Free Jumped by Rita Williams-Garcia Page A

and scoop up my nail tip, saving it from being crushed by some girl thoughtlessly running to get under a volleyball.
    I am so busy blowing gym dirt off my custom-designed nail and assessing the damage that I am just now feeling the pain inflicted by that volleyball. And then I see my hand. My damaged hand. Four perfectly painted silk-wrapped nails and one fat and useless finger standing out, dead center.
    I march up to Capito and shove my custom-designed, hand-painted nail tip at her.
    â€œWho’s gonna pay for this?”
    She says, “Pay for what?”
    â€œMy silk-wrapped tip, Ms. Capito. Who gonna pay?”
    She laughs at me like we was doing our daily joke, but joke time is over. I am serious.
    â€œSomeone’s got to pay,” I tell her. “Someone’s got to take responsibility. This cost money. This happened here and you’re the adult in charge. What are you going to do about this, Ms. Capito?”
    Ms. Capito holds my hand to get a good look, then says, “I’ll write you a pass to get it cleaned up.”
    I snatch my hand back. “I don’t care about a pass. I want action. I’ve been damaged.”

18
All-Ball Girl
DOMINIQUE
    I LIKE GYM . I don’t cut gym. I don’t have a problem with gym. Just folk dancing. I’ll sit out if we’re folk dancing. Big cramps if we’re do-si-do’ing.
    Just give me ball days. Show off my ball skills. My hustle. My drive. I’m here for ball days. I’ll suit up. I’ll play. Yeah. Give me all ball days. I’m an all-ball girl.
    Brown ball. That’s my thing. That’s me. Spanking the court with the brown ball, passing, shooting. Brown ball is fitted for my hands. The right fit in the curve of my hand. Only feels wrong when the ball’s not sucked into the curve of my hand. Vacuum sucked. If it’s up to me, we’ll play brown ball all year long. All-ball girl.
    But I’ll play what we got. Any ball. Toss it here. I’ll play it. Throw it. Hit it. Defend it. Score it. Knock it down. Just let it be a ball day. Not a health film day. Nota folk-dancing day. As long as it’s a ball day, I’ll play. You know it: all-ball girl.
    Â 
    We’re still on the white ball. Volleyball. Nunke and the gym leader, Crawford, demonstrate the spike at the net. Nunke throws the ball up. The ball arcs right. Crawford, in that white student leader uniform, runs and leaps like she’s in ballet class. Runs, leaps like she’s in a tutu. Runs, leaps, and taps the white ball with her open hand. Just a tap. A ballerina tap. And they do it again. Up, arc, then run, leap, tap.
    Enough demonstrations. We get it. Let’s do it.
    We line up for our turn at the net. Our turn to do it. Spike it over the net. I jump to the front, but Nunke points to the back. “Come on,” I say. Nunke says, “Back of the line, Duncan,” sounding like Coach. I can’t believe she won’t let me slide, but she’s not hearing me. She points. “Back, Duncan.” So I go back. The last girl on line.
    It’s all right. I’ll get my shot. That’s what I tell myself while I wait. I watch Nunke set it and the girls try to hit it. Nunke sets it up, right. And if a girl misses it, she doesn’t go to the end of the line. That’s your turn, you’re done. Scram. No. Crawford throws the ball back toNunke and Nunke sets it again.
    And I’m watching the clock. Watching the misses. Counting the girls on line. Thirty, forty girls ahead of me. A minute a girl. And all I want is a hit. Just one, just one. Let me hit one.
    I’m tasting it. When my turn comes up, it won’t be about run. It won’t be about leap. It won’t be about tap. When Nunke sets it straight up, as it falls a little to the right, I’ll charge the net, haul back, and kablam . A hammer slam. My hand’s throbbing, from the back of the line. Throbbing. I’m tasting the smack of the