Free Click Here (to find out how i survived seventh grade) by Denise Vega Page A

anyone.”
    “Huh?”
    “My feet. You were going to say something, weren’t you?”
    “No. Actually I was going to ask you where you got your Chuck Taylors. My dad likes canvas shoes and can’t always find them.”
    I narrowed my eyes. Was he saying my feet were the same size as his dad’s? I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Foot Locker.”
    “Thanks. I’ll tell him.” Then he got a glint in his eye. “Maybe he could try yours on first.”
    Wham!
I knocked the ball out of his hands and ducked around him, dribbling to the basket and making an easy layup — all before he knew he held nothing but air. He looked down, then turned around. “Hey, that was cheating!”
    “No way!” I replied. “You just weren’t ready. Two-zero.”
    “I’m supposed to pass to you first to check the ball.”
    “Is that with or without a foot insult?”
    Mark smiled. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist. Especially because you were expecting me to say something.” He cocked his head. God, he was cute. “I thought you could take it.”
    I shook off the Cute Spell. “I can take it,” I said evenly. “Can you take this?” I shoved the ball at him and he caught it in the chest. I heard an “umph” as his hands wrapped around it.
    “Nice pass,” he said, dribbling out past the top of the key before coming back. “You know you’re lucky, don’t you? Those feet mean you’re going to be tall.”
    “So I hear,” I said, blocking his shot and retrieving the ball. I drib-bled back up to the key, feinting left and going right to avoid his reaching hand. “I guess that’ll be good if I play in the WNBA.” I wondered if he liked tall girls. Some boys — the ones that were totally lame — didn’t. What if all boys were lame and no one ever wanted to go out with me? I missed my shot and Mark got the rebound.
    Between games we talked a little more. I found myself telling him about Chris.
    “Guys are weird when they like a girl,” Mark said, then blushed. “Not that I’ve liked that many, but you know.”
    No, I don’t know!
I wanted to shout.
Tell me all about it.
But I was afraid he might start telling me about Jilly or maybe some other girl I didn’t even know, and I couldn’t stand that.
    “I just wish he’d stop being mad,” I said. “Ever since he got into high school, he treats me like I’m this little immature kid or something.”
    Mark smiled. “Compared to sixteen, we are immature.”
    “Speak for yourself,” I said, taking a shot from the top of the key.
Swish.
    “At least you don’t have a sister who thinks you’re cute like a puppy dog and introduces you to all her college friends like you’re her pet.” Mark made a face. “She thinks she’s this big adult and I’m a little kid she needs to take care of.”
    “Ugh.” I wasn’t sure which was worse.
    We kept playing, sharing tidbits of information with each other. Then Mark went for a layup. I jumped to block it, but my arm got tangled in his. We dropped down together in a heap and when we looked at each other, our faces were super close. I was looking right into his eyes, our noses practically touching, his lips about two inches from mine. My heart pounded crazily in my chest and I held my breath. Could this be it?
    Our eyes held for a moment and then Mark untangled his arm and rolled away, bouncing to his feet.
    “Foul,” he said. “I get two shots.”
    “No way!” I scrambled to get up, trying to hide my face, which was getting warmer by the second. I wiped my hands on my shorts and squared my shoulders. He could never know I thought we were about to kiss. Never. “I didn’t touch you on the way up.”
    “Foul,” he said again, grinning.
    “Cheater,” I muttered. But I stood on the foul lane, ready for the rebound. Neither of us said anything about being face-to-face, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. He beat me easily, 20 to 15. In the end, he won three games and I won two.
    “Okay,” Mark said. “Where will