End of the Race (7 page)

T
he crowd is tense. I sense the energy in the gym as my knees flex nervously, anticipating the whistle. My voice is tight with tension as I call out strategy to Lucy, my small forward, and Mary, my shooting guard. Fort Washington’s moms, dads, sisters, and brothers pack the bleachers to witness their team’s final game. I glance at the Ambler crowd. I’m pleased to see a bunch of eighth-grade boys, including David! But our fans are outnumbered, and Fort Washington’s confident cheers make it clear to everyone that they expect to win.

Coach Williams has me on center again, to Darla’s complete
annoyance. She’s pouting in her power forward spot. Gran waves from the crowd as the jump’s about to happen. I wave back. A flicker of irritation bristles through me as I spot Taryn next to her, sharing popcorn and talking. OK, so Taryn’s a clinic volunteer—but that doesn’t make her Gran’s best buddy

Don’t go there, MacKenzie. No petty distraction. Concentrate!

Ambler gets the jump ball. Yes! Mary passes to Darla, Darla dribbles like thunder upcourt, steering way clear of Fort Washington’s defense. She sinks it in, like a tossed ball in a retriever’s jaw. The Ambler bleachers go wild. I have to admit, Darla’s darn good when she’s got a clear court. But the next time Darla gets the ball, the bullish Fort Washington guard is right on her.

The chant goes up from Mary, then Lucy, then me: “Pass it, Darla, I’m ohhh—pen!” Darla stands, stubborn. No way Darla’s giving up that ball, so on her next dribble, it’s intercepted by Fort Washington.

Ambler groans from the bleachers. In the crowd, I see Taryn grab her head and Gran frown. Then, miracle of miracles, Lucy intercepts Miss Bull and passes to me. I dribble up, with
Lucy beside me pace for pace. There’s a second guard shadowing me, an Amazon, almost six feet tall.

“Maggie!” Lucy shouts to my right.

“Hey, Shorty, pass!” Darla shouts from the basket area.

“Maggie!” Lucy repeats.

“Shorty, PASS it!” Darla screams.

Double duh, it’s a no-brainer. I choose Lucy. She grabs my pass and sends it right back as we dodge past Miss Bull and Miss Amazon. All this time Darla’s hogging the key area, right under the basket, hands circling, shouting, “Pass it, Shorty! What are you waiting for?”

No one calls me Shorty and gets away with it, especially not Darla. It could rain down hail, sleet, and basketballs, and I’d never pass to her. I pivot-turn, trying to decide my next move, as Miss Amazon’s arms wrap around me. Before I can decide, the ref blows his whistle. He calls a time violation of the three-second rule—on me? I’m confused. No—it’s on Darla, who’s been camped in the key area for way too long. She turns red as a beet and stomps over as if to question the call.

After that, Fort Washington takes possession of the
ball and they hold on to it like leeches, shooting basket after basket. The Ambler fans groan. The Fort Washington crowd cheers, razzes, and generally goes haywire. Up in the bleachers Gran and Taryn look depressed. They’ve stopped munching popcorn and are leaning forward, elbows propped on knees. I’m embarrassed to have them witness our humbling. Mercifully, the halftime whistle blows. We spill onto the benches.

“Darla, you must give other players a chance to shoot in the key area.” Coach Williams sighs. “That means you’ve got to get out of it and let other players circulate in. Understand?” Darla nods. He reminds her, again, to pass to her teammates. Then he lectures me about hesitating on my pass. “Whatever feud you two girls have going, leave it outside the game. We’re a team, remember?” He studies his clipboard. “Alicia, center. Katie, power forward.”

Hey, those are our positions.

Katie and Alicia run off. Coach Williams turns to us. “You two sit this one out and cool off.” I’m mortified. How am I going to explain this to Gran? What will Taryn think of me now? Not that
I care. I sneak a peek at Darla. She’s frowning into her towel, wiping off sweat.

“Now who’s not passing to who, Shorty?” Darla snaps.

I slide farther away from her on the bench. “I’m giving you a taste of your own medicine is all.”

“You need a taste of reality,” Darla snaps back. “It was you who barged into basketball, even though you’re too short, and weaseled your way into my center spot.”

“YOUR center spot? It was MY center spot before you ever came to this school.” My hands clench into fists.

“Maggie.” Coach Williams motions me over. I throw my towel on the bench.

“Maggie, you’re on center. Darla on power forward. Hustle!” Coach yells, waving his hands again.

Yes! I’ve held on to the choice spot!

The ball is mine off the inbound pass. I dribble it up-court, leaving Fort Washington’s defense in the dust. My legs feel like they’re powered by jet fuel. I know it’s all that spit and fire from my run-in with Darla. Whatever it is, I’m going to use
it to my full advantage! Pivot-turn, BASKET! Ambler onlookers cheer wildly.

I catch the ball off the inbound pass. The ball burns in my hands. Lucy and I work together: pass, catch, pass, catch. I leap as high as Miss Bull, grazing her hair as I sink the ball for basket number two!

Ambler stomps the bleachers with a hundred sneakered feet—
boom, boom, boom!
There’s no better sound in the world. The score is even now: Fort Washington 38, Ambler 38.

“Way to go, girl!” shouts Chelsea, my point guard.

“Dunk another, just like the other!” Lucy yells as I sail up the court, dribbling the ball with adrenaline-powered fury.

My thoughts flit to my canine mascot.
C’mon, MacKenzie, all the way to victory, just like Gingerbread!

Just before I shoot, I glance at Gran and Taryn. They’re jumping up and down with excitement. My own personal fans! Two cheerleaders are better than one.

“Yaahhh!” I give a warrior’s cry, leap, and shoot. BASKET! In slow-mo, the scoreboard clicks
to Ambler 40. It’s magic, pure magic—and it’s my magic! Ambler fans go berserk.

There are a few more charges, up and down the court, but before I know it, the game’s over and people are charging the court, dancing, singing, shouting, and slapping hands. My teammates raise me up and carry me on their shoulders. “Maa—gie, Maa—gie!”

“That’s my girl!” Gran jogs onto the court, earrings jingling, and gives me a bear hug and three red roses. “I’m so proud of you.”

“You were awesome,” Taryn agrees, slapping me a high-five.

Gran turns to Taryn. “Taryn’s quite a cheerleader. I’m hoarse from trying to keep up with her.”

A hand grabs onto mine from behind. “C’mon, Maggie, Coach Williams is giving us a victory speech, then a pizza party—and you’ll be the star!” Lucy shouts.

I manage to give Gran a quick hug before Lucy pulls me away. “Thanks for coming. You too, Taryn.”

As I walk with Lucy toward the locker room, a sinking feeling sets in. Darla wasn’t with my other
teammates. She’s waiting in the changing rooms, and she’ll never let me forget that she wasn’t the one to make those three baskets and get a victory ride on team shoulders. Torture time begins.

Darla corners me in the locker room after Coach Williams’s speech, as I’m dressing after my shower. “You just had a lucky game today is all,” she says coolly, as if she doesn’t care a bit. “Oh, by the way, Brenna and I are designing a greyhound awareness poster tomorrow afternoon at her house. We’re putting some up at school next week.” Darla slants me a triumphant look.

I guess she’s going to compete with me any way she can.

“You’re not interested in helping greyhounds, Darla. You just want to horn in on my issue,” I retort.

“I happen to be very interested in greyhounds,” Darla says. “Remember, I’m the one who actually
has
a retired racing greyhound as a pet!” She folds her arms across her chest.

I’m so angry, my cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “Having
a pet doesn’t make you an expert on greyhounds,” I answer. “I bet I’ve done lots more actual research than you.” I can’t believe I just said that.

“So that gives you the moral high ground?” Darla’s voice has a superior edge. “As your friend Brenna says, no one owns a cause.”

I don’t answer, just snap my locker closed and get ready to join my teammates for a victory party. But somehow, Darla has managed to deflate my joy, like a balloon that’s been stomped. If only we could take lessons from our dogs. Their minds are so pure—no head games, no revenge, no plotting and planning, just the here and now, one moment at a time. My mind shifts back to the game. Were those three awesome baskets just a lucky fluke?

Get a grip, MacKenzie!

E
arly Tuesday morning I jump out of bed and into a pair of red denims and a red-and-white-striped T-shirt. No blue jeans allowed at Ambler, but I can still wear my basketball sneaks.

As I’m about to burst into the kitchen, I overhear Gran on the telephone, making arrangements for the New Tools of the Trade conference in Connecticut this Saturday. Wait a minute—Gran’s going to Connecticut. That’s where Drescher’s Speedway is! We’ve got to confront Manny and put pressure on him to open an adoption booth. Somehow I need to talk Gran into taking me. How should I put it?
Um, I’ve always
wanted to hear you talk about new veterinary tools, and oh, by the way, can we take an itty-bitty side trip to the dog track?
No way that would fly. She knows I’ve heard her speech on veterinary tools a million times. I’ll just have to ask straight out.

I gather my books—and my courage—and enter the kitchen. The aroma of coffee hits me. I love the smell but hate the taste. “Uh, Gran?”

“Morning, Maggie. You’re up early,” Gran says as she hangs up the phone. She pours herself some coffee.

“Well, I wanted to read through my lit notes again. We have a test on
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
today.” Not convincing. Since when have I ever studied the same notes twice before a test? Once is enough!

“That’s great, Maggie—you’re really working hard in school. Cereal?” Gran brings over a box of Cheerios and two bowls.

“Sure, thanks.” I get the milk and pour. I’m about to pop the trip question, but she speaks first.

“I’m also proud of you for such hard work at basketball. You’re really giving it your all.” Gran squeezes my hand.

Soak it in, MacKenzie!

But Gran’s almost as telepathic as a dog. She senses that I’m not thrilled by that last game. Her gaze is questioning. “Are you enjoying the team this year?”

Should I spill my guts? Before I can make a rational decision, my troubles explode out—all the Darla stuff, how Darla sees everything as a competition, how she hates that I’ve held on to my center position, how she calls me Shorty, how she won’t pass to me. “I can’t even feel happy about beating Fort Washington. Darla punches all the joy out of it.”

Gran puts down her coffee. “Maggie, I know it’s hard dealing with a bully like Darla. Bullies can say and do hurtful things. But they aren’t bad people, just insecure—threatened or jealous of others. I’m not saying you should accept her behavior, but try to have a little empathy; put yourself in her shoes. She’s a new girl at school and probably feels she has something to prove.”