That Stupid Little L-Word:

Chapter Six:

"Throw the ball!" 

Coach Ashbury has undergone a terrifying transformation. No longer is she the gorilla-like creature before, with the gruff voice and beady eyes. Now, with a grace akin to Godzilla, she stalks around the gymnasium with her whistle in her mouth, barking out death orders like Hitler. 

The constant shriek of the whistle blares off the walls surrounding us, and I courageously hide behind Miley. She uses one of the squishy blue balls to bat away some of the balls thrown at us. 

"Throw the ball," Coach Ashbury screams at us, each word emphasized like a sentence.

Miley quickly chucks the ball at some unsuspecting victim, lest the beast venture closer to where we stand. I watch as Coach blows on her whistle and turns towards someone else on the opposite team, and then hiss, "This is hell!"

"I told you it would get worse!" Miley squeaks as she dodges a ball.

A ball zips past my head, and it takes me a few seconds to register the fact that I had just --luckily-- moved my face out of its dangerous path. I gape at the blue sphere and then run after it, catching it as it bounces off the wall behind us. I whirl around and throw it with all my might. 

It catches someone in the gut. 

I watch, slightly pleased, as my target drops to the floor, groaning loudly. Coach Ashbury whistles furiously at the player until he crawls off towards the bleachers. Miley squeals and jumps out of the way of another ball. 

"Not bad!" she calls to me, watching the kid with a pitying look on her face. 

Although I am not the most athletic person in the world, I am pretty good at softball. Jake and I used to play on a co-ed team hosted by our middle school; he loved catching while I liked to pick flowers out in the outfield. It was sixth grade, okay? Don't judge me.

It was while I was dancing around and celebrating my surprising hit, that a ball appeared out of no where and smacked into the side of my head. 

"Owe," I groan, and watch as Miley is clipped in the butt by another ball. 

"Come on," she laughs at me. She walks over and holds out a hand, which I take and allow her to pull me up onto my feet. Coach is having a conniption fit with her whistle, so we limp off the court like wounded soldiers and plop down on the first row of bleachers. 

Miley sinks back and leans against the set behind us. "We have lunch after this," she rubs her stomach, letting out a little huff, "I'm so starving."

I massage my head and ignore her whining. 

"Hey," A new voice sounds from behind me, "Nice shot earlier." 

Eyebrows mashing together, I look back behind me, and lock eyes with the kid I'd brought down moments before my own dodgeball-demise. Upon closer inspection, I noticed he had warm chocolate colored irises, and freckles dotting the bridge of his nose. He ran a hand through his short, spiked brown locks and grinned. 

"Who are you?" I ask, a little weirded out that he'd chosen to talk to me. Especially since I am the one who should have weeded him out from the crowd and apologized, first. 

"Devon," he laughed. Then he held out his hand, "You're the new girl, right?"

I nod and stare at his hand, as if it had miraculously grown an extra finger. "Alice," Hesitantly, I press my palm into his and he squeezes it tight. He shifts slightly on his seat and flashes Miley a sweet smile. "Hey Miles."

"Don't call me that," she mock-glares at him. 

"So you two doing anything for lunch?" He ignores the nasty look and turns his smile to me again, almost blinding me with it. "A bunch of friends and I are planning to go to Subway. It's just down the street, we could even walk if we wanted to. Do you want to come?"