EMILY DICKINSON
The breeze off the ocean has turned chilly. I shiver as I wait my turn outside the crowded gym doors. Every person in line wears either North Ridge blue and white or War Eagle red. I, on the other hand, am dressed in my standard fitted black tee. At least I traded in the usual khaki shorts for cream-colored jeans and dusted off the black baby-doll flats Mom bought me to wear the one time we went to church last year. I even added a pair of dangly silver earrings I grabbed when Mom and I were in the drugstore Monday.
When I make it to the front of the line, I peek through the lobby to the packed gym beyond. A balding dad with a potbelly takes my ticket and stamps my hand. The crowd pushes me forward. My pulse vibrates in rhythm with the pounding music of the pep band. Teenage boys circle both ends of the court tossing easy layups as they warm up. For a second, I panic—I don’t know where to sit. I stand frozen and out of place, alone in the crowd.
After a minute, I thaw enough to survey the gym. When I do, I realize all eyes are glued to the guys on the court or on the cheerleaders’ barely concealed behinds. The few people involved in conversation have to lean in to each other and strain to hear over the spirited chaos. No one’s paying me any attention.
I exhale as a group of fans in front of me rushes toward the bleachers. When I spy two men in blue-and-white coaching shirts beside a row of folding chairs, I know where I’m supposed to sit. I just need to convince my feet to move in that direction when they really want to hide in the bathroom or duck outside and call Mom and Roger for a ride home. A vision of the two of them snuggled up against each other in a booth at Poor Richard’s motivates me to inch forward. I mutter “Excuse me” a thousand times as I squeeze around the perimeter of the court.
Royal blue North Ridge towels mark either end of the first two rows of seats behind the bench. A couple of vaguely familiar ninth graders sit with racks of water bottles on the first row.
“Are these seats saved?” I bow down so they can hear me, ignoring the headache building behind my eyes and pointing to the wooden bench behind them.
“Officially, no,” the taller of the two says, his close-set eyes traveling from my shoes to my chest. His gaze never actually reaches my face. “Unofficially, yes.” He props himself on his elbows, blocking the row where I’d hoped to sit, staring at my boobs.
Little creep. “Who are they unofficially saved for?” I ask through gritted teeth.
A warning buzzer sounds over the noise of the crowd. I jump, almost losing my balance. The only thing keeping me from falling into the players’ folding seats below the bleachers is the creeper’s bony little claw on my thigh.
Eww.
His hand slides a little too slowly down my leg, stopping on my knee. “Certain girls.”
Pressing my lips together, I jerk my leg free. “Well, Chatham told me to sit here.” I slide into the empty row behind him, ignoring his friend’s bulging eyes and focusing on the guys on the court.
It takes me all of two seconds to spot Chatham shooting a three-pointer on the far side of the court. He moves like a dancer. When a teammate passes him the ball, his muscular calves contract. Ropey arms extend toward the ceiling. Large hands palm the ball until a perfectly timed release sends it sailing toward the basket, where it drops into the rim and swishes through the net. Transfixed by his beauty, I forget the pounding of the music and the noise of the crowd. I even forget the mounting pain in my head.
The referees take the court, and the head coaches call their players in. Chatham huddles with his teammates around the bench. He nods at something the coach says, then glances up at the stands. When he spots me, a smile cracks open his face, and the flock of birds in my belly takes flight when he winks.
Someone coughs beside me, and I look to my right. The birds in my belly drop like a Boeing 747 in a nosedive, crashing and burning on the runway. It’s Maddie.
“Well, look who’s here—it’s Emilie.” She elbows the friend standing beside her.
All of a sudden, I’m nauseous. Not like nervous-butterfly nauseous, but hang-your-head-over-the-toilet-and-puke nauseous. Nevertheless, I sit up relatively straight and meet her eyes. I nod but don’t speak as they slide into the bleachers beside me. Creeper boy smiles at them without saying a word.
I’m seriously considering my escape options when the band stops. A voice booms over the loudspeaker, instructing fans to rise and introducing the senior who will sing the national anthem. When I stand, the gym spins. I place my right hand over my racing heart and breathe slowly through my nose in an effort to halt the swaying movement of the stands beneath my feet. My lips pucker at the sour taste on the back of my tongue. I’m fighting my own perilous fight when the singer hits her note on the line about the rocket’s red glare and the bombs bursting in air.
All signs—the headache, the dizziness, the bad taste in my mouth—point to either an oncoming panic attack, which I haven’t had since the year after Dad died, or an impending seizure. I scan the sidelines. I’m trapped by two rows of long-legged players, a handful of coaches, and three women sitting at the scorer’s table.
The song ends, and Maddie leans toward me. My throat tightens in defense against her suffocating cloud of hairspray, shampoo, and perfume. “Chatham must really like you if he invited you to sit behind the bench,” she says without taking her eyes off the court where the War Eagles’ starting lineup is being introduced. I can’t tell if it’s curiosity or malice in her tone.
“I thought you’d be cheering,” I say, trying to steer the conversation away from me and wracking my brain for an escape plan.
But Maddie just laughs, like I’m stupid or funny or both. “I’m not a basketball cheerleader,” she says. “That’s for girls who don’t make the football competition squad.” She shakes her head, flicking a strand of long blonde hair off her shoulder.
“Oh.” I force a smile to cover my confusion. Who knew there were social classes within the cheerleading ranks? I thought once you hit cheering status, you were home free. Now I almost feel sorry for the beautiful girls with the big bows in their hair, bouncing on the balls of their feet at either end of the court. Do they understand their lowly status compared to Maddie and her crew?
The announcer calls the North Ridge starting five. The gym erupts, and I forget about the cheerleaders. Swarms of feet pound the bleachers. Whistles, cheers, and applause drown out any attempt at conversation. I clap for Chatham when they call his number and smile when he looks up in the stands. Maddie waves so hard, a puff of stuffy air brushes my cheek.
I’m thankful for a second to sit down and gather my thoughts when the referees and the tallest guys from each team take center court for the jump ball. I may not actually be able to play, but no one is born and raised in the Tar Heel state—the heart and soul of the ACC—without knowing a little about the game of hoops.
The tip goes to Chatham. He throws a beautiful bounce pass to one of his teammates. The guy lobs a quick three-pointer, and North Ridge is on the board. But the War Eagles are vicious. The Ridge never leads by more than three. The gym buzzes with electricity.
During the first full time-out, I survey the stands on the other side of the court in an effort to avoid Maddie’s prying eyes. I spot Ayla sitting with Katsu, and my stomach tightens. I should be sitting with them. She glances my way and waves. Once again, I wish she was on my side of the gym. I shouldn’t be fighting off Maddie by myself, not when I could have a friend on my side if I’d just done the right thing.
“You want to hang with us after the game, since you’re, um . . . alone?” Maddie asks me. For the second time, I’m unsure of her motives. Is she trying to use me to get to Chatham, or does she have a more sinister plan in mind? It’s a little hard for me to believe that after weeks of the ice-queen routine she’s actually being friendly.
“I’m leaving at halftime.” I didn’t even know I’d made the decision until the words plunge from my mouth. But now that I’ve said them, I know they’re true. No matter how disappointed Chatham is or how concerned Ayla is, I can’t risk seizing in this gym. As soon as the buzzer sounds for the second quarter, I’m texting Mom and telling her I’m ready to go. Then I’m texting Ayla and Chatham and to say I’m sick, which I’m pretty sure is about to be true.
By the time Mom and Roger get here, it’ll be halftime. The sidelines should be clear enough with the players and coaches in the locker rooms that I can escape without falling over anyone.
Chatham passes the ball to our center—some guy named Eric—who scores an easy layup, bringing the lead back to two. My neck gets a workout, swiveling back and forth in an attempt to keep up with the lightning-quick game. The War Eagles force an aggressive press, racing the ball up court in an attempt to score before the halftime buzzer. Chatham steps in front of their point guard. The guy trips over Chatham’s foot.
The ref calls a foul on Chatham, and the crowd boos.
“Get a pair of glasses, ref!” an angry voice shouts behind me. Chatham glances up into the stands, his jaw twitching.
I look over my shoulder, trying to identify the obnoxious fan, and spot the man I noticed that night Mom and I went for ice cream at the pier. Except for the bulging vein in the man’s forehead, the stern cut of his jaw, and the pit-bull eyes, the guy’s a forty-something-year-old photocopy of Chatham. I turn away, not wanting my mental vision of Chatham to be polluted by the image of his dad.
With four seconds left on the clock and the Ridge up by two, the War Eagles throw the ball from midcourt to one of their shooting guards. He snaps an overhead pass to one of their tallest players.
“Three, two . . .” The crowd counts down the clock.
My heart races.
My head pounds.
With one second to go, the guy launches a three-point shot. Time slows. The War Eagles cheer. North Ridge fans cringe. I cover my eyes with my hands, unable to watch. When I do, the world goes black.