The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-One

      “He goes in for the goal! And! TOUCHDOWN!” Trevor screamed, almost breaking my mini basketball hoop in the process as he attempted to dunk a foam ball painted orange into it.

      “You’re such an idiot,” I muttered, “goals and touchdowns tend to appear in sports such as soccer, hockey, and football; not basketball.”

      “I wasn’t playing basketball,” he defended, as I heard my phone buzz, twice. Before I even had a chance to get up, let alone retrieve it, it was already in Trevor’s possession.

      “Then what were you playing?” I questioned, watching carefully as his fingers tapped across the smooth screen of my beloved cellular device.

      “Who’s ‘The hottest guy Liz knows’?” he read off of the small piece of technology, diverting the conversation, and not answering my inquiry, but rather posing one of his own.

      I thought for a moment, thinking back to who had programmed the name into my phone. Dylan. It wasn’t even a question. A smile formed on my lips as I decided to finally respond to Trevor. “A friend.”

      “Okay, well, whoever he is, he wants to know if you’re ‘going to the douche’s game?’ Based on the other message you received, ‘Liz, are you coming to my game?’ I’m assuming that ‘Eric Wilson’ is the ‘douche’ in that sentence,” he said, continuing to pat away with his fingers, lacking my consent.

      “Well, you’re kinda here, so I don’t exactly think that me going is going to happen in the near future,” I said, as I could practically hear the cogs in his mind spin about.

      “Too bad,” he proclaimed, placing my phone down, as I sent him an inquisitive glance. “I just told Eric that we’d love to come, and are headed there now!”

      “We?” I gulped.

      “Yup. You and I. Me and you. Us. Liz and Trevor,” he neglected to elaborate how I would’ve liked. I sent him a serious stare, and, after about twelve seconds too long of silence, he got the message loud and clear. “I told him that you were bringing a friend; wouldn’t want to miss this monumental game, would we?”

      “Monumental. Big word for a kid who goes to Westchester U.,” I smirked.

      “I know,” the confident expression he wore mirrored my own, “it was a vocab word last week. I totally aced the test.”

      “Well aren’t you a smarty pants,” my eyes automatically did a three-sixty in their sockets.

      “Yeah,” he paused, “I heard it impresses chicks.”

      “Of course,” sarcasm aided in my delivery of the response.

      He walked over to where he had carelessly dropped his designer boots, and began to put them on. They were the type of shoes that male models wore in European perfume ads. The second he walked into my house, I commented on them, making sure he knew how ridiculous wearing them out in public truly made him appear. Sure, they were probably “high fashion”, and, considering his mother was a fashion icon and all, he was connected, but that wasn’t the point. In addition to his fashionable footwear, he wore a white T-shirt that hung loosely on his torso, and a pair of gray sweats; the ensemble looked idiotic, even to someone like me.

      As he continued to pull the expensive articles onto his feet, all I could do was stare. I couldn’t quite tell if he was bluffing, or being completely serious. “Are we actually going?” I asked for clarification.