“It’s okay,” she says, her face softening. “It’ll be okay.” And she pulls me close and I’m trying not to cry on the dress she’s wearing, and somehow, I know she’s right. It’s going to be okay. Because you know what? It usually always is.
When I get to the gym, my locker is jammed, which is definitely not a good omen for the night. I’ve never actually believed that whole thing about signs or whatever, but it’s enough to rattle me.
“Come on,” I say, trying to move the dial on the combination lock so that it will open.
“What’s the problem here?” Andrea asks. Taylor is standing behind her—they’re both already dressed in their uniforms.
“I can’t get my locker open,” I say.
She rolls her eyes at me. I know she’s probably thinking, Okay, what other kind of trouble can she possibly bring here? “I know, I know,” I say. “It’s always something with me.”
Taylor steps forward and smacks the locker with her fist. It pops open.
“Thanks,” I say, reaching in and pulling out my uniform. I run my fingers over the stitching on the back, which says NORTHON in blue letters. A little thrill runs through my body. I’m on the team. And I have a chance to make things better.
“You’re welcome,” Taylor says.
“You better bring it tonight, Northon,” Andrea says.
“Oh,” I say. “I will.”
Wow. I never knew what it would be like to be out here like this, in front of all these people, under the lights. Well, not really under the lights, since we’re in the gym, not outside in the dark or anything. The crowd is insane. It seems like maybe the whole school has come out to watch the game. And of course everyone’s parents are here, and even some grandparents and friends from home. I spot my mom sitting up in the bleachers. She’s sitting with Headmistress O’Neal, and they wave to me as I take my place on the bench.
They do the starting lineups, and when my name is called, a huge thrill moves through my body as the crowd cheers.
“Now, listen up,” Coach Crazy says in the huddle. “We have a chance to win this. Cardmore is deep, so we’re going to have to do our best to keep our legs fresh.” Is it my imagination, or does she look over at me? Note to self: Conserve energy. “Play smart, and work together. Play the defense as much as you can. Scarlett, stay on number twelve, Ramirez. She has a wicked outside shot.”
“Right,” I say.
She gives some instructions to Nikki and Taylor, and then it’s time for the game to start.
We put our hands in a big pile in the middle of our huddle, yell “one, two, three, TEAM!” and then break. We’re really going to have to work on that cheer. The soccer one is way better.
I get off to a shaky start, missing the opening tip, which sails right into the hands of Ramirez, the girl I’m supposed to be guarding. She takes it to the hoop, and slides it right in, giving Cardmore a two-to-nothing lead.
“That’s okay, Northon,” Taylor says to me as we head back down the floor. “Just be careful and don’t let it get in your head.”
Right.
But the next five minutes aren’t any better. I’m having trouble keeping up with Ramirez, and soon, Cardmore gets out to a twelve-to-six lead. But then, as we’re running down the court, I notice that Ramirez has a little bit of trouble if I guard her on her left side. She can’t run as fast, and she doesn’t have a good grip on the ball. I’m able to knock it out of her grasp, and Nikki grabs it, running back up and getting an easy layup.
“Good job, Scarlett!” Andrea screams from the sidelines.
By the time halftime rolls around, I’m exhausted. You’d think all the practices would have brought my fitness level up, but I guess not.
In the locker room, Coach is not happy.
“They’re beating you down the field almost every possession,” she says. “You need to hustle, hustle, hustle. And play the defense.”
Things get a little better in the second half. I’m more used to the way Ramirez is moving, and I’m able to guard her better. I even make a basket. Then I get fouled, and make both my free throws, which means I’ve scored four points for the team.
Nikki and Taylor are on fire. They seem to have found their rhythm in the second half, and they’re hitting shot after shot. Finally, I look up to see the scoreboard and realize we’re within four points with only two minutes left. Another girl on the Cardmore team, Smith, takes a shot and it rims out, right into my hands. I dribble it down the court, Ramirez hot on my heels. I pass it off to Rory, who sets her feet and shoots. I hold my breath as I watch it swirl around the rim and then finally fall through the hoop. Now we’re only two points down. On the next possession, Cardmore commits an offensive foul against Taylor, and she nails both her free throws. Tie game.
Cardmore misses their next shot, and then we score. We’re up by two, and the crowd is going wild. I am doing my best to keep up with the group, but my fitness is still not up to their level. I never realized games were so physically demanding.
There’s only sixteen seconds left in the game, we’re two points up, and Cardmore has the ball. They call a time-out.
“Now, listen,” Coach Crazy says once we’re in the huddle. For someone so crazy, she is surprisingly lucid during the games—although I can still hear her from the sidelines, yelling my name, the same way she does in practice. “They’re going to give it to Ramirez. Northon, you have to stay on her. The rest of you, make sure you don’t leave anyone open. And if they score, everyone should be ready to race back down the court. We might have a chance to score again.”
We do our “one, two, three, TEAM” thing again, and then we’re on our way.
Just like Coach Crazy predicted, they give the ball to Ramirez. Sixteen seconds, fifteen. The rest of my team is guarding the other players, and Ramirez is dribbling the ball, running down the clock. Fourteen seconds, thirteen. When there’s eight seconds left, she starts to make a move. She dribbles around me, and gets by. But she takes just a split second too long to set her feet before she takes the shot, and I’m able to get halfway in front of her. I see the ball leave her fingers, and I put my hand up to try and block the shot.
Everything moves in slow motion as I feel my hand brush the rough surface of the ball. And then I watch as it goes sailing out of bounds. And then everything goes back to normal speed as my team piles on me, screaming and cheering. We won. The crowd is going wild. I’m laughing and hugging everyone and it’s the best feeling I’ve ever had.
And then, up in the bleachers, through a space in the crowd, I see Amber. She’s jumping up and down, wearing my green dress, cheering along with everyone else. I catch her eye, and then, very slowly, she turns her hand into a thumbs-up.
When I get back to my room, the dorm is deserted. Everyone’s at the dance. But it’s okay. I do a little dance around my room, feeling better than I have in days. My mom took me out for pizza after the game and it sloshes around in my stomach.
After I take a nice long, hot shower, I decide I’ve earned myself a little R & R. So I pull on a comfy pair of pajama pants, a fleece shirt, and grab The Catcher in the Rye off my shelf. I open a huge bag of peanut M&M’s, snuggle down into my comforter, and get ready for a night by myself. Well, at least until Amber gets home and can tell me all about Louis Masterpole. And maybe about James. Just, you know, if he was at the dance. And if he asked about me. Not that I care that much, but just, you know, out of curiosity. I swallow the lump in my throat and force myself to concentrate on my book.
It’s about half an hour later when Crissa appears at our door.
She’s carrying a bag of books and is dressed in jeans and a navy blue hooded sweatshirt.
“James was looking for you,” she says. My heart starts beating very fast, but I force myself not to react and keep my eyes on my book. I don’t care if he’s looking for me. The jerk. And I certainly will not let Crissa see me react to this piece of news. I will not talk to her. I will not look at her. I will not—
&nbs
p; “Why was he looking for me?” I ask.
“I dunno,” she says, shrugging. “I think he wants to talk to you, apologize for this whole thing. I saw him standing outside the gym on my way back from the library.”
“You didn’t go to the dance?” I ask. I thought everyone was there except for me. And then I remember Crissa’s remark about the dance being an archaic mating ritual or something.
“Too much studying to do,” she says. “And I have a riding lesson early tomorrow, so that’s cutting into my study time.”
I roll my eyes and go back to reading my book.
And that’s when it happens.
Crissa starts crying.
She plops right down on her bed, her back toward me, and her shoulders start shaking. She’s not even making that much noise, but she’s crying hard, one of those silent cries, where you almost can’t catch your breath.
Oh, jeez. I sigh and set my book gingerly on the bed and walk over toward her. “Uh, what’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says, quickly wiping the tears away from her eyes.
“There must be something,” I say. “You’re crying.” I sit down on her bed next to her.
“Like you care,” she says. There’s a wet spot on her sleeve.
“Fine,” I say. “Have it your way.”
I stand up, but she stops me.
“It’s my mom,” she says. “She has it in her head that I need riding and tennis lessons.”
“And?”
“And so she’s scheduled one for tomorrow. A riding lesson. Which means that not only did I have to miss the dance tonight, but I have to miss my soccer game tomorrow.”
“I thought you didn’t care about the dance. You know, all that talk about it being misogynistic or whatever.”
“I don’t care about the dance. But I care about my soccer game.” Tears are staining her face. I reach over and awkwardly rub her back a bit. I can’t help but feel a little sorry for her. “And actually, I do kind of care about the dance.”
“But you said it was an archaic mating ritual or something.”
“I just said that so people wouldn’t know I wanted to go.” She grabs a tissue off the side table and blows her nose. “Scarlett, I’m sorry for what I did to you. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t in my right mind.”
My first instinct is to yell at her, but then I realize I haven’t been in my right mind either.
“Why would you do it, though? I mean, I haven’t done anything to you.”
“I know,” she says. Sniff, sniff. “I was upset. I broke up with James, and my mom was all ‘You need to get back with him, Crissa, he’s a wonderful boy’ and then Marissa moved, and I was working my butt off in summer school, and then you just waltzed in here, out of nowhere, all flashy and sparkly. You seemed like you didn’t have a care in the world.” She blows her nose again, and then throws the tissue against the wall.
“I wasn’t all flashy and sparkly,” I say.
“Scarlett, you made a belt for your uniform out of a blue glitter headband.” Hmm. Good point.
“But you knew I left my old school because of a big scandal,” I say.
“Yeah, but you didn’t seem affected by it,” she says. “And I couldn’t figure it out. Here I was, getting rattled about every little thing, while meanwhile, you were acting like you didn’t have a care in the world. It didn’t seem fair. I just … I dunno, I wanted to rattle you.”
“How’d you know about my dad anyway?” I ask, looking down at my hands.
“My mom,” she says. “When you applied to come to school here, your case got taken before the board.”
“Oh.” Jeez. That must have been some scene. All the board members considering whether or not I should be let into this school. I should have known it would be impossible to keep the thing about my dad a secret.
“And I was just so stressed out, so when James told me his secret pen pal was new, I figured out it was you,” she says. “And so I decided to mess with you. I’m really sorry.”
I feel myself starting to get mad again, but then I sigh. “It’s okay,” I say. “I haven’t been in my right mind either. Running around, doing all those crazy things, getting suspended.”
“I can’t believe you did them,” she says. She looks down at her hands, and a little bit of a smile crosses her lips. But not in a mean way. More of a Wow, you’re not scared of anything kind of way. “I never thought you’d actually go through with them.”
“Me neither,” I say. We sit there for a second, not saying anything, and then Miss Cardanelli appears at our door.
“Hey,” I say, “what’s going on?” I figure she’s just bored and making rounds, trying to see if there’s anyone left in the dorm.
“Scarlett,” she says. “You have a visitor.”
“I do?”
“Yes,” she says. “I think your cousin. James?” I wait for her to mention that since I’m in trouble, I’m not allowed to have visitors, but she just gives me a wink. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I let it all out. “He’s down in the lobby with Amber and her date.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“You should talk to him,” Crissa says once Miss Cardanelli’s headed back down the hall. “All he can talk about is how cool you were, and how he didn’t want to go along with my little scheme.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” she says. “I knew you must have figured it out somehow, and I figured he was just going along with it because you told him not to stop. He’s not a bad person.”
“And you two are …” I wonder how to phrase it. Broken up? Just friends? Not interested?
“We’re completely over,” she says. “We’ve been over. In fact, I’m not sure we even really liked each other that much in the first place.” She sighs and lays back down on her bed, looking up at the ceiling. She’s stopped crying, but her eyes are still watery. “I mean, we’ve just always kind of been thrown together, you know? Ever since we were little kids.”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Anyway, you should talk to him,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze. “And maybe when I come back we can talk about some ways to deal with your mom.” Crissa smiles. I guess if Amber and my mom can give me a second chance, it can’t hurt to give someone else one.
***
I don’t even bother to put on any makeup or change my clothes. I rush downstairs in my red pajama pants and black fleece top. And when I get down to the lobby, Amber, James, and a guy I don’t recognize are sitting on one of the squashy couches in the common room.
“Hey,” Amber says. “We figured since you couldn’t come to the dance, we’d bring the dance to you. Well, as much as we could, anyway.” She holds up a bottle of fruit punch. “This is all we managed to steal.”
“That’s okay,” I grin, reaching for the bottle and taking a sip.
“This is Louis,” she says, indicating the guy sitting next to her.
“Nice to meet you,” Louis says, standing up to shake my hand. He’s short, with wire-rimmed glasses, but he has a friendly-looking face.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, and grin at Amber. And then I turn to look at James.
“Hey,” he says shyly.
“Hey,” I say. He moves over on the couch and I slide in next to him. We don’t say anything for a second. Amber and Louis are down on the other side of the long couch. I can’t really hear what they’re saying, but it sounds like Louis is talking about some kind of ant farm, and Amber’s giggling like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. I guess she’s open to bug flirting after all.
“Look, Scarlett,” James starts. “I know that—”
I hold my hand up to stop him. “It’s okay,” I say. “I don’t want you to say anything.”
He frowns. “You don’t want me to say anything because you’re mad and you hate me, or because you’re forgiving me?”
“I don’t want you to say anything, becau
se I want to start over,” I say. I take a deep breath. “Just me and you. Not through writing stranger letters, not while I’m trying to manipulate my way through some dumb game, but just while we’re trying to be ourselves.”
He looks relieved. “I was hoping we could do that, but then you started sending me all those blank notes, and I know my apology doesn’t necessarily mean that much, but—”
“It’s okay,” I say. I pull my feet up on the couch and curl them under me. I want to tell him that Crissa told me it wasn’t his fault, that he really was looking out for me the whole time. But it’s not about Crissa. It’s just about James and me. “Let’s just pretend we don’t know each other… . So?” I say. “What’s your favorite book, James?”
“The Catcher in the Rye,” he says. And then he smiles and reaches his hand out and wraps it around mine.
***
Monday morning in English, Miss Cardanelli announces that we’re going to be writing to our secret stranger pen pals. And then I realize that I don’t really have a secret stranger pen pal. I know James pretty well, especially after Friday night, when we stayed in the common room until midnight, when his bus left for BAFB, talking, laughing, and holding hands.
But I write him a note anyway.
Dear James,
I had fun Friday night at the “dance.” I’m sure that by the time you read this, we’ll have already talked on the phone.
Talk soon,
Scarlett
And then, since the rest of the class is still writing their letters, I decide I should write another one. The one I should have been writing all along.
I pull out a fresh piece of paper.
Dear Dad,
How are you? Sorry I have not written or called, but things have been crazy. Things at my new school are good. I’m on the basketball team; did Mom tell you? It’s going okay so far. Anyway, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come and visit soon? I’d like to show you the school and introduce you to my friends.