapping my butt as she runs by.

  “Thanks,” I say and run to my place for defense.

  After we gain an eight-point lead, Saguaro comes back from a time-out and plays woman-to-woman defense on us. I’m matched up with number thirteen. She’s huge, but not chubby in the Miss Piggy sort of way; she is more like scary-strong in the Hulk sort of way. Stef nicknamed her The Fridge last year, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to cause bodily injury to me.

  But I soon figure out that what I lack in strength, The Fridge lacks in speed. So once I get over my fear, I dribble around her and take a jump shot once and then do it again on our next possession to add four more points to our score. Then, as she attempts a fadeaway shot from the top of the key, I jump up and bam! Rejection! And now I’ve decided that defense is much more fun than offense ever dreamed of being. I want to scream In your face, Fridge! but I refrain because that wouldn’t be very ladylike of me.

  I’ve played the entire first half, but my body feels no pain. It’s like I’m so pumped up on adrenaline I could get shot in the leg and be like, Hmm, that kind of stings. Oh well. Let’s play basketball. The only thing that’s bumming me out is I waited this long to play it. I wonder how much better I’d be if I had just started a couple years earlier.

  Unfortunately the halftime break gives The Fridge some time to think about how much she hates me because when the third quarter begins, I quickly find out that The Fridge has a very evil side to her. As soon as I get the ball, she thrusts her bulky torso into me like she’s trying to dry hump me on the court. Then, when I defend her, she purposefully crushes my toes with her giant heel and throws a sharp elbow into my chest. After that doesn’t shake me off, she jerks her head back, seemingly to try and break my nose. Forget about all that no-pain crap. Now I’m feeling like a featherweight boxer in a heavyweight match.

  As we make our way downcourt after a foul is called on one of the Saguaro players during Stef and Eva’s fast break, I confide in Garrett about my pain. “G, I think my pinky toe is seriously broken.”

  Garrett’s breathing hard and semi-listening. “I doubt it, Crutch. Suck it up.”

  “Why aren’t they seeing her fouls? She’s trying to kill me.” I lift my shirt and try to inspect my sweaty back while we line up for Stef to take her shots. “Oh my God, I think there’s already a bruise. Look.”

  “Yeah, she got you pretty good.”

  “Should I tell the ref?”

  We line up for the free throw, and then Garrett leans over and whispers, “Or you could just say, Oh, baby, you know how I like it, next time she tries to dry hump you. That always works for me. Gay or straight, it makes them squirm.”

  “G, I can’t do that.”

  “Well, you asked for my advice. Take it or leave it, but you know I’m always right.”

  Stef makes both shots and we head back for defense. Then Stef, who’s been listening to my complaints, chimes in with what I think might be a voice of reason. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do, Abbey. Push her back. Hard.”

  “Like on purpose?” I pant.

  “Yes, like you mean it, chica.”

  Up to this point in my life, I’ve never pushed anyone. Growing up as an only child, I haven’t even had sibling wrestling matches or slapfests like Kate and Jenn still have. I’m a peaceful kid who once made tiny signs out of toothpicks and address labels alerting sidewalk users that a trail of ants was five feet ahead. And now I’m supposed to push someone? On purpose?

  Five minutes into the th
ird quarter, after The Fridge takes another jab at my left boob, I say screw peace and take Stef’s advice. Like keeping my kisses with Keeta secret, my next moves seem to be another important lesson in survival. And, like kissing Keeta, I’ve got to figure out how to get physical with The Fridge without getting caught.

  I see my chance when the Saguaro point guard misses a three-pointer and The Fridge pulls down the rebound. I decide to use one of The Fridge’s moves against her but add a little Abbey flavor to it. Instead of my elbows, I use my bony butt and shoulders to hopefully leave my mark on her. And instead of stomping on her, I tangle my feet around hers, which causes her to stumble and travel with the ball. Playing like this is mean, underhanded, and totally unfair. But I’m finding it rather enjoyable.

  Now there are four minutes left in the fourth quarter, and I’m at the bottom of the key getting pounded again while trying to fight for position and get open. Finally, Stef bounce-passes the ball to me. I turn to shoot a quick jumpshot, but The Fridge has finally lost patience with our secret battle and blatantly rams me like a bull. I fall to the ground and a whistle blows.

  “Red thirteen, pushing! Two shots!”

  Garrett and Stef help me to my feet and pat my butt.

  “That’s what we’re talking about,” Garrett whispers as she walks me to the free-throw line. “Now you’re under her skin. Keep it up, girl.”

  Even though The Fridge has been pummeling me nonstop, it’s my first free throw of the game. As I stand at the top of the key, I feel like I’m at the head of the table at a very important dinner and everyone is expecting me to present a marvelous toast.

  The score is 49-46 with one minute left in the game. I know I have to make my shots to put a lid on our win.

  “Two shots, ladies. And let’s keep it clean out there.” The ref points at The Fridge who then scowls at me. Too scared to keep eye contact with her, I look down at the ball in my hands and hope for the best.

  My first shot is a total brick.

  After I miss it, Garrett comes up behind me and slaps my butt, which has been spanked more in this one basketball game than it has in my previous fifteen years of life. “Come on, Abbey. You make these all the time in practice. You can do this.”

  “Yeah, I know. Okay,” I say and ready myself for my next shot.

  This time I really concentrate, bend my knees, extend my arm, and release the ball just like I’ve been taught. It barely touches the rim and easily lands in my enemy’s hands. Before any of us can move, the ball is thrown downcourt. Seconds later, Saguaro scores an easy layup while I stand cemented to the floor at the other end.

  After that, Coach screams at Garrett to take a time-out.

  We run off the court and huddle around Riley. “Abbey, take a seat. Natalie, go check in.”

  Our team manager, Matti, hands me a towel and a cup of water, and I sit down at the end of the bench. I throw the towel over my head and stare at my shoes, breathing hard to keep myself from crying. Matti tries to console me with a pat on the back, but I shrug her off. I feel so stupid for missing the two easiest shots I had all game. I want to quit and make plans to do so as soon as the game is over. I feel like I let the whole team down. Who do I think I am? I’m a brain, not a jock. I don’t belong here.

  The teams do their group cheers and run back onto the court.

  “Brooks! Get down here,” Coach Riley yells.

  I prepare myself for the worst and sit in the empty seat next to him.

  “Yes, Coach?”

  “You better pick up your chin, girl,” he yells in a scary whisper voice. “And I better hear you cheering on your teammates. This isn’t about you and your missed free throws. This is about working as a team. You hear me?” As he speaks, his neck vein bulges out more than ever. “Do you hear me, Brooks?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the buzzer goes off and the clock starts, I stand up with the rest of my team and cheer my heart out.

  Neither team scores in the last minute, which means we win our game and no one can blame me for losing it, which also means I can put my plans to quit on hold for now.

  After our polite good jobs to the other team (The Fridge and I slap our hands especially hard), we have thirty seconds to gather our things and meet coach in the locker room for a loud debriefing and lecture. Yes, even though we won, he’s sure to remind us of what we did wrong and lay out the punishment we will face tomorrow at practice.

  *

  When I come out of the locker room, the varsity team is warming up. Garrett and Stef are taking their time getting cleaned up, so I’m alone as I stand in the doorway in the corner of the gym. I want to send Keeta a good-luck wink before her game, but I don’t want to do it in front of my mom or Stef, so I try to will Keeta over with my hypnotic powers. That doesn’t ever work, but lucky for me, a loose ball rolls my way. I stop it with my foot and smile as Keeta jogs over to retrieve it. I’m attempting to look casual and calm, but you know how that goes.

  “Hey, girl. Good game.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right. You must have missed the best part when I totally choked.”

  “Nah, I saw everything. Nice fall, too.” She winks at me and bounces the ball in between her legs. “You okay?”

  Her wink sends me spinning, so all I can do is nod.

  “Well, see you after the game.” She runs off to join her team in a layup drill.

  I forget to wish her good luck, but I think she knows I’ll be thinking of her. Not that I’ve ever stopped thinking about her since that day in the Tucson Mall.

  As I’m watching Keeta warm up on the court, I get this weird feeling. It’s the kind of feeling Garrett described, like my whole world revolves around getting Keeta’s attention and being near her. Plus, Keeta looks so sexy in her uniform, which is admittedly easier to do since the varsity uniforms are so much nicer than the JV and freshman hand-me-downs. Theirs shine under the lights and shift smoothly on their bodies as they run. Then I notice it. Keeta’s wearing number twenty-one, just like me. I smile bigger and watch Keeta shoot her practice free throws.

  Then Garrett comes up behind me and slaps me hard in the back of my head, giving my butt a break. “What the hell, Garrett?”

  “Could you be more obvious?” She looks into the stands. “Speaking of being obvious, isn’t your mom here?”

  “Oh my God. Thanks for reminding me.”

  I make my way up the bleachers and am greeted with a hug from my mom. “You were so amazing, Abbey,” she says and is still flinging around her foam lizard, so I take it from her and sit on it.

  She gets this look in her eye like she’s trying not to mention what we’re both thinking about. That I wish Dad could have seen me play my first game of basketball. But, instead, she clears her throat and says, “I had no idea things would be so rough out there, though. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.” I’m actually in a lot of pain but don’t feel like crying to my mom about it. Besides, it’ll be cool to have some battle wounds to show off at practice tomorrow.

  “Well, Abbey Road, I’m not. My butt is totally numb.” She stands up and gathers her nacho leftovers and giant purse. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” I say, glad that no one’s around to hear my mom call me Abbey Road. It’s still too personal.

  But then Garrett makes her way over to us and extends her hand to introduce herself. “Hi, Mrs. Brooks. I’m Garrett. I’m on the team with Abbey, and I’m in her Spanish class.”

  I can tell my mother appreciates Garrett’s politeness since she hasn’t been getting much from me. “It’s so nice to meet you, Garrett. Call me Susan. You girls were really great tonight.”

  “I guess you guys aren’t staying for the varsity game,” Garrett says, pointing to my mom’s full arms.

  “No, we’ve got to go,” my mom says.

  But since my mom’s in such a good mood, I decide to take advantage of it like any normal teenager would. “Um, actually Mom, I was kind of wonderi
ng if I could stay. It’s supposed to be a good game.”

  “Oh, Abbey, I don’t think I can take another hour of these wooden bleachers.”

  “I can get a ride home from Garrett and her friend Taisha if you don’t want to stay. Taisha’s a very good driver. Right, Garrett?” If I know Garrett like I think I do, she’ll play along.

  “Oh, totally,” Garrett says, quickly catching on. “It would be no problem. We will have her home right after the game.”

  “I don’t know,” Mom says. “Just because it’s your birthday tomorrow doesn’t mean you can skip out on your homework tonight.”

  “Please, Mom,” I beg. “I’ll start my homework right now. We’ll work on our Spanish together during the game.”

  “How can you do homework and watch the game?”

  “Believe me, Mom, we can do it.”

  Garrett confirms that we are supreme multitaskers, which helps persuade my mom. “Well, okay. But don’t be late.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” I shove the foam gila monster in her purse. “See you later.”

  A couple of minutes later, Stef joins me and Garrett on the bleachers.

  “You guys are staying?” Stef asks. “God, you’re lucky. My stupid mom is picking me up right now.”

  “Sorry, chica,” Garrett says, “but it’s just as well. I mean, considering your last fight with Keeta.”

  The words “fight with Keeta” make my ears perk up.

  “I know, I know. I should just break up with her already. Whatever, though. I’m moving soon and I’m sure she’ll find a replacement, if she hasn’t already found one. She never could stand to be alone.”

  Garrett and I both nod and look out on the court. I wish I knew why Garrett is keeping my secret. It makes me nervous, but I’m not going to argue with her about it. Sure, I’m in love, but I’m not entirely stupid.

  As I watch Stef slowly make her way to her disappointed mom standing in the gym entryway, I hope to never have to know what that feels like. In fact, the thought of my mom finding out scares me more than playing against The Fridge again.