What We Saw(67)

“Aw, c’mon, man.” LeRon drops back in his chair, dragging a couple fries through ketchup. “Your girl can’t let this go.”

I glance down the table. Cheerleaders, drillers, benchwarmers, starters, Reggie slouched at the end, laughing into his tray. Every face straight ahead. Every eye turned toward me. Sideways. Watching, without seeing me. Listening, without hearing me. They’ve already made up their minds. I realize I’m still holding a turkey sandwich I can’t imagine ever bringing to my lips.

Ben, Rachel, and Christy all explode at the same time.

Shut the f*ck up.

Leave her alone.

You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.

There’s an argument I can’t hear, followed by a silence that is deafening. In the awkward moments that come after, I glance across the room and see Phoebe, looking over at our table. She’s sitting with another cheerleader named Amy. Dooney always used to joke that Amy was only on the squad because they needed a “solid base.” Phoebe gives me a shy smile. I nod once and look away, wondering if she’s heard the rumors, too.

Before Ben gets on the bus he tells me not to worry. He gives Christy a high five, Rachel a fist bump, and Lindsey a smile, then pulls me aside and gives me a hug.

“You’re finally getting out of here,” I say. “At least for a night.”

“Get packed,” he says with a wink. “You’re coming, too.”

He kisses me, then climbs onto the bus. The trace of his lips lingers for a long time, even after the bus of Buccaneers has rolled away from the news vans and protestors toward the tournament, effectively trading one battle for another.





UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE


HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................





thirty-eight


I WAS WRONG about the satellite trucks.

When we pull into the parking lot at Wells Fargo Arena in Des Moines, there’s a whole area for news vans, and it’s packed. There must be thirty of them, lined up from all over.

Iowa basketball is a big deal—even if you’re a high school team. I “knew” this, but I didn’t really know this until we file inside the arena. It’s massive. It could seat the population of my entire town, and still have room for another four thousand people.

With twenty thousand people in the same room, it’s hard to stand out. For the first time in a couple weeks, it’s nice to feel invisible. No one cares who I am. No one is looking at me—even sideways. As we fight toward our seats through the throngs of people, I’m almost giddy with relief that no one is staring after me. Lindsey notices this, too.

“So weird not to see Sloane Keating lurking somewhere,” she says.

“Keep an eye open,” I warn her. “She might jump out at any moment.” Lindsey laughs, and suddenly it feels like the last two weeks are a bad dream. Rachel and Christy are as wound up as Will, each of them talking over the other. Will drapes his arm around Rachel’s shoulder every now and then to see if he can get away with acting like “a baller.” Rachel jabs her fingernail into his ribs every time he says that or refers to himself as “Pistol,” and takes to calling him “Pipsqueak” instead.

When Mom leads us down toward the court, instead of up toward the cheap seats, Will almost has a coronary. “Wait, what?” he asks, grabbing Mom’s arm.

“Surprise!” she shouts. “Adele got three extra court-side seats because she’s a player’s mom, and I bought two more so we can all sit close.”

Will may have shed actual tears, but I can’t be sure because he was screaming so loudly that we all had to turn away.

Adele waves us toward our seats in the second row, just behind our home bench. She’s dressed head to toe in Buccaneer blue and gold. Her brassy auburn curls are piled on top of her head in a gold lamé ribbon. She has even painted her lips blue with some sort of lipstick so opaque that it makes me immediately concerned about the amount of chemical coloring she will ingest during the game.

Before long, Phoebe is flying over our heads, her perfect smile frozen in place. The Buccs are announced one by one, and pandemonium breaks loose.

From the very first moment at tip-off, the game is physical. The other team has a couple of burly forwards, and their defense is deadly. Even if Dooney had been present to nail jump shots over their heads, we’d have had to fight hard. LeRon gets into foul trouble early and Coach Sanders has to rotate several other guys in and out.

Through it all, Ben is unflappable, studying the court as he brings the ball down, slowing it up at the top of the key, pointing and directing, calling plays, setting picks. He sees the whole picture every time. When nerves cause a couple of the other guys to make bad passes or Kyle to miss a shot, he shouts encouragement.

Control. Stamina. Dexterity.

Some things never change.

At the half, we are down by only two, and as the guys head into the locker room, Ben turns and points directly at me and his mom. We all cheer our heads off, Adele leading the charge, then digging into her giant purse and passing fruit snacks and candy bars down the row.

“You think of everything,” Mom tells her.

“Had a coupon,” Adele says in a low voice. “But don’t tell Ben.”