What We Saw(31)

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouts, “I need your attention.” A hush slowly falls over the gym. Finally, it’s quiet. The smell of the polished wood floor and ancient sweat floats through air that’s filled with anticipation. “We were gonna wait and have this pep rally next Friday before we headed out for the tournament, but I was walking through the halls yesterday, and I realized we were in need of some school spirit!” Another round of cheers crests and falls. “I know it’s been a tough week. There have been some vicious rumors, and a lot of stupid stuff said on the news.” A chorus of boos fills the air. I see Mr. Johnston glance up at the stands, a frown on his face, but he doesn’t look behind him.

Coach Sanders holds up his hands for silence again. “I want to ask you all to send some good thoughts to the players who aren’t here with us this afternoon.” The boos turn to polite applause here and there across the gym. Coach nods and says, “We are strong. We are a team—all of us—and we’re going to get through this. We’re gonna hang Buccaneer tough, and our boys will be home on this court where they belong, real soon!”

The applause ratchets up a notch, and Christy yells, “Yeah! Tough as BUCC!” in her deepest shout. Rachel whistles in the piercing way she does, two fingers wedged between her lips like she’s in a black-and-white movie hailing a cab.

A couple other people pick up Christy’s cheer, and a chant starts up around the gym: Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC! Kyle, LeRon, and Reggie join in behind Coach Sanders, pumping their fists.

“That’s right!” Coach Sanders says, as the chant grows stronger:

Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC!

“What happens to losers when they run up against the Buccaneers?” Coach Sanders shouts into the mic. “We BUCC ’em!”

This blows the roof off the gym again. Ben and the guys are all on their feet behind Coach Sanders, arms pumping in solidarity. Will and a bunch of the JV guys storm the floor to join them, all of them wearing the black tube socks Will dragged home last night from the back of Adele’s Explorer. They have the socks pulled up over their jeans. They look ridiculous, but when the varsity guys see the show of support, there are high fives and chest bumps all around. Somebody cranks up the music as the drill team, minus Stacey, fills the floor with a dance routine.

As Coach hands Wyatt the wireless mic, he freezes, and I follow his gaze across the gym. He’s staring directly at Sloane Keating, who is holding her phone out at arm’s length, panning across the width of the gym.

“Holy crap.” I yell this at Lindsey and point. “She’s shooting video.”

Coach Sanders pushes directly through the drill team, mid-dance routine, and makes a beeline for the reporter. Everyone is spilling out of the bleachers, an ocean of chanting, fist-pumping students in his way now.

Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC! Tough as BUCC!

He pushes and elbows his way through the crowd, his face twisted and dark, his eyes grim. Even over the music and the noise, I can hear him yelling, pointing a finger at Sloane’s phone, the veins in his neck visible from a distance. Get the hell out!

Mr. Johnston turns around and sees the reporter as Coach Sanders yells again, words I can’t make out over the roar. The reporter cocks her head, then taps at her screen once. As she tucks her phone away, I could almost swear she gives the coach a little smile, before she slips through the door behind her, into the hallway, and out into the parking lot beyond.

Coach Sanders is red-faced, sputtering at Mr. Johnston, who has his hands spread I-had-no-idea! style. Principal Hargrove finally makes it over to the two of them and puts a hand on Coach’s shoulder. Coach shakes it off and stalks away, slamming the flat of his hand against the pads hanging on the wall under the backboard.

The drill team ends their number and runs off the court in formation. Ben starts a layup rotation with the varsity guys as the tone sounds to end classes for the day. The Buccs have practice now, and in a general flood of mayhem, the bleachers empty. Rachel shouts that she’ll call me later, and she and Christy follow the others out. Finally, it’s just Lindsey and me left on the bare metal benches as Coach returns to bark encouragement and corrections.

“Wonder why there wasn’t a moment for everyone to send good thoughts to Stacey?” Even as the words leave my lips, I know the answer.

It’s because Lindsey knows, too, that I have the courage to say this out loud.

“Stacey who?” she answers. “It’s like they all just wish she’d disappear.”

We sit there, side by side, watching an intricate passing drill in silence for a few more minutes. Ben turns and sees me as he starts a shooting drill. He raises his hand and smiles, then catches a ball from Kyle and dribbles to the passer spot under the basket. He feeds the ball to Reggie and starts grabbing rebounds.

Ben barely has to jump to grab the balls as they drop through the net or ping off the rim. His face is pure concentration, his tongue pressed against his lower lip as he anticipates which way the ball will move. He makes sure his body follows.

Control. Stamina. Dexterity.

The power behind his passes makes them lasers—direct hits to their intended targets. As Kyle and Reggie circle the top of the key, Ben passes to exactly where he knows they’ll be when the ball gets there—not to where they are when it leaves his fingers. From the bleachers, it looks like he’s passing to an empty space in front of them.