The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Forty-Two

Dedicated to marriannananana for their amazingly dedicated rant on the previous chapter.

Chapter Forty-Two

A ball dully passed between my hands with the tunnel of my legs serving as an obstacle, as I waited tolerantly. I was beginning to question my sanity, for it was barely past dawn. The sky was still an omniscient black, the sun having yet to make its entrance for the day. It was a peaceful dark, though. Not scary, but rather mute and serene. I liked it.

      I continued to screw around with the object in my hand, twirling it on a finger, and becoming slightly amused as I watched it spin around. When I was younger, the tricks I now found effortless were some of the most challenging things I had ever undertook. The ability to handle a basketball with such ease wasn’t a skill that I was born with, no, it took years of dedicated perseverance to finally master.

      The first time that I picked up one of the orange balls with miniature craters in it, I couldn’t have been more than four. I was in a public park with my mom and I was just mindlessly running around in circles, giggling and screaming. All of the sudden, something came in contact with my leg, jolting me temporarily out of my senseless world. It was a basketball.

      I stared curiously down at the item, wondering what it was and what magical capabilities it possessed. Considering it didn’t serve any real harm, I made the decision to pick it up—well, try to, at least. Before I even had the chance to reach my grubby little hands out and touch the ball, a giant grasped it. Well, it was really a teenager, but, to a child of my age, the kid might as well have been a giraffe he was so tall (in comparison to me, of course).

      I watched as the boy walked away with the orange thing in his hands, and then began to drop it to the ground. It confused me as to why anyone would purposely allow something to fall, until I noticed that the article miraculously bounced back up to his hands, the process only to be repeated multiple times. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before in my extensive four years of existence.

      I waddled over to my mother who was chatting with another woman, adjusting her hair every few seconds, paranoid that the light wind would “ruin” it. I tugged at the hem of her cotton skirt, trying to get her attention. She looked down at me, a sweet smile playing at her bright red lips.

      “What is it, sweetie?” she had asked.

      “What’s that?” I pointed over to where the boy had gone.

      She blinked at me, slightly confused. “A boy,” she answered, not comprehending my question. It wasn’t the first, but it was one of many gaps of misunderstanding we had and would encounter together.

      “No, mommy!” I shook my head, blonde curls flying everywhere. “The ball.”

      She looked closer over to where I had indicated, and merely nodded. “Ah, it’s a basketball, Liz.”

      And the rest was history. I somehow developed an addiction to the sport, the only consolation for my mother being that it was better than cocaine and I was getting exercise. I slowly but surely became the player that I now was, and learned so much, not just about the sport, but also about life. I liked to think that I didn’t find basketball, but that basketball found me. Maybe it was a bit egocentric, but it didn’t really bother me too much.

      My thoughts and steady, rhythmical dribbling of a basketball were abruptly interrupted by the familiar voice I had been anticipating. “So, that asshole finally asked you out, huh?”

      I glanced up from the paint-chipped tar of the cool ground, only to lock eyes with a pair of familiar cobalt ones. A small grin met my face as I surveyed the boy before me. On the outside, he looked just like the same, overconfident guy I met months ago, but, on the inside, I knew that he wasn’t.