Front and Center (8 page)

M
ONDAY IN SCHOOL, THOUGH, I WAS
bummed again. Everyone kept talking about our big victory over Coopesville, no one saying that if we—if I—played like that against a real team we'd get creamed. And then even Ibsen wouldn't be interested in me.

I sat there in health class wishing we were shooting baskets instead of studying nutrition. Shooting baskets at least is good for you instead of sitting at a stupid desk feeling your butt grow.

Speaking of folks who could benefit from some b-ball drills, Ashley Erdel was taking health class even though she's a senior. Because you have to take it to graduate and she missed it last year because she took physics instead, and don't even get me started on why someone who volunteers for physics has to take a class as dumb as health. She looked totally bummed too, not even paying attention to the teacher. Well, no one was, but Ashley usually faked it at least.

When someone on your team is bummed, it's your responsibility to help. I slipped over beside her. "What's wrong?" I whispered.

She groaned. "SATs. I just got my scores."

Just hearing the word
SAT
—well, the letters—made my stomach clench up. Because guess how good I'll be at
those.
"Oh. I'm sure you did okay..."

"I'll never get in." She stabbed her pen at the UW–Madison logo on the cover of her notebook that went with the UW-Madison sweatshirt she was wearing.

"You're like the smartest kid in school!"

She shot me this look. "Do you have any idea how competitive it is? It's not just grades—it's scores and how 'rounded' you are. Why do you think I'm playing basketball?"

Oh. That explained it. She was playing because of college. Just like me in a way if you think about it, although I also happened to actually like basketball. And be good at it. "Well, that's good, then, because basketballs are round. You know, to help you get rounded?"

That got her smiling at least. Which was nice, that I could cheer her up.

It didn't do my mood any good, though. Because you know what this meant? If even Ashley Erdel, with her A+ grades and the physics classes she takes for fun, if she was freaked about getting into college, what did that say about the prospects for me?

***

I chewed on that all day, how much the whole college application process sucked even for super-smart kids who should just be getting into Madison automatically. Plus Ashley was completely lost at practice. It was—well, it was exactly what would happen if I decided to take physics to round out
my
application. I'd be sweating just as much as she was, and she was sweating a lot. We were playing three on three on three, which is a great way to practice defense, but she had no idea what she was doing, and this freshman she was guarding kept stepping around her and getting the pass. Every time. Poor Ashley was almost in tears.

We were walking back to the locker rooms afterward and Ashley said—to me, but she could have said it to anyone; I just happened to be next to her at the time—"I stink."

Which was true, but you can't agree. I tried to think of some way to point out that if this were physics class
I
would stink, but I was smart enough at least to know that my words would get all jumbled on the way out and just make things worse. So I said the one thing I thought probably wouldn't hurt too much: "I could help if you wanted."

She looked up. "Really?"

"There are some tricks to guarding, if you're interested."

So to make a long story short, the two of us ended up in the cafeteria. Which used to be the girls' gym back in the days when folks didn't think girls were good enough for the real gym. Coach K even got us permission.

There were still lines on the floor from when girls practiced here, and where little kids still do on Saturday mornings, which was good news for me, because that's what I needed most, the lines. Because even though Ashley couldn't shoot, she could guard at least. I hoped. So we ran through a bunch of things, how to position yourself, how to watch your man's feet and her eyes, how to keep your knees bent and your hands up. Ashley kept fouling me, every couple of seconds, it seemed, and every time she did I'd make her shoot five free throws, because that's such good practice and also because she needed to learn not to foul!

Actually, it was a lot like what I did with Brian Nelson last summer, this training stuff, except easier even because I wasn't thinking every second how cute Ashley was and how nice she smelled, which had always been sort of a distraction with Brian, those thoughts. Plus she didn't complain. Brian might be fantastic at talking, but at workouts he'd gripe like it was prison camp or something. Not Ashley, though. She'd just try again, even though it was obviously so difficult for her, figuring out where to put her feet and how to get her arms to work. It was like her body didn't belong to her, you know what I mean? Like if she focused on one part, another part would just go off and do whatever it felt like and then she'd foul me again. If nothing else, it was a really good lesson in how being a Schwenk actually has some advantages.

I kept telling her to box me out and she'd say, "Okay," and then I'd get right past her. And then she'd have to do ten sit-ups, but I'd do them too to keep her company. And then I'd get past her again. After a while it occurred to me that maybe she didn't know what I was talking about. Like if it was me taking physics I'd be nodding but inside I'd be thinking,
Whatever.
"You know what 'box out' means?"

Ashley nodded, kind of.

"Okay," I said, straightening for a minute. "You know—you know in math sometimes there are those problems with an
x?
And sometimes there's both the
x
thingy and the
y?
"

"Sure. Multivariable equations."

Sheesh,
I thought, but I didn't say it aloud. "Yeah. Them. Well, you're defending, right? And you don't want your man—
me
—you don't want me to get the ball. You want to keep me out of play. And a pass could come from either direction. It could come from over there, which is x" —I waved in her direction—or it could come from here, behind me. That's
y,
behind me. Right?"

Ashley nodded slowly.

"Right. Well, if you push me right up against the line, who's over there in
y
to pass to me?"

"Um, nobody? Because it's out of bounds?"

"Exactly! So your job as a defender is to take that, um, multa..."

"Multivariable equation—"

"Yeah, and turn it into just an
x.
Which is you. Can you think of it that way?"

Ashley nodded, not so slowly this time, and we started again. And guess what? She got it! She was still fouling like crazy, but at least she'd figured out how important it was not to let me get around her. Which was pretty great.

Plus we worked on her foul shooting, where to aim, and how to hold the ball. I'd learned from working with Brian that it's important not to dump a whole bunch of information on someone all at once, not to be like,
You're bad at this and this and this and this,
because who wants to hear that? Instead we just focused for a while on her feet, and then her stance, and then her aim, me trying each time to be just as nice as I'd been with Brian, trying to be all trainer-ish like I'd been this summer.

"What are you thinking?" I asked once as she was standing there dribbling at the line—and looking a heck of a lot better than she had forty-five minutes earlier if I do say so myself.

"About my feet?" she answered, like it was a test.

"Well, yeah. Because that's important. But a lot of players also think a little thing each time they're at the line, sort of a little chant or something so they can focus."

"Like a mantra," Ashley said.

"Uh ... sure." I grabbed a ball and demonstrated, dribbling hard six times as I whispered to myself, getting my head into the game.

"What are you saying?"

I grinned. "I can't tell you that. That's like asking what you wish for when you blow out your birthday cake."

"But it helps?"

"It's
essential,
" I said, feeling totally trainer-ish.

Well, maybe she made up something and maybe she didn't, but her free throwing did get better. Meaning it was looking better even if the ball didn't go in. And she was a
lot
better at defending—again, any direction is up when you're on the bottom—and even a bit more aggressive. Which was something else she needed to work on.

I felt bad that I'd kept her from homework, but she didn't look like she minded too much. It was only one day, after all. You can really improve in one day if you set yourself to it, and she was. Finally we stopped, totally pooped, Ashley for obvious reasons, and me from having to be so supportive and also from trying my darnedest not to knock her down when she was guarding me. Sometimes playing
non
aggressively is just as hard as the other way around.

"I feel like I know you a lot better now," Ashley said kind of shyly as we were gathering up our sweatshirts and balls.

"Isn't that funny? I was thinking the same thing." I laughed. "I feel like my brain is twice as big, just from hanging out around you."

"Me too," Ashley said, laughing herself. Which was nice even if it wasn't true.

Only how smart were we? Because the custodians had locked all the doors and we couldn't get back to the gym. Which meant we had to go outside in just our shorts and bang on the gym door so the guys would let us in. Beaner was the one who did, and he grinned like it was the funniest thing ever to see us standing out there shivering.

"Well, hello there, ladies. What's the magic word?"

"
Please,
" said Ashley, rolling her eyes.

Beaner grinned even wider as he opened the door, but he was grinning at me. His boyfriend grin. My stomach did a flip, seeing it. It's awfully nice having a guy smile at you like that.

"Wanna play a little one-on-one?" he asked, bouncing me his ball.

"Beaner!" his coach called. "Practice?"

"In a sec," Beaner said, but he didn't stop grinning. "Shoot from here. I dare you."

A couple guys heard him and stopped what they were doing to watch. Ashley did too.

I was past the midcourt line. It would be one heck of a basket if I made it.

I bounced a couple times, whispering my free-throw chant, and powered a shot. I really thought I had it—the ball even circled the rim—but at the last second it dropped away.

Everyone groaned, which was nice, and Beaner did this little victory dance about how I almost made it, until their coach blew his whistle and Ashley and I went into the locker room.

"So, do you want to do it again?" she asked as we started changing.

I laughed. I really don't think it's worth practicing shots like that..."

"No, not that ... I was just thinking—you're probably way too busy, never mind—I was just thinking that maybe we could, you know..." She glanced over, too shy to look at me directly. That we could maybe make this coaching a regular thing."

Well, that was something to think about, all right. How to turn Ashley Erdel into something other than a very intelligent benchwarmer. Or rather, how to
try
to turn her, because all the things that Ashley was so intelligent about couldn't be applied to basketball. And even if they could, it wasn't like I could make every situation into some fancy math equation just so she'd be able to understand what I was talking about.

But I had to admit that it'd been fun to feel like I was making a difference for someone, even if that person wasn't Brian Nelson. I'd always kind of worried I was only good at training because of the huge crush I'd had on him. Now it seemed that maybe that wasn't true.

At supper that night Dad kept grumbling about how all the asphalt plants were closed, muttering to himself like some sort of crazy neighbor that you'd never visit when you were trick-or-treating. Curtis finally took the bait and asked what he was talking about.

"Jeez, you know what asphalt is. I want the driveway done for Win for Christmas, and you can't do that without asphalt. What the hell are they teaching you, anyway?"

Which got us grinning, because why in the world would Red Bend Middle School teach kids about paving? But all I said was "I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"Yeah. I got Jimmy Ott working on it. We'll get it done."

See, our driveway is just as run down as the rest of our farm, which doesn't matter for our beat-up pickup and our beat-up Caravan, or the milk tankers because those trucks have big tough wheels that can handle our potholes without blinking twice. But Win of course is in a wheelchair, and even if by some miracle he started walking, he still wouldn't be able to navigate from his van to the kitchen. That's why Dad wanted to pave that one area, from the van parking space to our kitchen door, and then build a ramp, a really nice one, into the house. But I guess he hadn't counted on no asphalt.

He'd figure something out, though. He always did. It might not be pretty or last very long, but there was always a solution somewhere. And in the meantime I had a quiz to study for or I'd have my own problems. And then when Mom called I got a whole new set of problems, because Win wanted to hear about my calls, what I'd said to the coaches and they'd said to me, and when he heard how they'd invited me to visit—which is just being polite, how many times have you heard someone say, "Stop by whenever"?—he said I needed to set some trips up PDQ.

"I can't go on trips! I've got games, you know."

Win snorted. "Against who?"

"Cougar Lake and West Lake, and Hawley next week—
Hawley.
"

"You can miss Cougar Lake."

"I can't miss a game!"

He sighed. "You're not going to do this, are you?"

"I can't miss a game, Win."

"Okay then. I will."

"You'll visit?"

"I'll set them up. I'd say the U of M, and Madison ... Iowa too, they've got a good program—"

I found my voice, finally. "But—what are you talking about? How am I supposed to get to Iowa?"