She Drives Me Crazy
Kelly Quindlen
For Mom, who always bounces back, and for Quinn Patrick, our little game changer
1
You would think, based on the fact that I’ve played varsity basketball for three years now, that I know how to score a basket.
You would be wrong.
“Zajac!” Coach screams, waving wildly at me. She’s only using my last name because she can’t remember my first name. “No more shots! Give the ball to someone else!”
It’s almost as humiliating as the air ball I lobbed up a second ago. I play shooting guard, so I’m supposed to, you know, shoot, but this is the third time I’ve taken a shot that hasn’t even touched the rim. The ball is usually so controlled in my hands, but tonight it’s like I’m chucking a giant potato through a wind tunnel.
The opposing team grabs the rebound and my ears burn as I run back to play defense on the other side of the court. I can’t bear to look at my teammates. This is technically just a preseason game, but it’s against Candlehawk Prep, our rival high school, and right now we’re trailing them by eighteen points. On our home court. If we lose this game, we won’t have the chance to redeem ourselves until we play them in the Christmas Classic, which means these dickheads will have the upper hand for the next two months.
I dig my sneakers into the court and try to focus on playing defense. We’re playing man-to-man, which is usually my strong suit, but tonight it’s tripping me up because the opponent I’m guarding happens to be my ex-teammate.
She also happens to be my ex-girlfriend.
Tally Gibson was the first and only person I ever loved. She transferred to my school at the beginning of junior year with all the airs of the big city and a drive to prove herself on and off the court. The first time we talked, she tugged on my ponytail and told me I had the prettiest red hair she’d ever seen. The first time we kissed, it was like a flash fire ripped through me.
I was, in a word, entranced.
For her part, Tally only loved two things. The first was me. The second was being noticed. Tally wanted to be somebody, but she had a hard time making that happen at our school, where the girls’ basketball team was about as significant as the knitting club. I knew she wanted more, but in my mind, more was always something that existed in the distant future, something we would eventually tackle together. I thought we were on the same page until the day she took me out to dinner and announced she was transferring again—and that she wanted to break up. The official letter welcoming her to Candlehawk Preparatory Academy was so wrinkled and worn that I could tell she’d been carrying it around for weeks.
I try not to look at Tally now as she bounds down the court in her new gold jersey, but it’s like pretending the sun doesn’t exist. She pulls her lips into her mouth like she’s trying to keep a neutral expression, but I can tell she’s thrilled with how this game is going. It validates every reason she had for transferring to a school with a better basketball program, a school where she could finally be noticed.
Tally takes her place near me at the top of the key, keeping enough distance to stay open for a pass from her new point guard. But then, almost like she can’t help it, she glances at me.
You okay? she mouths. She’s trying to look concerned, but it feels more condescending. I break the eye contact and turn away. I don’t want her pity.
The other team’s point guard has just about crossed the half-court line when the ref blows his whistle. My best friend, Danielle, has called for a time-out. Danielle is our point guard, varsity captain, and basically our makeshift coach because our official coach is clueless. She hustles over to me and speaks in an undertone before our forwards and center can join us.
“Dude.” She gives me her trademark intense stare. “You gotta focus. Ignore her.”
Danielle knows how devastated I was after Tally broke up with me, and how I’ve just barely recovered. Between that and her competitive drive, Danielle is determined to win this game at all costs, even though we’ve lost to Candlehawk the last three years in a row. We lose most of our games, but it’s never stopped Danielle from dreaming of a winning season.
“I know, I know, I hear you,” I mutter to her. “You didn’t have to call time-out.”
Danielle huffs. “It’s not all about you.” She turns to our forwards and center as they join us. “Listen, do y’all recognize this play they’re about to run?”
The rest of us stare at her. Danielle’s mind is always working overtime, picking up patterns and rhythms the rest of us never see. Every once in a while, she completely zones out when she’s thinking through something. Our friends called it Danielle Vision.
“The point guard does that hand-twirl signal when she wants the forwards to cross-swap,” she says in a hushed tone. “They’re gonna run out to the wings to pull the attention away from the top of the key—”
I’m trying to listen, but my eyes keep searching for Tally. She’s standing in a huddle with her new teammates, doing that thing where she picks up her ankle and balances on one foot. The first time I teased her about that habit, during tryouts last year, she grinned crookedly and said, Why are you watching me so closely?
I wish I could get that moment back. Tally’s arctic-blue eyes, her daring smirk, her eagerness to give this place—and me—a chance. She had yet to learn that playing for a losing girls’ basketball team in a quirky suburban town made you a nobody. I had yet to learn that being a nobody was supposed to bother me.