The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Eight

I stared between the two boys who I had been partnered with for the duration of the less than academic exercise. One I had never encountered a single issue with, while with the other I could’ve practically starred in a Spanish soap opera (minus the Spanish) due to the amount of drama that currently surrounded our association. The blonde boy looked as ecstatic as he normally did, not having even the faintest inkling as to how much chaos currently encompassed the two individuals with whom he would be working.

      “Hiya, Turner!” Alex greeted happily. “Long time no see!”

      “Campbell,” I nodded my head to him, recognizing that the other boy was finally going to have to face me whether he liked it or not. He had been avoiding me ever since the catastrophe of asking me to prom. Though Alex wasn’t aware, the two of us mixing would probably be like accidentally adding oil to a fire instead of stifling it with water. It wouldn’t be a good thing.

      “Hey, Collins,” Alex regarded, though with less enthusiasm than when his words were aimed at me.

      “Campbell,” Dylan grunted, not even glancing in my direction.

      “So, why didn’t either of you tell me that Eric Wilson smokes so much pot that he could be Snoop Dogg—or Lion, or whatever animal the loser’s name now contains?” I demanded, cranking the awkward scale up ten billion notches. At that, both Dylan and Alex gaped at me, their jaws completely slack.

      “Wait, what?” Alex was the first to speak as a sharp whistle sounded, indicating that we were supposed to begin. Being the “responsible” one in the group, I was granted with the privilege of handling our group’s ball. The orb happened to be one that derived from my sport, so it somehow managed to find its way into it’s rightful position: under my armpit so that it was sandwiched between my side and arm. I didn’t feel the need to start passing the object between us, as had been instructed, so merely continued to hold it tautly.

      “Y-you found out?” Dylan was the next to ask a highly intellectual question.

      “Yep,” I said, my lips forming around the utterance in a grim line. “So, Alex, are you a member of the Madison Get High Club, too, or do you just stick to beer and girls?”

      “Okay, not that it’s a surprise, but I’m really confused right now,” Alex voiced, displaying his misperception by the contorted expression that his face retained.

      “Campbell doesn’t do that, and neither do I,” Dylan shared with a sigh.

      “What don’t we do?” Alex piped.

      “I went to the gas station,” I told Dylan, subconsciously dropping the ball from my grasp, only to have it bounce to the ground, popping back up into my hands that were ready to catch it on instinct. Then, I wasn’t quite sure where my self-restraint had gone, but I began to dribble it. The sphere commenced to make a series of compulsory journeys from the tips of my fingers to the gym floor.

      “What’s going on, and you’re surprisingly good at that,” Alex said, referring to my ball handling skills (that phrase always sounded so embarrassing—even to think).

      “Thanks,” I muttered, practically ready to give up and scream at the top of my lungs, “I’M LIZ TURNER, I LOVE BASKETBALL, I HATE HEELS WITH A BURNING PASSION, AND I APPROVE THIS MESSAGE!” Alas, I still knew in the back of my mind that in addition to not being “socially acceptable,” it simply wouldn’t be worth it in the end.

      “Lizzie, here, was just telling us that she finally found out that Mr. Perfect isn’t so perfect, after all,” Dylan explained as I scowled at the description that he gave.