Front and Center Read online

  "It'll be so awesome, you know, to watch you in college," he said, and I laughed and said it would be. Because he didn't specify what it was exactly he'd be watching me doing, and as far as I was concerned, it would be just as awesome to have Beaner watch me sitting in the bleachers, or playing a money game that we lose by eighty.

  And Monday during lunch, I called the U of M just like Win had told me to, thanking them for the weekend. I couldn't say, I'm sorry but there's no way I can play Big Ten ball," because sure as shooting that would get back to Win. But I did a great job of making it clear indirectly, asking how many other girls they were looking at, saying how bad I felt for Tyrona and how I'd never in my life want to be in that position. The coach kind of chuckled and agreed that no one wants that, but she got my point. Recruiting is like a board game where one side creeps forward and then the other side does, no one willing to give too much away. By saying all that, I'd moved myself three spaces back. Which made me even more relaxed and peaceful.

  All this, weird as it sounds, made me a better player. I guess because I didn't feel so much pressure anymore, so much belly-knot fear that I wouldn't measure up. Now that I didn't even want to measure up, the coast was clear for me just to be me. So when we played Prophets town on Tuesday, I actually kept my head a bit. It wasn't like I was hollering up and down the court, but I didn't freak when Coach K started riding me. And a couple times when I saw something that was totally obvious, I had smarts enough to whisper it to Kari. We did an especially good job on this play where I draw two defenders while Kayla drives in. That worked five or six times, and Prophets town never seemed to figure it out.

  We won, which was important because winning is important, duh, no matter what any grownup tells you, but also because we had Hawley coming up on Friday. And Hawley's no Prophets town. They're more like the Los Angeles Lakers. Which Coach K reminded us afterward, how hard our next game was going to be. Looking straight at Ashley, he mentioned how much a couple players were improving, and she just about smiled her face off, hearing this. Then he said that anyone who wanted to could join Ashley and D.J.'s little practices if it was okay with the two of us. Which I'll confess was a kick to hear, because if nothing else it meant he thought I wasn't doing so bad.

  I couldn't help wondering a couple times whether Brian would come to Friday's game. Which was stupid of me, particularly given that huge kitchen talk we'd had. But I didn't have time to sit around mooning over Brian; I had too much else going on. First of all, Mom was calling every night to ask how we were coming on decorating for Christmas, even though this year it felt like the holiday spirit had slipped past our house without even stopping in for a visit. Dad kept telling her we'd be ready for her and Win's arrival, which at least meant I wasn't the only one procrastinating. Which was good, given that my life was also extremely full of this little thing called school, a history quiz and a big English paper on another extremely depressing book—would it kill the teachers to assign us just one book, once, that didn't make you want to jump off a cliff? And a big midterm in math, which automatically causes the jumping.

  I got through it all, more or less, and then the last afternoon before break, we had a pep rally. It was a typical thing, the gym full of kids and balloons and our not-so-great pep band, Mr. Slutsky announcing the girls' basketball team one by one. Only just after he'd said the last girl, a bunch of kids started laughing and pointing like crazy, and I turned around to see Beaner coming out of the boys' locker room dressed ... well, it was something. He was wearing a big T-shirt with HAWLEY 00 written with Sharpie on the front, and long b-ball shorts like girls wear, and b-ball shoes. But he was also wearing a big girly wig, and lots of makeup that he'd clearly put on himself, and fake boobs.

  He strutted around pushing up his hair, acting like he didn't even notice everyone laughing at him, looking the girl players up and down like they weren't worth his attention. Then he came to me and glared at me with his hands on his hips. The kids in the bleachers were screaming things like "Get him, D.J.!" and "Get her, D.J.!" because it wasn't clear which one of those Beaner was, a him or a her. Then he started these karate moves on me, all these different poses that would make a real karate expert barf.

  What was I supposed to do? It was funny, sure, funny as heck. But it was also totally embarrassing, all the kids screaming like that, and calling my name. Beaner was born to draw attention to himself, but unless I'm holding a basketball I don't want to hear my name screamed out, ever. Finally, my face all red even though I was laughing, I made one little gesture, a push like you'd use to move a defender away. Didn't even touch him. But apparently that was enough, because he collapsed on the gym floor with all this arm waving and moaning, twitching like a bug does when you spray it with bug spray, and then lay still.

  That was the cue, I guess, for the cheerleaders to start in with "Beat Hawley! Beat Hawley! Beat Hawley!" until everyone in the gym was chanting, even Beaner, who got up and danced around with the cheerleaders, totally hamming it up. Then the boys' team came out and Beaner went and joined them, flirting away ... I wasn't sure any of the boys would even be able to play that night, they were laughing so hard. But by the end of the pep rally everyone in the school, even the kids who are too cool for pep rallies, everyone was absolutely united about beating Hawley.

  If Beaner doesn't play hoops in college, he should definitely try out for the school mascot, because he'd be better at that job than anyone I know, and would end up on TV as much as most of the players. And I'd watch every game just to see him in action.

  After school we didn't have practice, just a little review and a bit of drilling because Coach wanted us fresh for the night, so I got to watch Curtis play his game, his middle school game, against Hawley's middle school. Actually Beaner and I went together with Abby, his little sister who was so psyched to be with us, both of them doing these dance moves whenever Red Bend scored. It made me love Beaner so much—not I-want-to-marry-you love, but the you-are-so-wonderful-and-it's-great-hanging-out-with-you kind. Just like he'd promised, Beaner even programmed my cheap little cell phone with that Elvis ring tone. I couldn't help noticing how appropriate the song was for him. "A little less conversation, a little more action": that was Beaner. And Beaner's kind of action was satisfactioning me—that's how Elvis phrased it, although I suspect he was referring to a different action than cheering eighth grade basketball players. But you never know.

  Plus Curtis had a great game, which isn't hard when you're 6'2" and have years of practice shooting hoops in our driveway. I have to say, our potholes sure teach you how to scramble after bad passes, which comes in pretty handy when you're playing with a bunch of gawky middle-schoolers. Or gawky high-schoolers for that matter.

  ***

  All week we'd been watching game tapes of Hawley, Coach K showing us their moves and their two best players: 23, who's a center and a real bruiser, and this 11, who's little and scrappy and clearly a big problem. I never like watching other teams' tapes—I always feel like I'm cheating even though I remind myself that sure as shooting they're watching tapes of us, that probably right at this minute a coach somewhere is pointing out Red Bend's 12 and how she'll need to be double-teamed. Then I don't feel so bad. And we had some new plays all worked out, including that one where I draw defense so Kayla can score. At least with Kayla we had our own little scrappy player.

  The game—well, it was really loud, which I think you can imagine. Hawley has a much bigger gym than we do, bigger and newer and nicer because everything in Hawley is bigger and newer and nicer and I wouldn't be surprised if they built the gym just to rub that in our faces. Not that I'm bitter. About half of Red Bend was there, including Dad and Curtis and even Amber and Dale, who for once stayed in town for the weekend just to watch, which I really appreciated. And Mr. Jorgensen was videotaping it. I always feel bad that Mr. and Mrs. Jorgensen have to split up to watch Kari and Kyle play, but that's how it works around here. One team goes to the other school and their other team comes to ou
rs, so boys and girls are playing at the same time in different places because no one's thought up a better solution to watching boys and girls both.

  In case you're wondering, the game was extremely physical. That 23 was a total—well, the term female dog comes to mind. Just as mean as she could be. And guess who got to guard her? Luckily I had a couple things going for me, like the fact that I grew up playing with guys who've never paid much attention to pain, theirs or anyone else's. And I'd seen how physical the U of M players get—they practice against guys even. And I've been told I have very sharp elbows. Which shouldn't make me proud, but it does.

  Anyway, 23 learned pretty early in the game that anything she dished out, I'd dish right back. She kept fouling me—three times in the first half! And each time I made my free throws. So by the end of the half, she was so mad she was pinching. Which didn't bother me much because I must have the same Pain? So what? thing as my brothers.

  Yeah, it was pretty ugly.

  We were only down by a couple points at the half. Coach K was totally psyched, twirling his pen so hard that I was afraid it was going to go sailing up into space and start orbiting the planet. He was a little too psyched, actually, the way he gets sometimes. He'd even screamed at the refs over a couple bad calls. The calls were bad, don't get me wrong, but it's not like a ref ever says, "Whoopsie, I made a mistake—lemme just change that." Yelling just makes them madder. We were going to get a technical if he didn't watch it.

  All through halftime I worried about this, and then I thought of Ashley. Our little genius benchwarmer. As we were heading back into the gym, I came up beside her. "Listen," I whispered in her ear, "you need to take care of Coach. If he starts to blow his top, you get on him. Hear me?"

  "M-me?"

  "You. Be aggressive. Be even more aggressive than when you're defending."

  Ashley looked like she'd rather play Hawley five-on-one than take this job. But we were already on the court and she didn't have time to argue.

  Two minutes in, sure enough, Kari got called for an over-the-back foul even though she was totally vertical. Coach K started screaming, and I jabbed my finger at poor Ashley—I was pretty caught up myself, I guess—to sit him down. She kind of tiptoed over and said something, I don't know what, but it worked because he did stop, and sat down, and he even gave her a pat. Which was good to see, because I had enough to worry about without having to babysit my own coach.

  Remember how at Tuesday's game I'd whispered things to Kari? Well, it had worked so well that now I tried it again, getting her to call a play with Kayla, which she hollered so loud you could probably hear it at the top of the bleachers, and it worked like a charm. And once I even suggested we switch positions so Kari could get in some of the rebounding she's so good at. And that worked too!

  I ended up fouling out with fifteen seconds left, but it was totally worth it because 23 missed both her free throws. Just like Tyrona, only not at all because it was Hawley. And man you should have heard Red Bend's reaction. Then Kari rebounded and scored, and we won.

  Which meant we all got to run screaming onto the court, everyone from me down to Ashley, and scream twice as loud because it was Hawley's gym we were screaming in, and rub each other's hair and jump up and down and generally celebrate in that way that feels so good when you're doing it and sucks so much when you're watching from the losing side.

  Some families came out on the court as well, checking their shoes first because it's beaten into your head from the time you can walk: no black soles on the basketball court! You'd think the state of Wisconsin would just ban black-soled shoes altogether, but then I guess folks would smuggle them across the border and that would be an even bigger mess. But it was nice to see Ashley's parents and her little brother, and Dad shaking hands with Coach K as they slapped each other's shoulders.

  Oh, it was great. I could play like this for the rest of my life. Meaning: it was great to beat Hawley, but it was also great to feel so good at it. And confident enough to work with Kayla on our special plays, and team my brain up with Kari's mouth. Maybe Kari could go to St. Margaret's with me. Or I could just go wherever she did and be her point guard buddy for three years. Maybe.

  We went out to Taco Bell afterward, Kari and me with Beaner and Tyler Dietz after their game. The place was really crowded and we stood in line for a long time, Beaner behind me making goofy little pigtails out of my hair and singing this song about how he was a bag of groceries. When we got up to the counter, he looked at the girl apologetically:

  "No habla inglés."

  "What?" asked the girl, totally clueless.

  "I"—only he pronounced it khhi, really far back in his throat—"I speak no Engleesh. Frijoles, per favor, señorita. Señorita linda." He smiled helplessly and pointed at the menu.

  "What's he saying?" the girl asked.

  Kari leaned forward. "Beans. For ... mes ... amigos."

  The folks around us were cracking up. The girl sighed. "Can one of you please order?"

  "I will," I said. Beaner looked disappointed, but I can't manage an accent even if I had any idea what to say. So I did the best I could with the other three pantomiming, Beaner shouting, "Olé!" whenever the girl put another item on our tray, and he gave her a big "Muchos gracias, señorita" when we paid.

  We piled in to a table, Beaner taking all the straws to make a mustache. "I am ... El Hombre," he announced, "I am ... El Hombre Macho!"

  Tyler had his arm around Kari; they were making out a little, to tell the truth.

  "Hey! Enough with the smoochering, mes chicos!" Beaner ordered. "El Hombre no like the smoochering." He wiggled his straw mustache at me. "Is correct, señorita?"

  It was a little embarrassing, but I didn't feel nearly as stressed as the last time we were here. Maybe I was getting used to being in the forefront of things. Getting used to the attention.

  Kind of like the Hawley game, now that I thought about it. It had been rough, sure, but it hadn't been out of control. Once I got to college, to St. Margaret's or Ibsen even, the basketball would be just like that, the same amount of stress. Maybe less, even, but certainly not more. So really ... Wow, I had just experienced the worst hoops pressure I'd ever face in my life! And I'd been fine! Just like I was fine with Beaner.

  I laughed. "Is totally correct, señor."

  Beaner put his arm around my shoulders. "You is no so good at the español, señorita."

  I laughed even more, really grooving on that feeling of him next to me.

  Then I glanced around.

  Why, I dunno. Maybe it was ... I don't know what it was. I just know I did it.

  There, on the other side of Taco Bell, was Brian. Sitting at a table full of Hawley guys, all of them watching us. The guy next to Brian was holding his straw under his nose, clearly imitating Beaner, with a really snotty expression on his face.

  Brian saw me ... and you know what? He didn't look away.

  That's what I'd expected him to do. What I'd bet money he'd do. Look away first thing. Race out the door. Dive through the window.

  Instead, though, he just nodded. Gave me that little tip folks give each other across a room.

  His buddy, the snotty one, said something, and Brian turned to him. I couldn't make out what Brian said, but the guy put the straw down really fast, the way little kids do when their parents say something sharp.

  "You is no loving me?" Beaner asked over my shoulder.

  I spun back to face our table. "I, um, is loving you much."

  "Non non non! Is 'loving me mucho,'" corrected Beaner. "You smoochering me maybe, maybe later?"

  I laughed extra loud, and squeezed closer, getting my shoulder doing that puzzle-piece thing against his. And I focused extra hard on what he was saying, and Kari and Tyler too, making sure with every fiber of my muscles that I didn't look around again.

  And then, five minutes later maybe, I finally did. Brian and his buddies were putting their jackets on, chatting among themselves. He glanced over our way and shot me a
big grin, one of those thousand-dollar smiles he's so good at, and then he left. Not running or anything. Just ambling out the door.

  Kari was asking me something.

  "What?" I said, because I'd totally missed it.

  "You're really serious about St. Margaret's?"

  There was this little pause. Just a second when it occurred to me that maybe things with Brian could still work out. Maybe he really had changed. Maybe seeing me with other people, with other guys, hearing from his father that I was dating, maybe it showed him I wasn't so embarrassing after all.

  But then, just as fast, I realized I was being stupid. Me going out with Brian wasn't any different from me playing D-I. Those were two leagues, D-I and Brian, that simply were not safe. Not for me, anyway. I'd just end up getting hurt. Getting hurt again. And hurting a lot of other folks when it came to basketball, coaches and players and fans and my family most of all. It wasn't fair to me or anyone else to set myself up for all that pain.

  "D.J.?" Kari asked, kind of tugging me back down to Earth.

  I dug in to my burrito. "Am I serious about St. Margaret's? One hundred percent. Absolutely."

  9. Ho Ho Oops

  DAD FINALLY DID IT. He bit the bullet and decided to leave his cows and go see Win. Mom's begging paid off, hers and the Otts', and Dad's new BFF Mr. Nelson. Dad has left the farm overnight before, of course, but the way he carries on you'd think he was married to each and every one of his milkers. Mom and Win were coming home for Christmas, though, for two nights, so it made extra sense for him to learn about taking care of Win and then help them drive home.

  Even so, I still didn't have the energy to drag that Christmas stuff out of the attic, and it looked like Dad and Curtis didn't either. Instead we spent the day before Dad left watching college hoops. Then that evening Amber and Dale came over to make popcorn balls because apparently that's a big tradition in Dale's family, and she and Dad talked barbecue together—Dale would be Dad's new BFF if Mr. Nelson wasn't—and she promised again to make Dad a smokehouse so he could make his own smoked cheese, both of them acting like this would actually happen and the rest of us going along with it.