Page 4 of We Shouldn't Be Together
Our trio stands alone for a good while until Coach Oliver ushers two girls our way. One girl is Ramonda Clarkson. Her grandfather built the strip mall on Main Street. Messing with her is a one-way ticket to being banned from the best shopping in town. The other girl is…
Bingo.
Jamie West. The only girl without a single friend in this class. I’ve seen Camila tear her down before. This girl goes completely mute. She stands there like a solid brick and never says a word back.
She’s perfect.
Defenseless.
No allies.
I’m saved.
After Coach Oliver sets our groups in different areas across the basketball court, I tap Cammy’s arm and whisper, “Looks like we have a bigger disaster area in front of us.”
Cammy’s been death-staring at our phys-ed teacher—which wouldn’t last long—and flinches from my touch. “Huh?”
“Hello,“ my whisper gets louder. “Right in front of you.”
When Cammy locks eyes with Jamie, a cackle rolls out of her. “Oh my gosh, Tabby, you’re so right. How does this girl even function?”
Jamie flinches, looking left and right and then gulping when she determines we’re talking about her.
Yvie’s ears prick and she steps in closer to us. “What’s this now?”
Camila gestures at Jamie like she’s unsure of what she’s looking at. “Like, you tell me. Is she even supposed to be in this class? I mean, she’s always hanging out with those skater boys. Are we entirely sure she’s not…”
“Garcia,“ Coach Oliver barks. “How about instead of running that mouth, you run these drills instead?”
Cammy clicks her tongue and gestures for me to pass the basketball. It’s a weak throw, but makes it to Cammy’s hands.
Phew.
Ramonda sails through the drills; catching, dribbling, and passing. Come to think of it, I've heard there’s a regulation-sized basketball court on her grandfather’s estate.
Figures.
Yvie, of course, complains about getting sweaty and the ickiness of hundreds of kids touching the same ball. Coach Oliver zones her out, letting her pass on the drills. When tomboy Jamie runs drills, she proves she’s actually good atsports. Instead of letting her put us to shame, Cammy gets in a few more low blows. Having the heat taken off me is wonderfully refreshing. Yet it doesn’t last long. Unlike our trio, Jamie flies through the drills like Ramona, and they both get excused by Coach Oliver.
Our phys-ed teacher proceeds to talk down to us about how to hold and pass a ball. Like I even care. How in the world is knowing how to play basketball going to help me in life?
“Ugh, this isn’t a life and death situation,” I blurt at Coach Oliver.
My teacher blinks at me, and my bravado swiftly fades.
I didn’t mean it to come out. I just meant to rant in my head. But I said it, and Coach Oliver caught the outrage in my stare.
Without warning, Coach Oliver throws the ball at me, and I stumble backward, haphazardly wrestling to keep it in my hands.
“Maybe not, Miss Jones,” Coach Oliver says, marching toward me. “But hand-eye coordination can help you out in sticky situations. And as a pretty, young female, that’s something you should be worried about.”
Cammy gasps in disgust. “Coach, are you coming on to her?”
“You can’t say that to students,” Yvette rushes, horrified, as her hand hovers over her mouth.
For a moment, delight bounces in my chest as my friends come to my defense, until Coach Oliver blows her whistle. “The three of you get moving. Five laps of the court.”
“What?” we shriek in unison.
