Chapter 26
ECONOMICS WAS HELL TO SURVIVE. So was Math.
Seating was arranged in alphabetical order. Both times, I ended up seated with Sky in the desk directly behind me and he took full advantage of that fact, inching his desk closer to my chair.
In Economics, instead of handing in his paper when he was finished, he lounged back, sinking into his chair and putting his long leggedness up to no good. The entirety of those last ten minutes, his feet remained jammed against mine. No matter how many times I moved or shifted, they still found me.
He switched up tactics during Math.
I know he failed – gave up – because thirty minutes into the exam, he started bothering me.
He reached under his desk, content on gripping the hem of my jersey or hooking his finger into one of my belt loops.
If not that, he would put his head down, stretching his arms out so that my shoulder kept brushing his fingers.
I didn't bother waiting until the full exam duration ended. Once I finished my booklet, checked my answers, I hightailed it out of there.
Of course, he was right behind me, but I bolted as quickly as my legs would carry me flinging the car door open and zipping out of there.
Try-outs are set to start by half three. There's enough time to pop by the minimart two blocks away from school. I spend a few minutes scanning the snack aisle, picking a few items to nibble and munch during try-outs, along with a few drinks.
The parking lot is still full when I return, students gathered in groups discussing the exams and the answers they got. Sky and his friends are clustered around his SUV. It's difficult to dismiss the way his eyes follow me across the parking lot until I'm completely out of sight.
Even harder to do is ignoring the feelings his lingering stare stirs, pushing forth a desire to make a U-turn and go to him.
On my way to the gymnasium where try-outs will be held, I pass Brent leaning against the lockers. He's speaking with a girl I recognize, a freshman with shiny brown hair. She's a whole head shorter than him and she clings to his arm, whining about her exam.
"I'm telling you, Mrs. Garner put that stupid question in there just to piss me off," the girl whines. "I'm so depressed, I can't even think about tomorrow's finals."
"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do here," Brent replies, but in a rare show of affection, he lets slip a smile, a glimpse of a softer side of him reserved only for the girl clinging to him.
Giselle Harper claps her hands, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet. A large grin curls her lips. She's a cute girl – brown hair with a little red in it, brown eyes just like her brother with a smatter of freckles across her nose and cheeks.
"Food," she cheers.
Even more rare, Brent actually laughs, ruffling his sister's hair. "Should've known. Mind waiting for me? I've got practice today."
Giselle snaps her fingers, pursing her lips. "Right! The captain thing. I'll wait in the library for you. Good luck!"
She scampers off in the opposite direction, sending him a wave and a two-fingered salute. It's easy to forget Brent can behave like a human when Giselle isn't around. She brings out his softer side, the side reminiscent of the best friend I grew up with.
Coach Hodge is in the gymnasium when I arrive, taking down the volleyball net. A few volleyballs are scattered around the court no doubt left behind by students wanting to kill time before their afternoon exams.
"You're early," he says in greeting, rolling up the net.
"I've got nothing else to do." Setting down my bag and snacks on the bleacher steps, I pick up the volleyball nearest the net trolley and toss it in.
"What about your exams for tomorrow?"
Picking up another and aiming for the net trolley, the ball slips in with minimum effort. "I'm always in the top five, Coach," I brag – subtly – picking up another volleyball. "I think I'll be fine."
Coach Hodge tilts his head. "You weren't here yesterday or Tuesday. That's three exams you missed."
Like Principal Dalton, Coach Hodge is the only other person at school who knows my schedule like the back of his hand.
Not just because I'm one of the school's top academic performers, or because I'm on the basketball team, but because they're fully aware of my illness.
They've made it a priority to know where I'll be at certain times of the day if anything should happen to me in relation to my condition.
"Easy. Summer school."
"Got everything figured out, have you?"
I crack a grin. "Mostly."
Tossing the last of the volleyballs into the trolley, Coach's sudden question catches me off guard as I'm about to push it into the storage room behind the bleachers.
"How are you otherwise?" he asks, sincere in his concern. I know what he's asking.
I can tell him I'm angry that treatments have run its course of usefulness. I can say I'm angry at myself for not living as much as I would have liked. I can say the world is cruel and I despise it.
I can tell him that it's depressing and terrifying all rolled into one knowing that with each day, I come closer and closer to end of my life.
It is true that no one knows what day their last will be.
It's a different kind of terror being aware that I'm living on borrowed time – to know how and to have an idea of when I go.
For all of those reasons, talking about me has never brought a shred of joy.
"A bit rhetorical, isn't it?"
Coach tosses the rolled-up net into the trolley, sighing heavily. "I'll be honest, I'm no good at these things. I never know what to say."
I shake my head. "You don't have to say anything."
Yet another reason I've kept this on the down low.
People will feel some type of way. They'll have condolences or regrets they wish to express.
Others might not know what to say or if they should say anything at all.
They're entitled to that, but it's always rubbed me the wrong way how people seem compelled to express sympathy or pity when there is no need to.
I could do without words wasted on my condition.
Soon enough, the gymnasium double doors swing open, the team filtering in, one by one, and as a group, with the assistant coach – Coach Rowland – trailing behind them.
Their bags occupy the benches and lower levels of the bleachers, chatter and murmured conversations quietening when they notice Coach Hodge is already here and I'm perched higher up on the bleachers.
Coach Rowland walks over to Coach Hodge.
Over the heads of our teammates, Ashton catches my eye and waves. I acknowledge him with a nod, then immediately seek out the second candidate for the position of captain.
No one on the team knows why I've suddenly quit and I've every intention of keeping it that way.
I don't need the constant reminder about my terminal illness whenever I look at them.
There are reminders aplenty every time I look in the mirror, every time I look at my parents and see the shadow of a grief yet to come darkening their faces.
Since there are two candidates for the captain position, the coaches devised a plan – a match. They'll all participate, split into two smaller teams each one consisting of seven players. Ashton will captain one team and Brent, the other, through a full thirty-two minutes of play.
If it were up to me, I'd pass the torch to Ashton and be done with it.
There's no malice toward Brent but between the two, Ashton's displayed the attributes expected of a captain.
The team likes him, he's easy to talk to.
When we were on the middle school team, Ashton was there foot to foot with me when it came to guiding our teammates, settling disputes between players, and communicating with match officials. Just like how is now.
Brent is harder to work with. The team doesn't find him easy to approach.
He's well-known among the student body for his aggression, his harsh mannerisms when speaking, and for bullying others – even his own teammates.
He's been benched during tournaments. In last year's tournament, he was benched for half the season for getting into it with a player from another school, escalating it to a physical altercation.
He's known for hazing freshman players. Sometimes it gets so bad, they quit before they actually make the team.
That too has been a source of contention between us and a contributing factor for the growing rift in our dying friendship.
I will give credit where it's due. When it comes to the game itself, the skills needed to keep the ball in play, Brent wins against Ashton by a landslide. He's definitely who you want when up against tough opponents.
The match starts with a blow of Coach Hodge's whistle. Both him and Coach Rowland take to their respective sides of the gymnasium. There are ten players on the court, four occupying the benches. They'll need to recruit a new team member with me officially leaving the team today.
While the ball is in play, I warm the benches one at a time. For the first half of the match, I sit on Brent's side, listening, and observing how he communicates with Coach Hodge and his team. I observe how he performs both as one of the team's best players and as a captain.
For the second half of the game, the captains switch teams and I sit on Ashton's side, doing the same with him.
There is a stark contrast in the tension that I notice immediately. Though both sides treat this friendly match as a high-stakes situation, as if a win will send them to the next round, there's a difference in how the team functions under both captains. Even coaches' attitudes are different.
When the thirty-two minutes of play are over, I'm pulled aside by both coaches. We go over the game, pointing out the strengths and weaknesses we noticed, sharing our observations as third parties about the synergy between the captains and the teams.
"Brent is a strong player. One of our best," I say, "but he's not captain material. You saw his play in the second half of the match. He decided to go it alone. If this had been an actual game, he would have cost the team."
"A few of them were already giving up," Coach Rowland comments. "When Brent performed as captain, they were more stressed."
"I noticed that too. Ashton is better suited to captain even though he's not the strongest player."
Coach Hodge crosses his arms over his chest. "The captain doesn't have to be the best player on the team," he reasons. "So, Ashton Meyers has your vote?"
When I nod, he looks at Coach Rowland who also nods his approval.
"All right. Last thing is a team vote," Coach Hodge informs.
They call the team to attention as we head back. The murmurs cease; the team scattered between the benches and lower steps of the bleachers, water bottles or phones in hand. Collectively, they turn to the three of us.
Coach Hodge addresses them. He walks them through the hybrid selection approach they used, both coaches nominating two players most favorable to the position, the match where their individual skills and ethics were observed and considered. The final part of the selection process is a team vote.
When Ashton's name is called, several hands shoot up.
I raise my own since I am still part of the team – still captain for the next few minutes.
I don't miss the look of utter betrayal on Brent's face, the shock that glazes his eyes, or the way he stares at me as if I've done something unforgiveable.
He doesn't break eye contact when his own name is called, murmurs sweeping the gymnasium as less hands are raised.
Brent doesn't look around for a quick count. He doesn't need to.
"The team's chosen," Coach Hodge announces. "The new captain of Jasper Falls High's boys basketball team is Ashton Meyers. Congratulations, kid."
Whoops and cheers of congratulations sweep the gymnasium, the team congratulating him on securing the position. They start chatting animatedly amongst themselves about what they're going to do to celebrate. Dinner at Vega's Bar and Eatery? A party?
Maybe both.
Brent is the only one who approaches me in the chaos of celebration. "You're going to regret that," he seethes, spittle flying out of his mouth.
I rear back to get away. "I told you to prove it on the court. You failed."
"I deserved that position. It should've been mine."
"Take it up with the team, then," I retort dryly. "That was the entire point of the match. Everyone got a chance to play with you as their captain. They voted and chose Ashton."
Brent's eyes redden with fury, nostrils flaring. He steps closer, invading my personal bubble. Wringing my hands together behind my back, it takes all my willpower not to shove him away. This close, I can smell the weed on his breath.
I've never known him to smoke. Another thing that's changed – how little I know of the Brent Harper of today.
Though the fact that he showed up here with drugs in his system is another reason why he shouldn't be captain.
The audacity to act like my voting for Ashton would have changed the outcome when he shows up high.
I could punch his dumb ass for disrespecting me and the team like this.
He points a finger in my face. "You had no right voting for him. Don't forget who made you, Conner."
Is he for real?
"You think I care, Harper?"
His mouth twitches. "This isn't over. Now you've made it personal."
Tucking my hands under my arms, I tilt my head. "Is that supposed to scare me?"
"You better watch it, Conner. You're fucking done."
Seething, muttering a heated string of profanities, he stomps away to gather his things, kicking away the bench as he does. His outburst brings a hush to the team, their gazes following as he slips out, one final shriveling glare directed at me before he disappears behind the double doors.
I guess I'll be watching my back sooner than anticipated. I know what follows when he gets that demented look on his face.
There's going to be hell to pay.
Soon.