First, Last, and Always

by Lehman, Kim

  Vanessa rolls her eyes.

  “And you obviously didn’t hear, but the mean girl act is so last season,” I tell her. I shake my head, disgusted. “So next time you want to say something to me or anyone else. Save it. ’Cause I don’t speak Asshole.” I take a deep breath. Suddenly, an eruption of applause breaks out in the classroom. It jolts me. I glance around, unaware that every person in the class has stopped taking their tests. Everyone is staring at me, listening to me, clapping for me. I’m not sure how to react.

  The classroom door flies open. “What the...what is going on in here? Charlotte, why are you out of your seat? And why is everyone clapping?”

  “Uh,” I stutter, trying to think fast. “I’m done with the test. I think everyone is clapping because I was the first to turn it in.”

  Ms. Ming shakes her head, “Well, that’s wonderful,” she says, giving me a quick clap before shooing me to my seat. “Good for you, now please sit so that others can finish.”

  Scurrying to my seat I sit down and glance over at Grayson. “Oh. My. God.” I mouth.

  “You’re my hero,” he mouths back. If Grayson had said that to me a week ago I would have been flustered and tongue-tied. I might have even passed out, but it’s different now. I smile and him, friendly and thankful. When I glance over at Vanessa her head is bent over, her hand is attempting to cover the dark green, slimy shame and humiliation spreading over her face.

  Interestingly, I happen to think it’s a very good color for her.

  Miles

  “Okay, bring it in!” Coach yells after warm-ups on the second day of tryouts. Around the gym, basketballs stop bouncing, heads turn. Hustling, everyone lines up where Coach is standing.

  “I have a little surprise for you tonight,” Coach announces in an ominous tone. “Because it’s our last night of tryouts, I’m throwing the drills out the window and we’re going to have us a little man-to-man game-time situation.” Holding the basketball between his hands, he smacks it with an assertive, borderline-threatening clap. “That’s right...it’s time to pluck the weeds and get rid of all the pussy willows.” There’s another slap to the ball. “We’re having a scrimmage.” No one around me, including myself, seems too concerned. A friendly game of shirts and skins sounds far better than the torture we endured yesterday. A few of us might even get a chance to rest in between games.

  While we wait for further instruction, the large metal doors to the gymnasium open with an echoing thud. Our heads turn. Ten guys, all upperclassmen, enter the gym wearing basketball uniforms. Their chins are high. A killer determination and ferocity loom in their eyes. Lance Donovan is at the head of the group, a ball tucked under his right arm. They stop two feet in front of us.

  “Aww, shit,” a kid behind me whispers.

  The reality of the situation drains the blood from my face as Coach announces what I’ve already figured out. “Tonight all you fresh-menaces are going to get the rare privilege of playing the best our school has to offer. The top players from our varsity team have kindly volunteered to bludgeon...” Pausing, Coach shakes his head and chuckles. “I mean, scrimmage all of you ladies in a game of five-on-five. Each of you will have ten solid minutes to show me what you can offer. This is your last opportunity to prove what you got. Either you can hack it or you can’t.” Narrowing his eyes, he pans the room. “Got it?” Nobody dares respond. “Good,” he spits. “Let’s get started.” Grabbing a clipboard from the sidelines, he rattles off the first five names: “Miller, Pew, Bradley, Dagwood, and Fiester, you’re up!”

  Oh, God. I’m going to blow chunks. The peanut butter and jelly with potato chips that I ate in the library today at lunch are going to be strewn across the gymnasium floor. I wish I hadn’t eaten. A couple seconds pass. The gymnasium bounces silence off the walls.

  “Don’t stand there gawking!” Coach yells. “Get going!”

  Grayson is the first to move. “We got this,” he whispers, walking beside me.

  His confidence is not infectious. “I don’t know,” I counter.

  “We’re going to get crushed,” Pew mutters. That’s more like it. He’s as realistic as I am about the catastrophic events that are about to unfold before us.

  Grayson is undeterred by our pessimism. “They’re going to put on the full-court press right away. I heard Donovan tell one of the other guys. They want to rattle us. Here’s what I think we should do.” He looks at me. “You take the ball out-of-bounds,” he says. “You two play post.” He points to Dagwood and Pew. “Bradley, play left wing. I’ll play right.”

  PB and J crawls up my stomach and get lodged somewhere around my esophagus. “Did you just say you want me to play guard?” I panic.

  Grayson nods. “Yeah. You start off as guard. We’ll do a pick and roll. Pass the ball to me and we’ll run that swing-shift play Coach showed us yesterday.”

  I’m not sure when the conversation transitioned into German or Spanish or whatever language Grayson is spewing, but “pick and roll” and “swing shift” are not terms I recall. I’ve spent a lot of time studying shot technique. Obviously, I should have spent more time studying offensive plays. I’m feeling pretty stupid right now. “Okay,” I say like I know what he’s talking about. I can’t bring myself to ask.

  Grayson slaps me on the back before clapping his hands. “All right, guys!” he shouts. “Let’s go!”

  Jogging onto the court, I wish I had as much enthusiasm.

  We take our positions. Sizing up the opposition, I realize that Grayson is right: The varsity team immediately puts on a full-court press. Lance, who is still holding the ball, passes it to me. “Check when you’re ready,” Lance says, stepping up and bending over defensively. Before I can pass it back to him, he narrows his eyes. “Hey,” he whispers, “aren’t you friends with Alexa Hubbard’s sister? Didn’t I see you over at her house singing Katy Perry?”

  Nice. As if embarrassment wasn’t already at my doorstep, Lance feels the need to remind me of that night. “Yeah. That was me.”

  The left side of his lip curls up. “What’s she like?”

  “Who?” I say.

  “You know. Alexa’s younger sister. Is she easy? I figured you liked her or were dating or something.”

  An intense heat crawls up my spine and rests on my shoulders.

  “Man, if she’s anything like her sister, you’re in for a treat.”

  A whistle blows.

  “What’s taking so long over there?” Coach yells. “Come on! Check the damn ball, Fiester.”

  Lance, who is still in his relaxed defensive stance, winks. “Go ahead. I’ll take it easy on you, kid.”

  I smile. “Hey, Lance,” I say, calmly pointing, “what’s that crawling out of your shorts?”

  “Huh?” Reacting swiftly, he straightens up and looks down.

  “My bad. It’s nothing. Check,” I say quickly, tossing the ball forward. It lands just below Lance’s waist. More specifically, on his prick (pun intended). Lance doubles over.

  “You little shit,” he squeaks out, lying on his side in the fetal position.

  On the sidelines, Coach starts yelling again. “Jesus! What is going on over there? Get up, Donovan! What’s wrong with you? Can’t you catch a pass?”

  “Sorry about that,” I say to Lance. “You okay?” I look down at him with the ball tucked under my arm.

  Gritting his teeth, he growls up at me. I wait for him to respond, but he’s in too much pain to say anything else.

  Charlotte

  “I don’t want to do this,” I say out loud to no one in particular, unless the blank wall across from me can hear what I’m saying.

  An imaginary voice inside my head responds, “It’s not like you’re doing anything illegal. Just go.”

  “It should be illegal,” I say.

  “You’re stalling,” Imaginary Voice scolds.

  “I know!” I yell.

  “Don’t think about it, just do it,” Voice says.

  I cringe and think, Okay, her
e I go. My finger moves forward, pressing the green start button on the treadmill. My legs slowly begin to move underneath me, the pace accelerating gradually. Within seconds I’m trotting, then jogging, then running. The shortness of breath comes after half a minute. The burning in my legs starts at forty-five seconds. Suddenly, my plan for a fifteen-minute jog feels like it’s going to take fifteen hours.

  “You got this,” voice says.

  Shut up! I want to yell, but I’m panting too hard to speak. This is brutal. There’s no way I’ll make it. There’s no way I can survive like this for fifteen whole minutes. My legs are going to give out from underneath me. My lungs are going to collapse. No! I can’t do this. What was I thinking? My new plan to become a stronger, healthier person was hastily thought out. I need more time to think this through. This is too hard.

  My right hand reaches for the red button, hovering over it as my legs continue to pump in a tired rhythm underneath me. I’m about to press it when Miles pops into my head; all those times he tried out for basketball and never gave up. That’s the kind of person I want to be. My hand falls back to my side, moving in sync with my legs as I grit my teeth. I decide that I have to push through for all of the reasons I don’t want to. The fire in my legs moves to the pit of my stomach. I focus on the wall in front of me and envision a person standing far away in the distance, a girl who is much stronger and happier and more confident than I am now. I hit the up arrow on the treadmill to accelerate my pace. The girl I see is still too far away, she’s not completely clear to me, but as long as I don’t lose sight of her I know I’ll be okay. I hit the up arrow again. My lungs are burning. This is it. I can’t stop, and if I run long enough and fast enough, I may just catch up to that girl I want to be.

  Miles

  Nine minutes and forty seconds into the scrimmage, Grayson runs up to me, panting. “Great D, Man. Way to hold them off. If they had scored again, we would have been finished.” By “great D,” he means great defense, which is the only area I seem to be helping in. I’m useless on offense. “Okay,” Grayson says. “This is our last chance down the court. They’re up by two, so our only chance is to take the three-pointer for the win. We gotta go for it.”

  “You want me to take it down and pass it to you?” I ask. Grayson’s been hitting every shot.

  He shakes his head. “They’re gonna to expect that. They’ll be all over me. You and Dagwood haven’t taken many shots.”

  Actually, Grayson’s wrong. I’ve taken zero shots. For a reason.

  “I’ll bring it down,” Grayson says. “I’ll draw them in last minute, make them think I’m taking the shot, and then I’ll go to you or Dagwood depending on who is more open. I told Dagwood to be ready. You ready?” he asks me.

  No. Not at all. “Yep,” I say.

  “Okay.” Grayson nods. “Let’s do it.”

  With twenty seconds left, he takes the ball down the court. Just like he said, two men converge on him. Dagwood is more open than me. It’s obvious that Grayson’s gonna go to him and, I’m not gonna lie, I’m so relieved.

  With fourteen seconds, Grayson passes the ball to Dagwood. Three guys converge. Dagwood panics. It’s not looking good. There’s no way he’s going to get off a shot. The guys on the other team know it, too. The upperclassman playing defense on me slacks off and hovers around the foul line, guarding the middle just in case Dagwood tries to go in for a layup and tie the game instead of taking the three. “Pass it back!” Grayson yells to Dagwood. Grayson’s open. There’s just one defender, the one who was on me, that’s close by. If Grayson got the ball, he could easily take the shot and make it. Five seconds left.

  Dagwood goes to pass, but instead of passing it to Grayson, he contorts his body around the mob of guys on top of him and lobs it as hard as he can in my direction. The ball sails in the air. My jaw falls and I curse. Everything is happening in slow motion as the ball smacks into my chest. My arms wrap around it. I glance at the clock. Three seconds. Five defensive players are barreling straight for me. I know the only thing I can do is get rid of the ball as fast as I can. Without thinking, I plant my feet, bend my knees, grip the ball, aim for the rim, push with my legs, throw the ball into the air, and follow through by extending my arm. Everyone, including me, stops moving. All heads are focused on the ball, flailing through the air. It peaks, then descends, falling faster and faster. And then...

  Swish!

  The ball went in?

  Grayson, Pew, Bradley, and Dagwood throw their arms up and yell.

  Oh my God. The ball went in!

  A three-pointer. Grayson, Pew, Bradley, and Dagwood run over and pat me on the back. Every other freshman player on the bench jumps up and starts cheering. The coach smiles and nods in my direction.

  In the middle of the court, the upperclassmen stand around, hands on hips, staring at each other, shaking their heads.

  Charlotte

  “So, it’s official,” Alexa tells me with a sigh as we’re driving back home with the pizza, “Aunt Claire and Uncle Paul are separating. I heard Mom talking to Dad about it on the phone before we left the house. Aunt Claire’s gonna move out to Idaho or something. She has family out there. She thinks a few months away will be good, until she figures out what she wants to do.”

  I’m trying not to get emotional about it. I knew this was a possibility, but I didn’t realize she would be moving so far away. “Do you think we’ll see her before she leaves?”

  “I asked. Mom said it’s too hard for her right now. If she sees us, she’ll want to stay and she can’t. She doesn’t think she’ll respect herself if she does.”

  “I miss her already. I miss both of them,” I say.

  Alexa nods. “Yeah. Me too.”

  We both get quiet.

  “So.” Alexa switches the subject. “What about you? What’s going on with Miles?”

  I take a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

  “He likes you though, right? That’s gotta be weird.” Alexa wonders.

  “Yeah. But the thing is, I like him too. I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” I pause, then add, “He gave me a letter. Actually, he gave it to Lani, who gave it to me.”

  “What did it say?” Alexa asks, turning onto our street.

  “I didn’t read it,” I tell her.

  “Why?”

  “It’ll just make me more upset,” I say.

  “Where is it?” We pull into the driveway, and Alexa throws the car in to park.

  “In the drawer. By my bed. I’ll read it at some point. Just not right now.”

  “Grab the pizza,” Alexa says to me. “I’ll meet you inside.” Jumping up out of the car, Alexa races into the house. I’m not as fast as she is. I’m slow to get out. I open the rear passenger door and grab the pizza box. Carrying it to the kitchen, I set it on the counter. My mom’s at the counter going through mail. “Hey,” I greet her.

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  “Where’s Alexa?” I ask.

  “I dunno. She didn’t come in here.”

  “Where’d she—?” Oh no! I know where she went. Sprinting up to my room, I can see from the stairs that my bedroom door, which was closed when I left, is wide open.

  “Alexa, no!” I yell, stumbling into the room. It’s too late. She’s sitting on the floor next to my bed, letter in hand, a fixed, somber expression in her eyes. Lowering her hands into her lap, she raises her head.

  “What?” I say. “What’s wrong?”

  She holds out the letter. “Just read it.”

  With trepidation, I take the letter out of her hand and sit on my bed. It takes me ten minutes to get through the entire thing. I have to pause a couple times on parts where I think I might cry. When I look up, my sister is staring at me, waiting for my reaction. All that comes out is, “Shit.”

  She nods. “I know.”

  “I need a favor,” I say to Alexa, my heart beating a little faster thinking about what I’m about to do.

  Miles

  All the guys
who made it through the second day of tryouts are in the gymnasium. We’re waiting for the coaches to come out of the athletic office and through the two large doors. Although a few of the varsity players are still dribbling around and taking shots, all of the freshmen are sitting in the bleachers, most of us mentally and physically exhausted. It’s hard to believe that basketball tryouts officially ended twenty-six minutes and nine seconds ago. Now that it’s over, it feels like it all went by so fast. Beads of sweat still cling to my forehead and trickle down the base of my neck. To my right, three boys sit ten feet away, casually talking about their plans for the weekend. The calmness of their dispositions makes me assume that they’re fairly confident they made the team. Half a dozen other guys sit behind me, most of them quiet. Every once in a while someone will say, “You think it will be much longer?” At least there are a few others who look as worried as I am. I can barely talk or move.

  At thirty-two minutes and five seconds after tryouts end, the large steel doors of the gymnasium open up. Every head swings around. The pitter-patter of a basketball slows to a stop and the air becomes thick with silence.

  Coach steps in, clipboard in hand, his assistants trailing behind. I notice the JV coach I met the first day, Coach Chad, is with him too. It’s the first time I’ve seen him with the other coaches all week. The varsity coach is behind him. It makes it feel official. The bottoms of their shoes squeak across the hardwood floor. I hold my breath. Coach instructs everyone to huddle into one central area of the stands. I’m already there. Boys fill in around me. Twenty-five of us wait with excruciating patience to hear what he has to say. The varsity coach speaks first about the overall basketball program, its history, and the integrity of the players who wear the Radcliffe basketball jerseys. When he’s finished, he wishes all of us good luck and steps back for Coach to come forward. Coach stares at us, taking his time, nodding. After a minute, he puts his hands on his hips and says three terrifying words: “Results are posted.”