Page 11 of Brick Wall
Feet: *basketball emoji* *angel emoji*
I can usually speak the language of confusing text messages pretty well, thanks to coaching college girls and being in group chats with my brothers, but I’m lost, so I respond with a question mark because I don’t know what else to say.
Feet: play bball at 7? *prayer emoji*
Instead of responding right away, I call Goldie because I have her to thank for my current confusion.
“Hello?” Goldie answers on the second ring.
“Why is Feet asking me to play basketball tonight?” At least, maybe?
“Because you were recruited to play in their co-ed game?”
“Um, what?” I do not recall such a thing.
“Feet said that you were playing in their spring basketball pickup game. You were talking about it at the bar that night you met…” she lingers on that last word for a second.
“I have no idea what you are talking about. Why would I want to play basketball with him?” Just because I’m tall doesn’t mean I automatically know how to play basketball. I hate thatstereotype.
Although my point is probably moot because I excel at basketball, but I barely talked to Feet. They should change his name to fungus because this man gives me a headache.
“Because you like sports? Because you’re tall? Because they need a girl to play? Because you are a giver and like to meet new people?”
That last one is untrue, and Goldie knows it since her voice goes exceptionally high toward the end.
At my lack of response, she adds, “Bryce will be there. A few guys play basketball at Quinn’s during the off-season.”
Well, that’s interesting. I wouldn’t mind going to Quinn Banks’ house to play basketball, not that I know him, of course. I would only know Bryce and, well, Feet, I guess.
“All right, thanks for the details. Are you coming to watch?”
“Nah, I have a movie marathon calling my name.”
“Okay, sounds good. I’ll catch you later.”
With that, I hang up and notice that Feet texted me again.
Feet: i’m not hittin on you
Feet: we need a girl in order to play
Feet: this is not a date
I guess that clarifies the situation. Not that I’m interested in Feet like that. He’s at least five years younger than me, probably more.
I text Feet back that I’ll play tonight because, well, I don’t really know why after those delightful texts. I guess I’m bored, and it would be nice to get out. He responds with a thumbs-up and an emoji that…I have no idea, actually.
* **
“Thanks for coming. I couldn’t get any other girls to play. You’re the only one that said yes on short notice,” Feet says as I open the door to his little red sports car as he picks me up at the curb in front of my place. I plop down on the seat in front of him, shutting the door behind me.
Feet really knows how to charm a girl.
“Ah, well, I’ll do my best. I haven’t played basketball in years.” It’s true. I played basketball when I was younger, but when I found volleyball in middle school, I focused entirely on that.
“You’ll be fine. It’s a casual pickup game, but we need at least one girl in order to play. You don’t really have to do much.”
All right then.
