Any holly-jolly joy I gathered during winter break melts the moment I walk through the doors on the first day back at school. Second semester. Second billionth time cursing The Mirandas for enrolling me in this inferno.
In P.E., we have graduated from field hockey to basketball, now that the ground is covered in ice and hockey was banned by the school board because the school board sees ice as a safety hazard. The first indoor sport is basketball. Where I come from, B-Ball is religion. People prayed at the netted altar and worshiped the divine entity of foul shots.
Our class breaks into two teams and begins a scrimmage. We start with a jump ball. A girl on my team passes the ball to her friend. Her friend dribbles more than she should and passes the ball to her friend, who passes the ball to me. I step up to the line, bounce the ball twice, and swish the it through the net. I do that again. And again. The kids on my team keep passing me the ball, and I keep making shots. My team wins, sixteen to three. After running four laps around the gym, we line up to play a game of H-O-R-S-E. The girl who passed me the ball pats my shoulder when I make the first shot. "You've got to join the team!"
The Coach stops me on my way to the locker room. "Meet me here during your study hall. You could be a major asset to the athletics department."
Two hours later, the Coach meets me in her office. She has my first semester report card pulled up on her computer: D, C-, D-, F, C, B-, A. I'm on academic probation. No basketball team for me. She wags her pencil at me and says I'm not reaching my full potential. There's the P-word, again. I turn to leave, but The Coach stops me when Mr. Valkin, the boys basketball coach, walks by the doorway. She asks me to demonstrate a layup for him.
The P.E. class during my study hall is the Advanced Athletics course. The gym is filled with genetic mutants running on enough testosterone to fuel a nuclear power plant. I step up to the line and snatch the ball from a dude who was about to throw a sub-par foul shot. I wave him back a few steps. Amateur hour is over. Bounce, bounce, swish-- right through the net. Mr. Valkin crosses his arms and tells me to attempt a three-pointer. Step backwards, don't bump into the testosterone beasts, bounce, bounce, flick the wrist, swish. I make the shot. Mr. Valkin grins at The Coach and times me in wind sprints.
If I cared enough to talk, I'd tell them that I wouldn't be caught dead wearing a Wilmington jersey. The Coaches test my ability to make shots from different positions and I make each one. Perfect form was programmed into my genetic code. I don't shoot hoops. I blast hoops into smithereens. And I do that on street courts, not hardwood Wilmington floors.
At the end of the period, The Coach stops me on my way out from the locker room. She says she'll make me a deal. She'll negotiate me out of academic probation if I promise to come to basketball tryouts next week.
I don't respond. I don't have to. I just won't show up. I have more important things to do.
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SHOUT - Adopted by Lin Manuel Miranda
Fanfiction"Sometimes I think the universe sets certain people out into the world like gifts meant for others, people whose purpose is to save someone else. That's how I think of families. And if the universe couldn't do me that favor, couldn't put someone on...
