The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Three

      “I’m sorry, what?” I demanded, staring at the man before me in disbelief.

      “You can’t play basketball for Westchester University,” he reiterated for the third time.

      “But-but why?” I stammered, fearing the impossible, which was that I wasn’t good enough.

      “Well, one, because you’re a high school student. After speaking with the University’s coach, we both thought that though your skill level is far beyond her spoiled, inner-city girls’, it’s unfortunately against the rules to have you play,” he explained.

      “That’s bullshit!” I said, surprising myself with how bold I was before the principal.

      “And the second reason,” he overlooked my outburst, “is because of the UConn thing.”

      “Oh,” I muttered, the understanding of why I couldn’t play for Westchester University washing over me. I should’ve known it was too good to be true when he proposed the idea to me back in September. “Play for Westchester, you won’t have to take PE classes!” Bullcrap.

      “So, this does change your schedule a little bit,” he told me, fiddling with a gold ring on his finger.

      “How so?” I questioned hesitantly.

      “You’ll be taking PE,” he said easily. My frame froze. Of all the classes, why PE? It was as if fate was trying to screw me over.

      “Fine,” I said, collecting my belongings and standing up, ready to leave and find a way to blow off some steam without physically harming innocent bystanders.

      “Oh, and Liz,” he added gently, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

      “Yeah, so was I,” I mumbled, exiting the small office once and for all. 

      As I joined the sea of students rushing to get to their fist class, all I felt was dejection. I was no longer going to be playing basketball with college students, but rather trying to suck at dodge ball with kids who couldn’t care less about athletics. It wasn’t that I was angry and upset at the school, but myself for reasons unknown.

      “Turner, you okay?” someone asked me, momentarily jolting me out my maddened thoughts.

      “No,” I said, looking up to view Dylan.

      “Do you need to talk about it?” he sighed.

      “Yes,” I nodded after thinking it over.

      “Well, I suppose European History is going to have to wait,” he said happily, tugging at my hand. 

      He led me through the crowd of hormonal-crazed teens until we had somehow ended up in an empty classroom that appeared to be more of a storage space than an actual room for learning. Desks were stacked on top of each other and chairs were assembled in groups of twelve or so. It was a cluttered room, everything feeling cramped. Dylan made his way over to a vacant desk that was slightly larger than the others and resembled that of one belonging to a teacher.

      “Come, tell Dr. Dylan about what’s wrong,” he said, hopping onto the desk and patting on his lap for me to sit on.

      “Well,” I said, slowly making my way over to him, “I was just told that I have to take PE.”

      “They found out about the fake back injury?” he questioned.

      I scrunched my eyebrows in confusion, unsure of what he was talking about. Then, it suddenly hit me. I had fabricated a story about not having to take PE because I was faking a back injury- all so I wouldn’t have to tell anyone about Westchester U… “Uh, yeah.”