Free Step Up and Dance by Thalia Kalipsakis Page B

to him – straining and panting when Jay asked for extra effort, or smiling when he said something good.
    The coach kept calling to Jay too. Jay would run over, and he and the coach would stand together on the sideline, pointing to team members and parts of the court.
    â€˜Why do they bother to make black jellybeans?’ said Summer, frowning into her jumbo bag. ‘I mean, who likes black jellybeans?’
    â€˜Some people do,’ I said, and picked up the organiser from Summer’s lap. ‘My dad loves ’em.’
    â€˜Well here . . .’ One by one Summer picked out the black jellybeans and dropped them into my lap. ‘Tell him they’re a gift from me.’
    I popped a jellybean into my mouth and read the ‘research’ that Summer had scribbled on the organiser. It started out with stuff that she thought we could use to humiliate Jay:
    skinny legs,
    knobbly knees,
    daggy clothes.
    But then she had clearly got sidetracked:
    cute coach (true, but not helpful)
    dumb game. (Summer wasn’t exactly in tune with the enemy.)
    I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees, trying to absorb everything I saw. Summer was bored because she didn’t understand the game (like when she steals my German homework and laughs about Dumkopf and Sauerkraut ). A week ago I would have been the same, but it was as though my lunchtime basketball attempt, and my conversation with Jay, had given me a dictionary of vocab that helped me find meaning in the game.
    And now that I had my dictionary, I was super-impressed. Those boys sure could catch. And dribble, and pass the ball . . . and even shoot baskets.
    Whack went the cannonball moving through their hands, like a dot-to-dot ending at the basket. They made it look easy.
    Jay’s style of play was like Faith’s in some ways, central and consistent – the glue holding the team together. He would move in fast, do his bit with the ball, and then coax and encourage the others.
    At one point, one of his friends pointed up to me and Summer, nudging Jay in the ribs as he did. For a moment, Jay stood on the centre circle, staring up at us while the ball flew over his head and bodies flocked around him. Then he started moving again, or trying to. Suddenly, Jay seemed younger – gangly and awkward as if he wasn’t used to the length of his own arms or the size of his huge feet.
    â€˜You know what I think?’ Summer leaned forwards to match how I was sitting. ‘I think Jay’s in loooooove …’
    â€˜Really?’ I looked at her, then looked away, feeling weird and self-conscious. ‘In love with who?’
    For a moment Summer peered into my eyes – her head was tilted, forehead kinked. Then she looked away and laughed. ‘In love with that dumb game.’
    â€˜Oh …’ I sat back in my chair, feeling strangely relieved. By now Jay was charging down the court, homing in on the ball with desperate determination as if it were the only thing of value in the world. I could almost see the smoke coming out of his ears.
    â€˜I’ve got it, Saph, the perfect revenge! All we have to do is write him a letter saying he’s been accepted at some big US club, or whatever they call it,’ Summer grinned at me. ‘That would really get him.’
    â€˜Yeah, maybe.’ I bit my lip, tasting the sugar and hint of liquorice, and stared down at Jay. ‘But it’s a bit cruel don’t you think?’ I didn’t want to be too mean about this. Then again, I didn’t want to be a pushover either. Bimbo, fake, pushover – if I saw myself through Jay’s eyes, I wasn’t exactly fearsome opposition.
    â€˜Well, we could tell the coach that he’s on drugs and get him kicked off the team.’
    â€˜Summer!’ I play punched her on the arm. ‘You’re terrible, girl!’
    She grinned at me and popped another jellybean into her mouth.
    Summer was right, though.