“I don’t know what’s worse,” Hailey says. “The fact that they’re going soft on them because they’re girls, or that the girls are letting them go soft on them.”
“Equality in basketball. Right, Hails?” Maya says with a wink.
“Yes! Wait.” She eyes Maya suspiciously. “Are you making fun of me or are you serious, Shorty?”
“Both,” I say, leaning back on my elbows, my belly pooching out my shirt—a food baby. We just left lunch, and the cafeteria had fried chicken, one of the foods Williamson gets right. “It’s not even a real game, Hails,” I tell her.
“Nope.” Maya pats my stomach. “When are you due?”
“Same day as you.”
“Aww! We can raise our food offspring as siblings.”
“I know, right? I’m naming mine Fernando,” I say.
“Why Fernando?” Maya asks.
“Dunno. It sounds like a food baby name. Especially when you roll the r.”
“I can’t roll my r’s.” She tries, but she makes some weird noise, spit flying, and I’m cracking up.
Hailey points at the game. “Look at that! It’s that whole ‘play like a girl’ mind-set the male gender uses to belittle women, when we have as much athleticism as they do.”
Oh my Lord. She’s seriously upset over this.
“Take the ball to the hole!” she hollers to the girls.
Maya catches my eye, hers glimmering sneakily, and it’s middle school déjà vu.
“And don’t be afraid to shoot the outside J!” Maya shouts.
“Just keep ya head in the game,” I say. “Just keep ya head in the game.”
“And don’t be afraid to ‘shoot the outside J,’” Maya sings.
“‘Just get’cha head in the game,’” I sing.
We bust out with “Get’cha Head in the Game” from High School Musical. It’ll be stuck in my head for days. We were obsessed with the movies around the same time as our Jonas Brothers obsession. Disney took all our parents’ money.
We’re loud with it now. Hailey’s trying to glare at us. She snorts.
“C’mon.” She gets up and pulls me and Maya up too. “Get’cha head in this game.”
I’m thinking, Oh, so you can drag me to play basketball during one of your feminist rages, but you can’t follow my Tumblr because of Emmett Till? I don’t know why I can’t make myself bring it up. It’s Tumblr.
But then, it’s Tumblr.
“Hey!” Hailey says. “We wanna play.”
“No we don’t,” Maya mutters. Hailey nudges her.
I don’t wanna play either, but for some reason Hailey makes decisions and Maya and I follow along. It’s not like we planned it to be this way. Sometimes the shit just happens, and one day you realize there’s a leader among you and your friends and it’s not you.
“Come on in, ladies.” Jackson beckons us into the game. “There’s always room for pretty girls. We’ll try not to hurt you.”
Hailey looks at me, I look at her, and we have the same deadpan expression that we’ve had mastered since fifth grade, mouths slightly open, eyes ready to roll at any moment.
“Alrighty then,” I say. “Let’s play.”
“Three on three,” Hailey says as we take our positions. “Girls versus boys. Half court. First to twenty. Sorry, ladies, but me and my girls are gonna handle this one, mm-kay?”
Bridgette gives Hailey some serious stank-eye. She and her friends move to the sideline.
The dance party stops and those guys come over, Chris included. He whispers something to Tyler, one of the boys who played in the previous game. Chris takes Tyler’s place on the court.
Jackson checks the ball to Hailey. I run around my guard, Garrett, and Hailey passes to me. No matter what’s going on, when Hailey, Maya, and I play together, it’s rhythm, chemistry, and skill rolled into a ball of amazingness.
Garrett’s guarding me, but Chris runs up and elbows him aside. Garrett goes, “The hell, Bryant?”
“I’ve got her,” Chris says.
He gets in his defensive stance. We’re eye to eye as I dribble the ball.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
I do a chest-pass to Maya, who’s wide open for a jump shot.
She makes it.
Two to zero.
“Good job, Yang!” says Coach Meyers. She’s come out her office. All it takes is a hint of a real game, and she’s in coaching mode. She reminds me of a fitness trainer on a reality TV show. She’s petite yet muscular, and God that woman can yell.
Garrett’s at the baseline with the ball.
Chris runs to get open. Stomach full, I have to push harder to stay on him. We’re hip to hip, watching Garrett try to decide who to pass to. Our arms brush, and something in me is activated; my senses are suddenly consumed by Chris. His legs look so good in his gym shorts. He’s wearing Old Spice, and even just from that little brush, his skin feels so soft.
“I miss you,” he says.
No point in lying. “I miss you too.”
The ball sails his way. Chris catches it. Now I’m in my defensive stance, and we’re eye to eye again as he dribbles. My gaze lowers to his lips; they’re a little wet and begging me to kiss them. See, this is why I can never play ball with him. I get too distracted.