Freshman Year (20 page)

“I gotta tell you, Abbey, K's my best friend, but you should be careful. She's the kind of girl who always gets what she wants.”

At first I'm embarrassed by Tai's warning, but then I say, “Is it really so bad to always get what you want?” and I think I shock us both with that.

“Well, damn, I guess not.” She hands me a new pass. “Give this one to Mrs. Guzman. Oh, and Keeta's waiting for you in the poetry section.”

“Poetry?” I smile wider. “Thanks, Tai.”

“Sure. And, hey…”

“Yeah?”

“Try to stay out of trouble, freshie.” She pulls another pass out of her pocket. “Speaking of trouble, time to get my girl out of chemistry. She really shouldn't be around combustibles.
Basta
.”

*

Just like I was told to do, I give Mrs. Guzman my new pass which is addressed to her from Mr. Zamora. I wonder how Tai memorized all their signatures but then realize that maybe teachers don't really pay as much attention to these things as we all think.

I have no idea where the poetry section is, but I don't dare ask and risk blowing our cover. So I just wander around looking very intent and focused. Finally, Keeta grabs my arm and pulls me behind a tall shelf of books.

“I can't believe you, Keeta. We could get so busted,” I whisper and look over my shoulder.

“Shh…we won't get caught. Mrs. G never leaves her station. I promise we're safe.”

“Why here? Why not the locker room or instrument closet? I mean, I'm so happy to see you, but it's not very private.” I want to kiss her so badly.

“I know,” she whispers, “but I wanted you to see my favorite hangout.” She takes a book off the shelf and sits down.

She pats the carpet and I sit on the floor next to her. At least the poetry section is sort of secluded from the rest of the library.

“Now close your eyes and listen.”

I do as I'm told and she reads a poem to me.

There's a word for what you've done to me; the only one that says it all.

This word captures the surprise in my eyes when I first saw you.

It tells the story of my heart and what it wants to do.

It explains why I dream of you day and night.

It describes how your smile lights up my life.

Yes, there is a word for what you've done to me; the only one that says it all.

When she finishes reading, I don't know what to say. The only poems anyone has ever read to me were by Shel Silverstein, and those are the opposite of romantic.

“That poem kind of says how I feel about you, Amara.”

I look at her and lose myself in her eyes. “Yeah?”

Her smile reassures me.

“Who wrote it?” I ask when I finally recover.

“Well, did you like it?” she takes a piece of paper from the book and hands it to me. For a moment, she looks sort of shy, which is definitely the first time I've ever seen her look anything but certain.

“I liked it very much. It was sweet,” I say then unfold the paper. “What's this?”

Her confidence returns. “It's the poem. I wrote it…” She hesitates. “For you.” And then she kisses my cheek.

I can recognize her handwriting and see her name on the bottom but ask, “
You
wrote this?” I guess my astonishment isn't exactly a compliment.

“Yeah, Amara, I write poetry. There's a lot more to me than basketball and my nice ass.”

The mention of her butt makes me blush, but I change the subject back to a more serious topic. “That's just it, Keeta. I feel like I don't know anything about you. The only thing I know for sure is I want to be around you every waking minute of the day.” Maybe I shouldn't have said that, but it's how I feel and I'm just trying to be honest for once.

She slides her hand into mine. “Yeah. Okay. I get you.”

“I mean, I feel so…I mean, I don't even know where your locker is or what you have third period.” I don't use this opportunity to mention that I do know where she lives, her blood type, and her home phone number.

“Well, I suppose I should at least give you my digits and my locker location since I now have yours, thanks to Garrett and Tai.”

Hearing their names makes my hands sweat. “Do they know?” I whisper.

“I also found out some other interesting things about you,” she says instead of answering my question.

I know I'm being ignored, but Keeta must have a good reason, so I let it go. “Great, what else did those losers tell you?”

“Well, loads of stuff. But most importantly, it's your birthday tomorrow.”

“Yep, it is.” I hadn't thought about how having a sort-of girlfriend might improve my birthday spirit. I mean, it could be fun to celebrate with Keeta, instead of with my mom, Kate, and a couple of other friends like usual.

“So can I take you out Saturday night?”

I feel like screaming,
Yes, yes, a thousand times yes,
which is an entirely different reaction than I had with Jake, but then I remember my weekend plans. “
Chale
. I can't. Garrett and…well, we're already going out that night.”

She nods her head but doesn't say anything for a second, so I see another chance to get something off my chest. “Hey, Keeta?” I ask, this time louder. “What about Stef? I mean, she's my friend. This is not something I'd normally do to a friend.”

“I can tell,” Keeta says and pats my leg.

“It's just that, when are you going to break up with her? What if she finds out about us? I mean, I don't know if you've noticed, but it seems virtually impossible to keep secrets around here.” I swallow loudly and continue. “I just don't know if I can do this.”

She pushes my hair behind my ear and runs her fingers through it, which is totally unfair because now I can't concentrate. “Amara, I will take care of it. I promise.
No te preocupes
.”

“But won't G and Tai tell Stef?”

Another soft kiss lands on my cheek. “How about Sunday morning? I can make you breakfast at my house.”

I'm incapacitated by her kiss, so I look at her and nod. No one else seems to think what we are doing is a big deal, so maybe it's time I stop caring, too.

“Good, because I make a mean omelet. And, Amara?”

I blink twice.

“I promise that by the end of our time together on Sunday, you will know all you want to know about me.
No guardaré ningún secreto.
No secrets.”

“Okay.” I still have a ton of ugly worries sprouting in my head like annoying weeds, but right then I just want to hear her read more poetry to me. It's by far the most romantic thing that has ever happened to me in a library, or anywhere else for that matter.

I rest my head on her shoulder.
“Léeme más poesía, por favor.”

“Whatever you want, my Amara.”

She flips through the book she had taken off the shelf earlier. It's called
Contemporary Poetry for Lovers
. I'm surprised the book is in Gila's library, but maybe Mrs. Guzman is a hopeless romantic just like the rest of us.

“Oh my God. This is a disaster.” I'm standing in front of the varsity locker room mirror, seeing myself in my uniform for the first time. “Why do these shorts have to be so short? And why do they have to ride up between my cheeks like butt floss?” It's an hour before my first basketball game. I'm about to puke from nervousness and my uniform isn't helping matters at all. “I look so bad.”

“You'll get used to it,” Garrett says, trying to reassure me.

Stef shoves her clothes in her locker. “Yeah, after a while, you might even start to enjoy it,” she says and laughs.

“Gross,” Garrett says.

“I don't see how that's possible.” I pull at my shorts again and then try to stretch out the tight polyester tank that's smooshing down any bit of boobage I have. Garrett and Stef don't look at all hideous in their uniforms, but they have much nicer bodies, with curves in all the right places. I just look like a skinny boy in mine.

Stef gathers her curly blond hair in two small ponytails on either side of her head. Now she looks like a sixteen year old toddler, but that's still a better look than what I'm rocking. “See you guys out there.”

“Do you know whose number you have?” Garrett says after we hear the door to the gym slam behind Stef.

I look down at the blue twenty-one on my chest. It has no special meaning to me; it was just the only one in the pile that sort of fit. “I don't know. Kobe Bryant?” I ask because that's the only basketball player I can remember.

“Come on. Like you don't know,” she says and goes back to braiding her hair. Garrett's the only person I know who can french braid her own hair.

“What are you talking about?”

“You mean you really don't know?”

I throw my hands up in the air. “I know nothing, G. Isn't that obvious by now?”

She laughs. “Yeah, I guess you don't. Anyway, it's Keeta's. She's had that number all four years she's played. Of course, she has her varsity uniform now, but it has the same number, twenty-one. So, technically, you're wearing the old stinky jersey she wore when she was on JV. Some coincidence, huh?” She winks like she still thinks I did it on purpose.

I look at myself in the full-length mirror again and feel a bit more confident. “That is a cool coincidence.” I like that I'm in Keeta's old uniform. It makes me feel closer to her. I try to picture Keeta as an immature freshman who didn't know what she was doing, but that's a joke. She's probably always had it all figured out.

After I pull my hair back in a ponytail that ends up lower on my head than usual, Garrett and I stuff our school clothes into our lockers and head out to the gym. “Yeah, well,”—I look over my shoulder to be sure we're alone—“we may have the same number, but I bet she never shoots at the wrong basket like I'm sure I will tonight.”

“You're right, Abbey. Players as good as Keeta never make mistakes.” Garrett pushes open the gym doors and a smattering of cheers falls on us. But before we meet up with Stef in the bleachers, she turns and says, “Especially when she thinks she can shoot at any basket she wants.”

*

As soon as the freshman game is over, I congratulate Kate on her good game and then join the JV team as we begin jogging around the gym to get warmed up. While I run, I look up into the stands and easily spot my mom out of the dozen or so fans because she's the only one in overalls and the only one waving a giant foam gila monster above her head trying to get my attention. I don't want to ignore her, but I also really don't want people to know we're related, so I smile and give her a discreet wave. I look for Keeta next. I see her talking with Tai and Jenn by the door. That's right about when Garrett comes up behind me and smacks my butt.

“Keep your head in the game, pervert.”

Then, sooner than I would like it to, the buzzer goes off, signaling game time. We run over to Coach Riley and huddle up.

Riley points at me. “Abbey, you know what to do, so do it. No time for nerves, got it?”

I nod and wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts for the tenth time in the past minute.

“Stef, you have to take those threes, and Tori, look weak side. Let's win this, ladies.”

“Hands in, you guys,” Garrett yells. “Offense on three.”

The team yells out the cheer and the four other starters and I take off our warm-up jerseys and head for center court. As my team's center, I have to do the jump ball at the beginning of the game. I wipe my hands again on my tiny shorts and take in a deep breath. It's showtime.

The ref walks over with the game ball. I position myself in front of the Saguaro High School player standing opposite me. She is a supertall black girl with a bright orange mouth guard. She doesn't respond at all when I wish her good luck, but I try not to take it personally.

The ref tosses the ball up and Saguaro's number ten and I leap into the air with our hands reaching toward the ceiling; my body slams into hers like a magnet to metal. I look up and see that my hand towers over hers, so I slap the ball behind me, right into Garrett's hands just like I had done in practice. It's a perfect beginning. In fact, I'm so impressed with my successful jump, I sort of lose track of everything else.

“Brooks! What are you doing?” Coach Riley yells to help me snap out of it.

I look downcourt and see my team setting up our offense without me. I run as fast as I can, but by the time I arrive, a feisty Saguaro High player has stolen the ball from Garrett and is making a fast break to the other end.

“Go, Crutch!” Stef yells.

I obey, quickly change directions, and bolt after the girl with the ball. As she runs downcourt, two more Saguaro players join her, and they start passing the ball quickly back and forth. I reach up as number fourteen lobs it over to number thirty, and as easy as teachers snatch cell phones from students, I intercept the pass. The echoing cheers from the bleachers fill me with energy and I want to do more to please them. I look down at our basket and there's Garrett, and she's very open. I know it's a little risky, but I seem to like living on the edge these days, so I hurl the ball the full length of the court and pray that Garrett catches it. No one is more surprised than me when it lands perfectly in her beckoning palm. She makes the layup and we're up by two.

“Nice pass, freshie,” Garrett says, slapping my butt as she runs by.

“Thanks,” I say and run to my place for defense.

After we gain an eight-point lead, Saguaro comes back from a time-out and plays woman-to-woman defense on us. I'm matched up with number thirteen. She's huge, but not chubby in the Miss Piggy sort of way; she is more like scary-strong in the Hulk sort of way. Stef nicknamed her The Fridge last year, and I'm pretty sure she's going to cause bodily injury to me.