I followed his lead, leaping and throwing my arms in the air.
Jump, punch, jump, punch.
“Go number twelve!” Gram screamed. That was the number on my uniform.
Twelve. What an amazing number. Could I live up to its awesomeness? In math, it’s called a superior highly composite number. Also, twelve months in a year, twelve zodiac signs, twelve Olympians from Greek mythology, twelve days of Christmas.
I could go on and on.
Jump, punch, jump, punch.
Coach suggested—and I agreed—that I cheer the team on for the first few games. Especially since I still could not dribble or pass or run in the right direction half the time.
I could shoot, but what good was that if my stubborn legs led me to the hallway instead of the hoop? I was happy to be included as a Hornet, even if only on the bench.
Jump, punch, jump, punch.
“Here, my little buttercups. You need to keep your energy up.” Darcy’s mother, who volunteered as team mom, handed out sports drinks to all the girls.
All the girls except me.
I must be invisible again.
She wore a black designer track suit with a pearl necklace and several large rings on her fingers. Her long, blonde hair seemed salon styled. How could anyone look that good in sweats? All the girls called her Mrs. Bling-Bling.
Not to her face, of course.
Before the game, Mrs. Bling-Bling pulled Darcy toward her and stroked her blonde ponytail. “Win this one for Mommy and Father, honeybun. You missed a few easy shots in practice. You want to win that MVP trophy at the end of the season, don’t you?” I noted Darcy’s frown.
I understand you better now, Darcy.
Enthusiastic parents—Darcy and I had that in common. I totaled her score—top of the honor roll, cheerleader, star basketball player. She had to be smart, beautiful, and athletic at all times to please her parents. I remembered feeling for so many years like I had let my mom down every time I could not hold a pencil or draw a letter or pull on my own socks. I wondered if Darcy felt the same sadness every time she missed a basket. Or scored second-best on a math test.
Bullies sprout from sadness. Hurting others is how they get their own hurts out.
Grace waved for me to join the opening huddle. Then she put an arm around me and whispered, “Don’t sweat it, Charity. You’ll do fine.”
She was right. I did do fine. A fine job of sitting on the bench next to Dad. A fine job calculating each player’s performance based on points scored, assists, blocks, steals, rebounds, missed shots, and fouls.
They did not need my help though. They were winning by six points going into the fourth quarter, with Darcy as top scorer.
Each time Darcy made a basket, Mrs. Bling-Bling screamed, “That’s my superstar!”
Grace joined me on the bench when Coach subbed her out for a break. She wiped her sweaty face with a towel. “Hey, you didn’t play yet, did you?” She turned to coach. “Coach, how about putting Charity in for a few minutes?”
Lilly, sitting next to Grace, gave her a don’t-even-think-about-it stare.
Coach did not hear—or pretended not to—as he shouted, “Keep the ball alive, girls! Take it to the hole!”
Darcy swished another basket. Up by eight now.
Grace softly chanted, “Cha-ri-ty, Cha-ri-ty.”
Dad grinned big.
Two other girls joined in. “Cha-ri-ty, Cha-ri-ty.”
Finally, Coach George turned and asked, “Whaddya think, kid? Wanna get in there for a few minutes? Test the waters?”
My brain hollered Nooooooo! But my dumb legs sprang me right up.
Jump, punch, jump, punch.
“You go, Super Cherry!” Dad yelled.
Seeing me walk on the court, my cheering section went nuts. Aunt Kiki hollered, “You can do it, sweetie!” while making tiny hops in her high heels and clapping her manicured hands.
Hypothesis: Disaster.
When the ref blew the whistle, chaos erupted. In my body.
Ready, set, embarrass yourself.
Jump. Run. Turn. Hop.
Follow the bouncing ball. Follow the bouncing ball.
The orange ball flew from player to player. My eyes told my legs to go, but as soon as I ran in one direction, the ball bounced the opposite way.
Sprint. Swivel. Spin?
Page 17: A herd of bison can run up to 40 miles an hour.
My head could not turn fast enough for my eyes to keep up. And my legs—forget about it.
Swivel. Prance?
Pause.
My feet froze to the floor. My hands flapped frustration.
I spied Mom with her hands over her eyes as if she was watching a horror movie.
Get me out of here!
A few laughs from some kids in the stands shot directly to my ear.
Is this what you had in mind, Grace?
Almost on cue, I felt a hand in my hand. It pulled me down the court one way, then back the other way, following the ball. The bobbing honey-colored ponytail in front of my face belonged to Grace. She guided me same as Dad did during our practices.
Run. Run. Run. Turn. Run. Run. Turn. Run. Run. Run.
We stopped a few yards from the net. Grace let go of my hand and hollered to Darcy, “I’m open!”
When Darcy passed the ball, Grace handed it to me.
Darcy’s perfect face turned ugly. “What the . . .”
“Shoot, Charity!” yelled Grace.
My hands automatically hurled the ball toward the hoop. It hit the backboard.
And dropped into the net.
The crowd clapped and screamed. “Way to go, Chipmunk!” Pops howled. Gram—her petite body perched on top of the bleacher—stood with both hands in the air. Mom, Kiki and Elvi joined in a jumping hug.
She shoots, she scores. For real!
Coach George flashed a toothy grin. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
My lungs filled with relief as I trotted back to the bench.
No such luck.
“Hey, where ya going?” Grace grabbed my hand again.
Run. Run. Run. Turn. Run. Run. Turn. Run. Run. Run.
We stopped in front of the basket, and my hands grabbed the ball from a player. A player with a blue shirt.
Grace screamed, “No, don’t shoot!” But my arms launched the ball automatically.
What have I done?
This time the ball did not hit the
