AllFreeNovel
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I’m not trying to be an athlete. I’m trying to be a king.
I’m still gonna win this game, though. Because I win everything, always.
We head back to the locker room so the coach can tell us how we fucked up, and how we’re supposed to fix it in the second half.
I’m barely listening to him—I’ve watched more game tape from before I was born than this guy has ever seen. He’s just a teacher who happens to have the best damn player in the country on his team.
I gulp down a lukewarm cup of Gatorade, while listening to the pounding beat of “Billie Jean” emanating from the gym. I’ve seen Anna practice this number a dozen times, but I still ache to be out there watching her live, in costume, in front of all these people.
Her parents are sitting right next to mine—Mikolaj and Nessa Wilk, the boss of the PolishBraterstwoand the princess of the Irish Mafia.
Anna’s parents started out as enemies, a lot like mine. And just like mine, they’re weirdly obsessed with each other. I guess Anna and I should be glad we both come from families with parents that love each other, but Jesus, you shouldn’t have to tell grown adults to get a room.
Anna is to dance what I am to basketball—the fucking best. She makes the rest of the girls on her team look like they’ve got clown shoes strapped to their feet. She’s always front and center, grabbing your eye from the second she starts dancing, and refusing to let go until long after the music fades away.
I’m pulled back toward her, even though I know Coach will be pissed if I don’t stay till the bitter end of his motivational speech. I wait until he’s at a particularly rousing point, then Ipretend like I think that was the end of it, leaping to my feet and shouting, “That’s right, Coach, we got you! Let’s get out there and WIN THIS FUCKING THING!!!”
The locker room breaks out in whoops and howls, everybody stomping the floor and chanting like we’re Spartans going off to war.
We run back out to the court, me ahead of everybody else, wanting to catch the end of Anna’s dance.
Her team is dressed in some kind of bizarre Day of the Dead skeleton get-up. Their faces are painted like bejeweled skulls with flowers in their hair.
Anna is Captain of her dance team and head choreographer. Watching her numbers is like watching a fever dream. They’re wild, intense, and hard-hitting. The pounding bass of the song shakes the bleachers, and the girls look like they’re possessed—none more than Anna.
You’d think she doesn’t have a bone in her body. She flings herself around, strong and precise and tight as a whip.
I take back what I said about the other girls—Anna is a ruthless drill sergeant, and they absolutely know how to hit their marks. It’s just that no one comes alive like Anna. She looks supernatural as she whirls through her triple-pirouette, then drops down in the splits. The crowd screams just as loud as they did for me.
The dance team are champions in their own right. They took nationals all three years that Anna was Captain, even beating out those bitches from Utah who had been formerly unbeatable with their bleach-blonde hair and mile-wide smiles.
I almost forget that we’re in the middle of a game.
I forget everything but the low, flashing light and the throbbing beat and wild, brilliant dancers. They’re supposed to be hyping up the crowd, keeping the energy high during the break. They’ve done much more than that—they’ve brought anew level of darkness and intensity to the proceedings. They’ve made it seem as if this game truly is a matter of life and death.
The song ends, and the overhead lights burst on. I remember that I’m in a high school gymnasium. I smell the sweat and rubber and floor polish once more. I see my parents looking proud and anxious, and Uncle Miko and Aunt Nessa looking how they always do—Miko somber and intent, Nessa bright-eyed and eager.
Anna is leaving the floor, giving me a wave on her way out. A boy in a varsity jacket intercepts her. I don’t recognize him—he must go to Simeon. He blocks her path, trying to engage her in conversation.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but from the smirk on his face, and the way he grabs her arm without permission, I’m guessing it’s something along the lines of, “Hey girl, you’re pretty flexible. I’d like to see you wrap those legs around my head . . .”
It’s the kind of thing guys used to say to Anna at our school, until they learned their lesson.
I grin, knowing exactly what’s about to happen.
Anna grabs his hand off her arm and bends his wrist back, all the pressure concentrated on his pinky. Even from across the gym, I hear the varsity douche scream like a little girl.
Anna brushes past him, whipping him in the face with her ponytail as she passes. The guy cradles his hand, muttering something under his breath.
I cast a quick glance at Uncle Miko.
He watched that whole exchange the same as I did. Now his ice-blue eyes are narrowed to slits, his jaw rigid with rage.
All I can say is that kid is pretty fucking lucky to get off with nothing more than a sprained wrist. If he put one more finger on Anna, he wasn’t likely to make it home tonight.
Grinning, I jog over to the bench to slug down a last gulp of water before the ref blows his whistle.
Moments later, the game is back in full swing, and we’re running harder than ever. My team is amped, but so are the Wolverines. They’re running a full-court press, fueled by fury that the game is even this close when they’re supposed to be the best team in the state.
