The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Three

      “I can’t!” I screamed, surprising myself with the boldness in my proclamation.

      “Yes you can, Turner! I’ve seen your transcript! I know all about UConn! Don’t screw with me! Get your ass over there and play, goddamnit!” the man roared. Something told me that he wasn’t overly appreciative of my less than cooperative behavior. Maybe it was the bright red color his face was threatening to turn or the pulsating vein in his neck that was clenched in place, but there was something about him that told me he wasn’t too thrilled. Damn, I was great at reading people!

      “I can’t,” I reiterated in a calmer tone than I thought possible at moment like this.

      “Why not?” he demanded, as the cringe-worthy sound of a basketball being pounding onto the gym floor by the palm of someone’s hand met my ears.

      “Firstly, these losers don’t know shit about the sport,” I began my extensive list of reasons why I couldn’t partake in the activity. My mouth opened to continue, though the adult before me interrupted.

      “Three of these ‘losers’ happen to be on the Boy’s Varsity team this year, Turner. Watch what you say,” he sneered.

      “I understand that, but that doesn’t make them good or knowledgeable players. I can guarantee you that I’m five hundred and twelve times better than them,” I said, my words coming from a sense of genuine confidence.

      “If you think that you’re so good, then why the hell won’t you play?” he bellowed, the whistle that hung around his thick neck stirring as his body shook in frustration.

      My lips upturned slightly, the reaction he was giving me a rather amusing one. If it weren’t for the fact that he practically scared the living crap out of me, then I may have laughed. “I can’t,” I found myself saying, the term becoming rather familiar to me. His lips parted to object, but I was the one to interject this time. “Let me rephrase that: technically, I can play, but, right now, when my peers are around, I can’t.”

      “Why the hell not?”

      “I’ll tell you what,” my negotiation voice set in.

      “Oh, this should me good,” his arms crossed over his bulky chest, as his eyes sent me a daring look to go on.

      “When this class is over, if there happens to be an empty gym, then I’ll shoot one hundred free throws, each of them going in,” I proposed.

      “You have class,” he stated, though I had a strong hunch that he was intrigued by my offer.

      “Actually, I have a free period,” I shared.

      “You don’t really expect me to believe that you can shoot one hundred shots and make them all in, do you?” he scoffed.

      “I do, actually. You said it yourself— you’ve seen my transcript, and, apparently, know about UConn,” I challenged. “Hell, I bet I can make one hundred three pointers in a row, in fact.”

      “You’re one cocky kid, you know that?” his grim face was set in a pensive expression, as if contemplating whether or not to pursue my proposition.

      “Yeah, I know,” I said, the shriek of a shoe rubbing against the glossy wood of the floor causing me to physically grimace. Though my back was turned and I couldn’t see what was happening, the sounds that hit my ears were still just as painful as if I had been watching, if not more.