And all of this drama is why I got into double Dutch. It’s the only time I have to myself, and when I’m between the ropes, I feel free. I’m focused on two things: keep jumping, and don’t mess up. I don’t let anything get into my head that will make me dwell on what’s going on at home. In the ropes, it’s about me, about how many perfect jumps I can do in two minutes. So when my parents started tripping, double Dutch became my outlet. That and my diary, which is the only place my secrets are safe. By fifth grade, I was hooked on double Dutch. Now that I just finished seventh grade, I love it, and it still keeps my mind off how unfair my parents can be sometimes. I may be a kid, but I’m not stupid; I know something crazy is going on. I guess I’ll find out what the new episode of The Real House Lives of Sarah & Johnnie is later tonight. It’s probably just another silly fight. At least I hope it is.
The babysitter living so close is cool; walking past the guys at the corner is not. I can’t help but notice them beyond the trees, beyond the little kids playing hopscotch on the chalked sidewalk and people sweeping their steps. Summer just started, and they’ve found absolutely nothing else to do but buzz around in front of the bodega like a bunch of bees waiting to sting anyone who gets in their way. With music blaring from tall speakers on the sidewalk causing all this unnecessary noise, these boys will stand there all day sniffing behind girls, looking for honey. I hate to walk past the swarm, but there’s no time to cross the street. Besides, showing fear isn’t something you do around here. I just don’t have time for saggy-pants-wearing, up-to-no-good boys. And like clockwork, one of them steps in my way.
“ ’Ey, girl. Where you going? Can I come?” some random boy asks.
I pay him no mind and walk around him.
“Leave my sister alone!” Cameron yells back.
I yank Cameron closer and drag him as fast as his feet can shuffle. The three boys laugh at my little brother’s only defense, which makes me kind of sorry that I yelled at him earlier. The corner boys’ constant catcalling and begging is annoying, but I hate to admit that it does boost my ego, even if they aren’t my type. They think I’m pretty, I guess. Am I? It’s hard to tell, since they do that to every girl who passes by. Maybe if one of them pulled their pants up, wore a shirt, and got a real haircut, I might stop to say “What’s up?” My mother thinks I’m too picky and that I’ll never find a boyfriend if I keep acting so uptight. Who said I was looking for a boyfriend, anyway? A boy is the furthest thing from my mind right now. I have a double Dutch tournament coming up.
Thank goodness Ms. Sharine is waiting for us in front of her brownstone home, or I’d really be late for practice. Once I hand Cameron off, I run the next three blocks to make it to the gym on time!
I pull open the rickety doors of the old, run-down community center gym, praying Ms. Jackson doesn’t see me sneaking in. She is one short, curvy lady who used to be double Dutch champion in her day, so she doesn’t play when it comes to tardiness. Even if I’m five minutes early, I’m considered late. Ugh! She’s so hard to please. Good, she’s busy directing the junior coaches. Dang. It’s crowded this year. As soon as the double Dutch league came to Bedford-Stuyvesant, it seemed like every kid who thought they could jump joined quicker than they could post flyers around town. There are even boys here. What? Really? Ever since some boys from Japan showed up at the Holiday Classic at the Apollo—one of my dream competitions—two years in a row and won the whole thing, suddenly all the boys in Brooklyn think they can jump too. Cute, but whatever. Girls still rule. Boys…hmm, maybe that’s why this graffiti-covered gym is twice as funky as it usually is. Some of these kids need to learn to use deodorant. For reals.
I don’t know if my heart is beating hard out of fear of Ms. Jackson seeing me or because the sound of the ropes hitting the floor is inviting me to the National Jump-off at the end of the summer. It feels like I’ve waited my whole life to compete in the nationals—well, since fifth grade—and now it’s finally here. No longer will I compete against girls my age and younger and be known as “one of the best middle schoolers” in Brooklyn. I finally have the opportunity to compete with the older kids for the chance at becoming a junior high national champion. And that’s exactly what I plan to do. Even at practice, other kids show respect because I’m always wearing my game face and I hold the title for speed. Now I’m here to win bragging rights for another year and on a whole new level. So it doesn’t matter if we have to jump double Dutch in a funky cardboard box. I want to make it to the jump-off.
I see my team—Mimi, Nikki, Drea, and Eva—sitting on the floor. What?
“Why are you guys sitting around? You should be warming up,” I say, and mean it. Seriously, though.
“We’re waiting on you, Kayla. We thought you weren’t coming,” Mimi retorts after she pulls her thumb out of her mouth. Even though we’re on our way to eighth grade, Mimi still sucks her thumb like a kindergartner. It’s weird, but she’s my best friend and she never backs down from my bossiness.
“When have I ever not shown up for practice?” I ask incredulously.
“You’re captain of the
