Free The Battle of Darcy Lane by Tara Altebrando Page B

thought of it, but they didn’t.
    â€œI guess you’ll need a coach,” Peter said, and I smiled.
    We went to his backyard patio and ran through the whole game so that he knew all the moves. He picked out nines for me to focus on, and I did it maybe thirty times without dropping the ball once.
    â€œGood work,” he said when it was time for me to head home.
    Maybe it was a weird, random thing to be proud of, but I felt that way anyway.

13 .
    I sprang out of bed on Friday and started practicing Russia in the backyard. I didn’t think about Taylor or Alyssa or the prank calls or candy or babies or anything. None of it mattered but the game. Nothing mattered but concentrating on throwing the ball just so, and staying focused.
    Tomorrow, if I could pull this off, everything would be different.
    When I was completing my seventh turn-clap-turn move, ready to go for the first time onto eightsies, Peter said “Hey!” and I dropped the ball.
    â€œCrap.” I chased after it. “You made me miss!”
    â€œSorry,” he said. “I’m coming over.” He pushed something up to the fence and climbed onto a tree that borderedour yards—the trunk was on his side—and dropped down on my side like a bag of limbs in an orange T-shirt. “That used to be easier.”
    â€œYou could have walked around.”
    â€œTakes too long.” He fixed his shirt. “How’s it going?”
    â€œFeeling good. I think.”
    He ran a hand through his hair, brushing out a leaf, and I wondered if boys’ hair felt different than girls’ and how long it would be before I found out. He said, “Let’s see what you’ve got,” and sat in one of our loungers and pulled up his sweat socks.
    I started the whole game over.
    I got up to tens without dropping anything.
    Peter said, “She’s just jealous, you know.”
    I snorted. “Of what ?”
    Boys could be so dumb.
    â€œOf you, you idiot.”
    It was hard to count my Russia moves while talking so I stopped midway through tens. “Why would anyone be jealous of me ?”
    He blushed a little, I swear he did, and said, “Because you’re smart and, you know . . . pretty and stuff.”
    â€œShe doesn’t think I’m pretty.” The very idea of it was ridiculous.
    But then I thought: He does.
    He does!
    He does ?
    My mom brought us sandwiches around lunchtime and asked, “What’s with all the balls lately?”
    I always thought of my parents as sharing everything with each other, and the fact that Dad hadn’t told Mom anything about our chat in the yard the other night surprised me some.
    â€œJust a game,” I said. “It’s called Russia.”
    I explained the basics, leaving out the bit about the showdown and Peter being my coach.
    â€œWait, wait, wait,” she said. “I know this! I used to play it. Or something like it! But we called it something different.” She pinched her head with her fingers. “Oh, what was it. Onesies, twosies. No! Leansies Clapsies, Onesies Twosies. Wow. That takes me back. That was a long time ago.”
    It was a little embarrassing how excited she was.
    â€œWell, that’s good,” she said on her way back inside. “It’s better than reading trashy magazines, at any rate.”
    I felt bad not telling her the whole story, about Alyssa and me being on a path to mutual destruction, but I was too busy feeling hopeful to do anything about it. Because if Mom had been any good at Leansies Clapsies—talk about a ridiculous name—maybe Russia was in my blood.
    My arms were jellyfish, but I only had a day to get ready, so I got right back to work.
    I was about to throw my last thirteen out of thirteen in what would be my first ever successful run through the entire game when Peter said, “Julia?”
    From the way he said it, I thought he was going to say something like, “Don’t