Free Swagger by Carl Deuker Page A

straight As.
    I was thoroughly depressed as I headed to health. When I stepped into the classroom, I scanned the room, finally spotting Levi way in the back. “Hey,” I said, when I closed in on him, “how’s your day going?”
    He shook his head and frowned. “My classes look tough.”
    â€œTeachers always try to scare you on the first day.”
    The bell rang, and Ms. Fleming, the only one of my teachers who was under thirty, ran through her version of the opening statement. I took no notes, because there was absolutely nothing important said, but Levi filled three pages of binder paper. A couple of times I looked over to see what he could possibly be writing.
Quizzes every few weeks . . . Keep up with new medical developments . . . Healthy life choices are important
.
    I wondered if that was why he had trouble passing his classes. Maybe he studied the same way he drew animals and trees, looking at everything from every angle. Maybe he needed to learn what to ignore.

3
    O NCE CLASS ENDED, LEVI AND I headed over to the gym for unofficial basketball practices. As we walked down the long hall, I grew more worried about Coach Knecht. “Does Knecht watch these games?” I asked.
    Levi shook his head. “That’s against the rules. Coach Knecht will stop by only to say hello.
    When we turned the final corner leading to the gym, I spotted Cash joking with a tall man wearing a coat and jacket. The man had his back to me, but he stood straight—nothing bent over about him—so I knew he couldn’t be Knecht. Cash saw Levi and me and called out, his voice excited. “Double D, Jonas—look who’s teaching here.”
    The man turned around.
    It was Ryan Hartwell.
    Smiling ear to ear, Hartwell strode toward us, his hand raised so we could high-five him. “Good to see you again, Levi. Good to see you, Jonas. What am I saying? It’s great to see you. It’s fantastic.”
    â€œAre you a teacher here?” I asked.
    â€œSocial studies and PE,” he answered, his eyes alive.
    â€œWhy didn’t you tell us in the summer?”
    â€œBecause I got hired yesterday.”
    â€œIt gets better,” Cash broke in. “He’s our basketball coach too.”
    â€œAssistant coach,” Hartwell quickly added, looking at Levi. “Mr. Knecht is still your head coach.”
    Within minutes DeShawn and Nick came up, and Hartwell told his story again. Then he pointed to the locker room. “Get in there and get changed. You guys need work. Remember, I saw how bad you were all summer.”
    Â 
    The girls’ varsity volleyball team had the main gym, but Coach Knecht had arranged for us to use a side gym so small that there was hardly any space between the out-of-bounds line and the wall. I was the first guy out on the court and immediately started to shoot around. The other guys came onto the floor soon after me. I recognized Brindle, my competition, because he dribbled the ball with the confidence of a point guard. His shooting form was not bad—the guy had obviously gotten a lot of good coaching—but the results were just okay. The same thing was true with his speed and quickness: good, not great.
    We’d been on the court about ten minutes when Coach Knecht came in. His back was bent exactly as Levi had described, but he had a strong jaw, a grizzled beard, and hawkish eyes that seemed to look right through you. He said hello to the guys he knew, and then he had us new guys tell him about our basketball backgrounds.
    â€œSo you played point guard in California?” he asked when I finished. “Did you start?”
    â€œYeah, I did.”
    â€œâ€˜Yes, sir,’ would sound better.”
    My face turned bright red. Knecht let me squirm a little and then continued. “Were you any good?”
    â€œYes, sir. I was good. I was second-team all-league.”
    â€œI meant your team, Jonas. Was your team