My sisters continued thriving on the basketball court, even as I sat on the bleachers beside Mom. She didn’t understand my reasons, but she didn’t push me about it either. I think Mom was relieved I wasn’t hiding out in my room like I did at the beginning of the school year, so although she’d rather see me on the court next to my sisters, she knew things could be worse. A few months ago, they had been worse. Regardless, I didn’t regret my decision to permanently bench myself from the game.
When the Sectional Championship arrived, it was weird being so far from the court. Even still, I could sense my teammates’ restless nerves, and feel the anticipation of what it would mean to be champions. Last year, winning had been at our fingertips, and this was a chance to redeem it. Excitement aside, I also felt pressure, knowing that if they lost, the blame would fall on me for abandoning them. A part of me needed them to win so I wouldn’t have one more thing to feel guilty about. Fortunately, Maya Walsh, the Tiger’s point guard, was still recovering from surgery on her broken ankle. Now, my team might have the upper hand.
As the Pelicans and Tigers faced off on the court, I often found myself holding my breath. I watched anxiously beside Mom, having confidence that my sisters would perform their best—but anything could happen in a matter of seconds, including untimely fouls or missing important free throws in the last second, like I did last year.
The score board climbed evenly back and forth, keeping fans on their toes throughout the whole game. Mom and I squeezed hands, often jumping to our feet with the swift baskets from Taylor and Leah. Watching them move so fluidly together, I couldn’t be more proud. In the final minutes, Mom and I screamed until we were hoarse, begging those key free throws to circle the ring and fall through the net.
We were two points behind. Seconds left, Leah retrieved the ball and made a shot from well beyond the three-point line. It swooshed through the net as the buzzer sounded.
The Pelicans won the Championship.
The gym erupted, exploding onto the basketball court with Pelican pride.
“You did it!” I swept from one sister to the next, wrapping my arms around them.
Exhaustion trailed down the side of their faces in streaks, but they both grinned. “We missed you out there, Allie,” Leah said, after chugging half a bottle of Gatorade. The blue liquid dripped down her chin.
I shook my head. “Yeah, but you didn’t need me. You guys earned this all on your own.” I hugged my sisters once more, and then released them to celebrate with their team.
The win wasn’t important to me in the way it had been in the past. Instead, it simply made me happy to see my sisters’ confidence and happiness grow, even without me by their side. It was good practice for when I left for college.
With the close of basketball season, the school year moved swiftly into March, bringing with it a rainy spring. On a particularly grey afternoon, I left campus at lunch to run to the store. I’d seen Mr. Nordell in between classes, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief—something I had teased him about in the past. Who wanted to carry around sweat and snot in a cloth hidden inside your pocket anyway? At the store, I grabbed a box of tissue and a packet of flu medicine, just in case the changing weather was about to bring him down. I always broke out with a sweat and chills before suffering from the flu. I would keep my distance, of course—no one wants the flu—but from the looks of him, Mr. Nordell could use something to help him get through the last half of the day.
I returned to school. As I neared his classroom, I had to maneuver my way through the crowd of students in the hall. I checked my watch, confused by the bustle of kids hanging around. I knew the bell hadn’t rung yet. Nearing Mr. Nordell’s classroom, I could no longer mistaken the panicked energy buzzing the hallway. I’d felt it before—at the hospital. I heard the crying before I saw their faces—heard the words before I saw them spoken.
Get a teacher!
Call 911!
I barreled through the crowd, shoving my way past anxious students, their eyes wide and their cell phones open—texting, calling, taking pictures—I could only hope someone had called an ambulance because I knew what I was about to find.
Mr. Nordell laid in a heap on his back, his head lolled to the side and his legs crumpled together.
Too still.
A kid named Peter was checking his pulse, though he seemed to be going through the motions in a haze, as if he weren’t sure what to do. Too many students were standing around, gawking, crying, unsure…
Principal Hayden’s voice boomed from the hallway. “Move, move! Everybody out of the way!”
I beat him to Mr. Nordell, falling to my knees beside his body. Peter stepped away, visibly shaking.
“He’s not breathing, I—I can’t find a pulse,” he said.
“No! No, please, no…” My hands grabbed Mr. Nordell’s in mine, squeezing tightly. While mild warmth lingered to his touch, I could almost feel it seeping away with every moment that passed.
“Allie, step aside. Let me see him! Please, Allie—call an ambulance.” Principal Hayden threw his phone into my hand, almost knocking me over. He gave two breaths, and then swiftly transitioned to pumping Mr. Nordell’s chest. I came to my feet, my trembling hands touching 911 on the phone.
My breaths quickened in my chest. Too fast—I was breathing too fast. I felt my mind falling into a stupor, my knees threatening to buckle.
“911, what’s your emergency? … Hello?”
“It’s my teacher…” My voice cracked, my eyes falling shut. “I think he’s dead.”