Sally and I devise a plan to find the best candidates for our soon-to-be team. First we check the list of available kids willing to be a part of any team. They are probably kids whose parents made them go to camp, whether they wanted to or not. I’m not judging, but what kid is not interested in sports—artsy theater lovers, maybe? In any case, all those kids are crossed off, meaning they found a team to take them in. Ugh!
“What do we do now?” says Sally, concerned. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s left.” I think for a second, then…
“What happens if someone doesn’t work out?” I wonder.
“What do you mean?” Sally asks.
“Come on, follow me,” I order, then run out of the gym. “I have an idea.”
We search around the camp, one sport after another. Counselors or coaches are testing their players to place them in the right positions on the teams.
“Just because kids are put on teams doesn’t mean they’re going to work out,” I tell Sally as we scout the fields. “Look for anyone, boy or girl, who doesn’t seem like they’re going to be even put in the game for their team.”
“Why would we want that person on our team?” Sally asks.
“Because we’re desperate,” I say emphatically.
“True,” Sally says, resigned. “Boys too?”
“Boys in Japan, China, and Denmark jump double Dutch…more than girls, so I’ve heard,” I state.
“Really?” Sally says incredulously.
“It’s actually making American boys step up to the plate,” I inform her.
We’re even searching the skateboard ramps. As far as I can see, I doubt there’s any guy who would remotely be interested in double Dutch. Then—
Wham! This boy on a skateboard knocks me off my feet!
“Did you not see me?” I yell at him.
“I’m sorry.” He helps me up. Really? “I thought you were going to move out of the way.”
“Eeng!” I make the sound of a buzzer. “Wrong! Watch where you’re going next time,” I say, dusting myself off.
The boy smirks, then skates off.
“That. Was. Charlie. Davis.” Sally is mesmerized.
“Who?” I take it she knows him.
“Only the cutest guy in Charlotte,” she says.
“Whatever,” I say. He is kind of cute, though. The boy looks back again and smiles.
“Uh!” Sally gasps. “I think he likes you.”
“What?”
“It figures.” Sally sulks a little. “It baffles me that boys from here like girls who are, um…have New York style.” Did she just diss me?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. First some double Dutch bully calls me a tomboy, and now my cousin thinks there’s something different about my swagger. Okay, so I’m not dressed like some girlie-girl or prima donna. Not that that’s a bad thing; it’s just not my style.
“Nothing. Forget it,” Sally insists. “Let’s just keep looking.”
Although she waves it off, I suddenly feel funny about how I’m dressed. Are my Mets jersey and jeans giving people the wrong impression? In my neighborhood, you have to always appear tough and have a strong attitude. If you don’t, people will think you’re weak and pick on you, plain and simple.
Sally and I check every track-and-field player for potential double Dutch jumpers, but it’s getting late in the day, and everyone seems to be pretty set on teams. I begin to worry.
“What about the baseball fields?” Sally asks.
“Let’s go!” At this point, beggars can’t be choosers.
We run to the baseball diamonds, and even the outfielders who can’t catch a pop fly don’t want to join us. Some guys laugh at us for even asking. We get rejected by some kids who couldn’t hit a tennis ball if it was the size of a basketball. I think at least the swim teams will have somebody who can’t swim, but no. They look at us like we have six heads, and like double Dutch is the name of some yucky ice cream.
—
That’s it, we’re done. Sally looks kind of sad, but I can tell by the way she is swinging her arms and almost skipping that she is trying to play it off like she’s not. Maybe she is relieved that she won’t have to compete against those Bouncing Belles. I keep looking around, hoping we’ll find someone, so she can stand up to them. Just then we hear a girl cursing up a storm as we pass the soccer field. Sally and I stop to check it out. A burly girl who is supposed to be playing goalie on a soccer team is being outworked by every soccer ball she misses. They whiz past her hands every time. She’s cursing as if it’s the ball’s fault for slipping through her hands. The coach reprimands her for cursing, but she curses him out too. He blows a whistle and orders her off the field.
“Looks like we found our first teammate,” I say, and take off toward the girl.
“But she’s—she’s…big…and angry!” Sally says fearfully.
“All the better!” I yell back to Sally.
Once I reach the girl, she kicks dirt unknowingly right in our direction. After I fan the cloud of dust out of my face, I can tell she’s freckle-faced, with thick, curly sandy-blond hair, and she looks like she can knock down anyone who gets in her way. I bet she would make a better catcher on a softball team, but her muscular arms just might make her a great turner. She’s perfect for our double Dutch team. I let her cool off for a second. As my daddy would say, “You don’t want to poke a snake when it’s rattling its tail.” I never really understood what he meant until now. Sally catches up.
“Seriously?” Sally asks. The girl overhears and turns around.
“What the hell you looking at?” she says. Sally starts to walk away. I pull her back.
“Um, hi, I’m Kayla,
