“Nice job. That’s what I was talking about. You’ve got to be able to take care of yourself. It’s all about safety, Sam.” He claps me on the back. “How many bullets you got left in the case? You want to keep shooting or pack it up?”
“I can finish what’s in the case. You can start packing up the truck if you want. I’m good by myself,” I say.
Grandpa knits his eyebrows. “You sure?”
I nod and smile.
He shrugs and loads his gun into the case while I reposition my green earmuffs. I pull the target toward me and pull it off the clips. I’m saving this one. I fold it up and put it in the gun case. I pull out another human-shaped target and clip it to the string. Grandpa Carl didn’t ask any questions when I asked him to pick me up a package of them. He just smiled and clapped me on the back.
I load my last six bullets into the chamber and click it closed. Lower the gun to my hip and put my finger on the trigger. The cool steel rubs my pointer finger, and my palm squeezes against the rubber grip. I look down at my feet. Close my eyes.
“She’s got someone else taking care of business,” he said.
Pop. In the gut.
“She’s not that into you,” he said.
Pop. In the neck.
“A fatherless, dickless d-bag,” he called me.
Pop. Between the eyes.
“You’ve got the sympathy vote, Samantha.”
PopPopPop.
In the chest. In the chest. In the chest.
As soon as I bury those six bullets in the target, I can take a deep breath again. Some of the steam from this morning has been let out of the pot. I lay the gun back down on the carpeted counter. Snap open the chamber and check to make sure there are no more bullets left. I pack the gun and my earmuffs into the bag and pull the target toward me. I unclip it from the string and take a pencil out of my equipment bag.
I write the date in miniscule print on the bottom of the target. I quickly fold the target and throw it in the bottom of the bag just as Grandpa opens the door.
“Ready, kiddo? I was watching that last round on the TV out there. Nice job! You been practicing without me?” he says.
I just smile.
“You ready for tonight?” Grandpa asks me when we get back in the car. “Kind of a big game, isn’t it?”
“I’m ready now, Grandpa,” I say. Plantation High School’s basketball team is ranked number one in the state, but we’re just two spots behind them in the standings. If we can win this one game, we have a real solid chance at going to the state championship.
“What time do you have to be there? Do you want me to bring you?” he asks as we pull into the driveway.
“Nah, I gotta pick up JC and everything. I’ll see you at the game, though, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it, kiddo,” he says, smiling at me. “Hey, you did real good today. I’m proud of you. Glad you’re finally taking this seriously,” he says.
I pick up JC about an hour later, and we head to the school. He is jumpy as hell in the passenger seat of the truck.
“What’s with you?” I ask him.
“Freaking out, man. This game…this game.” He shakes his head.
“It’s just like any other game. Plus it’s at home. You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” I say.
“Scouts. Scouts will be all over this game. Coach O told me that UConn and UMass are coming out. What if he doesn’t put me in? Or worse, what if he does put me in and I fall on my ass? Then what?” he asks, wringing his hands.
“Well…then…then you’ll get up off your ass and try again. Right? Just play it like it’s a normal game. It’s going to be fine, JC,” I say.
“Easy for you to say, superstar. You’ve got the SAOTY award. They’ll all be looking at you whether you fall on your ass or not. I’ve got about a snowball’s chance in hell of playing at UConn,” he says, all moody and broody.
“Look, play the low post. Plantation’s got that sophomore guy, what’s-his-name, playing down there. He’s shorter than you, and he never guards outside the key. Lay off the boards and back up to three-point land. He won’t touch you out there, and you know you can make that shot all day long. I’ll feed you the ball a couple of times, and you’ll be golden. Just stay on his side, all right?”
JC nods all quick, but still looks like he’s going to throw up. “Hey, JC,” I say.
He turns to me.
“We got this,” I say, knocking knuckles with him.
The game is almost wrapped up. We’ve been ahead for three quarters, which is unheard of against this year’s Plantation team. What’s-his-name, low-post guy, turns out to be Marcus Wilson, this sophomore phenom that Plantation picked up from some private school at the beginning of the season. He’s all anyone has been talking about this season, but I’m not really impressed. The kid can shoot, but he’s not worth shit on defense. I’ve been feeding JC all night in three-point land, and he’s sunk basket after basket.
“North, you’re out. Let’s get some of our young guys in there. We’re up by fourteen…Now’s the time. JC, stay in. Keep playing low, stay out of the key. Let’s go boys,” Coach O tells us before the fourth quarter.
I park myself on the bench next to Coach O to watch JC take over the fourth quarter. I suck water from my squirt bottle and look at Marnie. She’s in the back row of cheerleaders. She’s kneeling on the sidelines and giggling with Ace. He and his cronies have set up camp right behind the cheerleaders. Marnie sees me watching her, and she waves with a big smile. I lift my chin and smile at her.
Plantation is mopping the floor with our young guys, but JC is holding his own. He’s trying to keep the team together out there, but these guys are just too nervous. JC calls a play, and the point guard gets confused and trips over his own shoes. Turnover number one. Marcus Wilson scores two before JC can make it back down court. Full-court press. Wilson steals and scores again before we even get the ball past half-court.
Again and again, Broadmeadow loses the ball. I can see JC sucking air out there, and I know he’s doing all he can. The bench is on our feet now, screaming at our teammates and trying to turn this game back around. I look at Coach O, wondering how long he’s going to let this go on. His face is purple and he’s yelling. I’m worried he’s going to blow a gasket. Why doesn’t he just put us back in? Broadmeadow is now down by seven.
Finally he calls a time-out. Three minutes left to go. He pulls everyone but JC out and puts the rest of the first string back in. I’m rested now and ready for a fight. I glance over at Marnie. She’s cheering, pom-poms flying. Ace is directly behind her. He sees me watching him and stands up behind Marnie, grinding his hips into the air right behind her.
I grit my teeth. I’m ready.
The ref blows the whistle, and JC inbounds the ball to me and takes off down court, setting up the low post and trying to tease Marcus Wilson out of his spot in the key. I see JC’s lips moving, and I know he’s talking smack. Wilson isn’t having it, though, and he stays put, bouncing all over the place right inside the key. Why does everyone think this kid is so hot? I watch JC follow Marcus toward the key and then quickly backtrack as I give the signal for a play. He pulls back to the three-point line just as I heave a nice high pass his way. Swoosh. Now we’re only down by four.
I give the signal for a full-court press as Plantation attempts to inbound the ball. JC defends the inbounder and I stand by Wilson, ready to steal any pass that may come his way. JC jumps at just the right moment as the inbounder attempts to pass the ball, blocking it and tipping it backward to my waiting hands. Seeing an open shot, I go in for the layup, right over Marcus Wilson’s head. Boom. Broadmeadow down by two.
I glance at the clock. One fifteen left. I pull the team back on defense, but yell to JC to hang back at half-court. “Be ready for the rebound pass,” I tell him and then hold up three fingers.
JC nods. He knows what I mean.
Marcus Wilson has the ball, and he’s moving slowly. He knows that if he runs down
the shot clock, Broadmeadow will have to rush to score and Plantation will have a better chance at keeping their spotless record for the year. I decide to let him play for awhile. Let him get comfortable, a little lazy, and a little careless. I make a few fake attempts at stealing, and Wilson smiles at me.
“Gonna have to try harder than that, number 44,” he says, dribbling right in my face.
I know I’ve got him good and worked up now. He’s trying to push for the basket because the shot clock is running down. I’m on him like white on rice, and he can’t get anywhere near the basket. I know my team is doing their job because he can’t find an open pass either. His eyes go wild for a minute when he glances up at the shot clock, and I know he’s going to make his move. I back up an inch or two, stand straight up, plant my feet, and clasp my hands together. Marcus Wilson lowers his shoulder and comes charging at me, and I fall down on my backside.
Whistles blow, and the ref points his finger at Wilson. “Number 23! Charging! Broadmeadow ball!”
I jump up from the floor and run to the sideline, grabbing the ball from the ref. Before the Plantation team has time to recover, I toss the ball down to JC, who has set up perfectly, all alone at the other end of the court, just outside the three-point line. He catches the pass, bends at the knees, and sets up his perfect shot.
The crowd counts “4…3…2…” as JC lets the ball sail out of his hands in a perfect arc.
The whole court is silent as we watch JC’s shot bounce on the rim once…twice…three times before it finally falls into the basket.
Broadmeadow wins by one. And JC is the hero. The team and I carry him out of the gym on our shoulders and Jeannie follows behind, her pom-poms and her ponytail bouncing along with her.
I glance behind me. Marcus Wilson is sitting in the middle of the gym floor. Crying.
It is decided in the locker room that tonight is worthy of a winter bonfire. The team quickly showers and changes, and we all text our girlfriends and other friends to meet us at East Beach in an hour. I call my mom and Grandpa and tell them the team’s having a party and not to wait up.
The win tonight makes me feel invincible. Nothing can drag this night down. Nothing.
By the time the team gets to East Beach, the bonfire is raging and there is a crowd of kids gathered around.
I spot Marnie and Jeannie together right in the thick of things and drag JC over to them.
“The hero of Broadmeadow has arrived!” Jeannie shouts, and a whoop goes up in the crowd. Everyone claps, and JC’s face turns bright purple.
I kiss Marnie on the cheek and grab her hand. “Let’s take a walk,” I say, showing her the big, fluffy blanket I have under my arm.
She blinks, and her smile disappears briefly. She looks back at the bonfire, and I see the muscles in her cheek twitch a little bit.
“Come on, Marn,” I say, squeezing her hand.
She tilts her head to the side and looks at me, but doesn’t move her feet. She turns back toward the fire, and her eyes scan the crowd. She puts a thumbnail in her mouth before she turns back to me. “Okay,” she says.
I hold her gloved hand in mine and we walk along the shore, shivering a little bit. When we get farther away from the bonfire, I pull her toward the abandoned lifeguard stand. We climb up into the tall chair, and I wrap the giant blanket around both of us.
“Are you warm enough?” I ask her through chattering teeth.
“I feel okay,” she says, turning her head toward me.
I kiss her, hard. She kisses me back for a minute and then puts her hand on my chest and pushes me back.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just don’t feel like doing this right now,” she says, tugging at the fingers of her gloves and avoiding my gaze. She lets out a frustrated sigh.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Why do you need to know if I’m okay? Because I don’t feel like making out? Jeez, Sam,” she says.
“No, I just…I thought you wanted to.” I lean back in the chair.
She sighs loudly next to me and looks away.
“Hey,” I say softly, touching her knee. “What’s going on?”
“Just…nothing,” she says.
The adrenaline from our win has all but disappeared now. I am sitting alone in the lifeguard chair, even though Marnie’s thigh is only a centimeter away from my own. I gently take her hand in mine and hold it, my thumb tracing her knuckles. I consider it a good sign that she doesn’t pull her hand away.
“Whatever is going on, you know you can tell me, right?” I say.
She shifts just slightly, and now her thigh is at least an inch away from my own. “Nothing’s going on,” she says, an edge creeping into her voice.
I watch the angry December ocean and feel like Marnie is a million miles away. Her hand is limp in mine, and her other arm is still folded tightly across her middle. I squeeze her hand a little bit and wait for her to squeeze back. She doesn’t. Instead, she just exhales loudly through her nose.
“Let’s just go back and be with our friends,” she says, pulling her hand from mine and climbing down from the chair without me.
I watch her jog back to the bonfire, the frog eyes on her hat bobbing along in the darkness. I’m not even sure what happened. I sit in the chair alone for a long time, trying to figure out where I made a mistake. Was I too pushy? I stopped when she wanted me to. I asked her what was wrong. I told her she could talk to me.
I sit alone long enough to notice that the crowd is starting to thin out. The fire is dying down slowly, and I see a few kids walking toward the ocean with buckets, ready to fill them up with sea water and pour it on the dying embers.
I climb down from the chair slowly and make my way back to the party. I am about two hundred yards from the parking lot when I spot Ace hugging a girl by his Jeep. His back is to me, and he has his arms wrapped tightly around a small form. His giant frame nearly swallows this poor girl, and I can’t tell who it is from a distance. He pulls out of the hug and puts his hand on the girl’s shoulder, and then gathers her in his arms again, rubbing her back with his palm. A sliver of green knitted cap is visible near his arm. A frog eye bobs about near his shoulder. The two climb into Ace’s Jeep and drive away from the party.
I get a text from Marnie just a moment later. Getting a ride with a friend. See you tomorrow.
12
JANUARY
Four Months Before
I hardly see Marnie anymore. Things are just slightly south of okay. She never sneaks out at night to visit me anymore. At first I thought it was because it was too cold, or because we were both too busy. But she doesn’t call or text anymore either. Sometimes she doesn’t answer if I call or text her. She doesn’t really look for me at school like she used to; we don’t ever sit together at lunch anymore; and she rides to school with Ace instead of me almost every day. Maybe those seem like small, dumb things, but I want to fix it. I know she’ll come back if I can just figure out how to fix it. She loves me.
I have plenty of time to think about it during conditioning drills at practice. Coach O’Hara keeps us running for at least half of every practice. That’s a lot of freaking running.
“Running is 99 percent of this game, boys. Hustle. We can’t always win games based on talent, but we can always outhustle. Let’s move. Put some fire in your shoes, boys!” Coach O shouts from the bleachers while the team runs up and down, up and down, up and down the court a million times.
“I’m dying,” JC says to me during a water break.
“Just keep up. You don’t have to be the fastest guy out there,” I say, letting him in on my strategy for making it through the endless drills.
“Easy for you to say, coach’s pet,” JC says, sweat dripping down the front of his practice jersey. He punches me in the arm and smiles.
“North! Come here, son. There’s someone I need you to meet,” Coach O’Hara calls to me.
I look up to see a tall man in a blue polo shirt tal
king to Coach O. I swipe at my dripping forehead with my wristband and jog over. As I get closer, I see “Oceanside College” stitched into the left shoulder of the tall man’s polo shirt. My heart beats faster.
“Sam North, I’d like you to meet Coach Paul Dinsmoore,” Coach O says.
I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Coach Dinsmoore.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Sam,” he says, motioning to the bleachers. “Can we talk?”
My heart is beating out of my chest while Coach Dinsmoore talks about the kind of basketball program he’s trying to build at Oceanside. He goes on and on about the new gymnasium that alumni funds have paid for and the kind of perks being an Oceanside player would come with, and touches on the kind of academic footing a degree from Oceanside would give me.
“Have you thought about Oceanside, Sam? You would be close to home,” he says.
“I have thought about it,” I tell him. “Both of my parents are…were…are alums.”
“Is that right? Why don’t you come spend a weekend with us? I’ll hook you up with one of our best players. Come see what our program is all about,” he says, standing up from the bleachers and holding out his hand again.
“I’d love that,” I say.
“I’ll leave the details with Coach O’Hara. Looking good out there, Sam. Keep up the good work,” he says, smiling again.
“Thank you, sir,” I say, smiling.
I jog back to the team with a little spring in my step. My sprints are faster, and I’m doing more than just keeping up now.
“He wants me to visit. Spend the weekend,” I say to JC.
“That’s awesome,” he says between gasps.
I run and let my mind wander again. I’d be going to the same school as my dad. Taking classes in the same buildings he took classes in. Living in the dorms just like he did. I start to picture myself there, running sprints with the basketball team in the new gym. I know he’d be proud of me.
I leave practice with a huge smile on my face.
“Marnie has called the house three times in the last hour,” Mom says when I walk in the door. She hands me the cordless phone.
Until I Break Page 9
