Free Jumped by Rita Williams-Garcia Page B

ball. The white, soft, hard leather. That feels good against your hand, yo. That sting is so good, your skin turns white, and then the blood comes back. It hurts, but that hard, hard slap is good. And you want that soft white ball one more time. One more hit.
    Let me get one. Let me get one. One good hit. One solid slap.
    The line is moving. I’m two girls away. But I take my eye off the clock for a second and the bell rings. Once that bell rings it’s chickens fleeing the coop. All balls drop. All the little chick-chicks go running to the lockers, but I grab Crawford and say, “Hey. Just one. Set me up one.”
    She says, “I gotta go.”
    I pick up the white ball and throw it at her. Crawford’s quick. She’s not a gym leader for nothing. She catches it and gives in.
    â€œJust one,” she says.
    â€œThat’s all I asked for.” So I’m in position, right. A few feet from the net, strong side. I’m looking up, ready to charge, haul back, and slap that ball down. She sets, but she doesn’t set it right. I can get a piece of it, but it’s too low. I’d have to tap it and I’m not here to tap nothing.
    â€œNo, no. That’s not it. Put it up. Straight up.”
    Crawford knows she ain’t going nowhere until she does it right. So she sets it, perfect frog arms spring, and it’s up, straight up, ninety degrees. I’m off. I’m charging. I’m under it, and it’s hanging in the sweet spot, and pss-slap! Hammer to the nail. A spinning rocket to the back court line. That was good contact. Good slap. Good sting. My hand is burning. I could hit another.

19
Slamming on the Brakes
LETICIA
    I CAN’T MISS AP S HELTON standing in the stream of kids, and he can’t miss me, headed right at him. Our eyes lock. There’s no turning away from me.
    â€œMiss Moore,” he says.
    â€œAP Shelton,” I say right back. “I was damaged in your school and I want to know what you intend to do about it.”
    AP Shelton is the right person for this job. He is a serious man. He scrunches the lines in his forehead, taking in the gravity of my complaint. He’s ready to do what assistant principals do.
    â€œWalk with me to my office,” he says. His voice dips low, in a hush. “I want to know exactly what happened.”
    We’re walking but I can’t contain myself. Something must be done now. The sooner he knows, the sooner hecan take action. I thrust my disfigured hand in his face. I want him to see what class participation got me. I say, “I hope this school has insurance, because this happened in your gymnasium during a volleyball exercise.”
    AP Shelton slams on the brakes. We’re no longer speeding to his office. He looks at my wounded hand and my severed silk-wrapped nail tip and says, “Go to class, Miss Moore.”
    I can’t breathe. Not even Bridgette and Bernie believe me when I say I have asthma, but I feel an attack coming on. I manage to find a breath and say, “But my hand. My hand is damaged.”
    He sighs. Sighs . That only makes my outrage climb. In fact, my outrage is halfway to heaven.
    â€œGo to the girls’ bathroom and run cold water over it. I’ll write you a pass.”
    I stamp my feet. “I don’t want a pass. I want action. I was damaged during gym. My hand and my property. Someone has to pay. Someone has to be responsible.”
    He alternately nods yes and no and sings, “Oh, I agree, Miss Moore.”
    Is that a smirk? A smirk and a song? Oh no, he didn’t just smirk at me in my hour of pain and loss of property. I tell him, “My parents will be in your office bright and early, AP Shelton. They’ll want to talk to you.”
    Now it’s out-and-out smirking. He says, “Good, Miss Moore. I’ll want to talk to them.”
    â€œI’m serious, AP Shelton.”
    â€œGo to class, Miss Moore.”
    Â 
    I need to make a