The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Four

Fuck—such a powerful word. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t, but it was definitely useful. It was the type of word that one could insert to any fucking sentence and still make fucking sense. Sometimes, it was a verb. Other times, it was an interjection or adjective. For example: Fuck! I fucked my fucking cat! Currently, I was under the impression that it was also an emotion that described my life perfectly. Or maybe it could still be used as adjective, in the sense that my life was most certainly fucked up.

      My knee involuntarily bobbed up and down as I prayed for failure for the very first time. There was nothing I wanted to do more in this moment than lose. I had always grown up being a “winner” and having the mindset that succeeding was the only option. Presently, that simply was not the case. I needed to lose.

      “Don’t worry, Liz,” Eric whispered to me in a reassuring tone, “I’m sure we’ll win.”

      “That’s exactly why I’m worrying,” I mumbled, unsure if he had heard me or not. Though Eric had practically skipped for satisfaction when he found out that I was in same, sinking ship as he, I wasn’t as gleeful. He thought that this was all a positive thing, when I knew it was the exact opposite. Well, at least for me.

      I stared out at the crowd that had gathered before us—namely, the entire student body. Out of the vast range of beings, I knew about twelve. Well, more like eight, but I had talked to about twelve different people over the course of the year. There was Alice, Tara, and Lauren, Dylan, Eric, and Eric’s friends. Other than those people, I didn’t really communicate with others all too much. In fact, I wasn’t that social of person. This was a popularity contest, so, considering I barely spoke to people, there was no way I could actually win. It was impossible.

      When I played basketball and an audience was present, it never seemed to bother me. I was doing the one thing I loved and was good at, so there was no need to be anxious. Basketball was equivalent to breathing (okay, maybe a little bit harder) to me, so people observing never seemed to spike my angsts. Right now, I was sitting in a plastic chair, on a stage, in front of quite a few suburban teens, beside Eric Wilson, my boyfriend, as I waited for the final verdict that would hopefully result in failure.

      In the very front row of the auditorium I saw six of the people I conversed with regularly. They were lined up, all as equally restless and enthusiastic. I would give just about anything to swap places with any of them—even Brendon, who was currently the victim of all Tara’s built-up anxieties. His hand was captured in hers, and was serving as a stress reliever. It was probably numb by now with the amount of times Tara had squeezed it.

      Then, in the middle of the slanted constellation of seats, amid the masses of rowdy adolescents was a smug looking boy who appeared as though he was openly enjoying my agony all too much. He wasn’t communicating with anyone around him—no, his eyes were glued to mine as we began a staring contest that served as yet another thing that I wasn’t too keen on winning. It felt as if he was mocking the situation I was in as his blue orbs seared into mine. If we had been in reversed positions, though, I couldn’t say that I’d exhibit any more sportsmanship than he.

      My chest rose and fell as I allowed oxygen to seep into my lungs. It would all be over in a matter of minutes. I wanted to lose now more than I had wanted win anything in my life. Air escaped my parted lips again, and I began to feel slightly faint. I wasn’t about to black out, for I was a relatively healthy person, and didn’t rely on passing out as a way to deal with my fears. Nah, I much preferred staring them straight on, in public view of everyone with my trusty sidekick, sarcasm, to help me.