one

It's four o'clock. On Tuesday. I'm standing in the hallway outside the gym, waiting with my friend Alisa. I had a club meeting right after school, and Alisa had detention for telling a teacher that his grading system was "bullshit," just because she got a D+ on one of her papers. It isn't like I was waiting around doing nothing for the past hour. Alisa conveniently happens to be here, too, which is a plus—just like the D on her paper.

           "So, Ezra," she says, trying his name out for herself. "Senior, right?"

           "Yeah, I guess," I reply nervously, not even sure that he'll show up.

           "He used to be friends with Jay, didn't he?"

           "I think so," I nod, and then I nod again more definitely.

           "Kind of a loner, right?"

           "Yep."

           "Is he at least cute?"

           I exhale, about to answer when the sound of footsteps causes me to glance up and over. There—walking with a casual gate and a ball tucked beneath his arm—is Ezra. His eyes are watching the movement of his feet, and he doesn't seem to notice me. I observe Alisa eye him like a hungry vulture that hasn't eaten in days, and realize that maybe it wasn't the best idea to wait with her. Ezra runs a hand through his disheveled hair, and then looks up, catching my stare. I gulp, and then look away.

           "I guess you answered your own question, Lisa," I say, sucking in a breath at her intense scrutinizing of the boy.

           "I think that I like boys more than food," she mumbles, licking her lips in satisfaction as she makes no point to hide the fact that she's totally checking him out. But Ezra doesn't seem to notice, and continues to look at me. Again, I gulp, feeling uneasy.

           "Hi, I'm Alisa, and I just got out of detention because getting a D with a sideways X next to it on a good-ass paper wasn't punishment enough," greets my friend, acting as flirtatiously forward as always.

           "Hi," says the boy slowly, "I'm Ezra."

           "Yes you are," remarks Alisa, biting down on the edge of her lip. "Damn, Sal, you sure are one lucky bitch!"

           "You do know that we're playing basketball and not shooting a porno, right?" I sigh, smiling a bit as Ezra smirks in response to my comment.

           "Baby steps," she dismisses with a wave of her hand. "So, Ezra...I'm trying to think of something to ask you, but I think that I already know everything I need to about you." One of his eyebrows quirks up at the bold proclamation, but he doesn't object, giving Alisa free range to keep talking. And she does: "Now, if you 'accidentally' break Sal's finger or arm or leg or whatever, that's fine—"

           "Alisa!" I hiss at her condoning of violence towards me.

           "But if you break her heart," Alisa continues, not even batting an eye at my little outburst, "then I will not hesitate to break that gorgeous little face of yours. Oh, and I'll castrate you. Got it?"

           "We. Are. Just. Playing. Basketball!" I explode, throwing my hands in the air in an attempt to emphasize my point. But my dear friend just ignores me once again, and awaits a response from an aloof Ezra. He nods his head slowly in her direction, and she nods back, and it's as if there's a silent transaction occurring between the two in a language that I don't understand.

           "Well, I should probably getting going," Alisa drawls. "My mom's probably in front of the school, honking at the big brick building like the maniac that she is." I want to mention something about how the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but I restrain myself, and allow her to finish up her dramatic parting. "It was enchanting to meet you, Ezra. Take care of my homegirl, mkay?" Ezra lifts his head and then lowers it, and Alisa accepts the response. "Bye, Sally! I'm going to miss you so much over the next, like, sixteen hours! OMG! You better text me, okay, girlie?"

           "Bye, Lisa," I bid, pushing her away from me a little bit. I hope that in the small shove she'll understand that it's time for her to go, but Alisa being Alisa just has to stay around another minute. She laughs at my antics, flicks her pointer finger and thumb in my direction, and then skips down the hallway and out of the building. Upon Alisa's departure, I immediately begin to apologize: "Sorry about her."

           "It's fine," Ezra assures me. He ambles over to the heavy door of the gym, and pushes it open with a single hand. I follow behind, and then we're in the large space that smells of sweat, cleaning solution, and Axe. The sound of a ball being dribbled meets my ears, and then I hear the swish. I turn to the second court, farthest from the door, and see a group of boys shooting around. They aren't playing a game, but rather chaotically tossing balls at the hoop and hoping to make a few of them in. Then I realize who just made the shot: none other than Jason Berkley.

           After retrieving his rebound, Jay looks over to the entrance and sees me. And Ezra. He sends a chilling scowl to Ezra, who either chooses to not notice it, or genuinely doesn't notice it. Then he's calling something out to the other guys, and soon all of them are headed our way, and my heart is pounding fast.

           "Sal," Jason says bitterly, "what are you doing here—with him?"

           His friends are stacked around him, adding to his intimidation factor. I try to muster an answer, but come up short. Sure, he's my brother, but when he gets like this, I always seem to find myself at a loss for words. But then Ezra swoops in, and says something for me: "We're practicing."

           "For what?" Jason sneers. "The freshmen girls' team? Setting the bar a little low even for you, don't you think, Ez?"

           Ezra ignores Jason, which is probably what bothers my brother the most about the whole encounter. Jason doesn't like to be ignored. He loathes it, actually. In his mind, he's the center of the universe, and everything literally revolves around him, so when somebody has the audacity (or brainpower) to ignore him, well, time freezes and the planets stop orbiting. This was one of those times when the solar system was put on hold because of a mini-tantrum held by one Jason Berkley.

           "Seriously, Sal, why the hell are you hanging out with this loser?" Jason asks me, recognizing that he's not going to get anywhere with Ezra.

           "Jay, just let it go," one of his friends steps in, placing an arm on Jason's shoulder. It's Kyle. I send him a soft smile, and he returns the expression, but then drops it when he meets Jason's cool glare.

           "Whatever," spits Jason. "I'll see you at home, Sal. Oh, and next time, don't hang out with this loser, okay?"

           I quirk my head to the side, and then shake it slowly, much to Jason's dismay. "Yeah, I don't think so, Jay. If I want to hang out with Ezra, I will. You don't get to dictate my life, bro," I declare firmly, earning myself a chorus of "ooooooh"s from the senior boys who associate themselves with my brother for some unknown reason. Kyle holds his hand out to me, and it's condensed into a fist. After staring at it for some time, something clicks in my mind, and I realize that he's proposing that we fist bump. So we do, and he grins.

           "I'll see you at home," Jason tells me roughly, knocking into Ezra's shoulder with more force than needed as he exits the gym. His friends all follow behind, except for Kyle, who stays an extra second longer, just to wink at me. I blush a little bit, and then he goes on his way.

           "Are you two dating?" Ezra abruptly asks.

           "Who?"

           "You and Kyle."

           "Me and Kyle?" I scoff with a laugh. "Uh, no. We started talking like normal human beings just recently, actually."

           "Oh," is all Ezra says, though the expression he wears tells me that he knows something I don't. Being me, I don't bother to press on the matter, and instead survey the vastness of the gym and all its glory. The space is empty since Jason and his gang left, and if I were to yell, then an echo would be sure to follow.

           Ezra suggests that before we do anything, we should probably stretch so that we don't end up pulling a muscle or something. I comply, and before long we're both on the gym floor, stretching. I'm reaching for my toes as I sit on my butt and exhaust my leg muscles, and Ezra is doing something weird with his thighs and arms in a tangled mess. Once we're done, I hop up, ready to play basketball. But of course why would we do what I want? A notion like that is clearly absurd.

           "So, can we shoot around now?" I request, tempted to vie for the ball that Ezra is holding.

           "No," Ezra shakes head, "now we can run."

           "Run?"

           "Yeah, run. Y'know, like, with your legs and stuff."

           "But—but I'm too pretty to run!" I blurt out in a stammer, it being my immediate reaction to the crazy idea.

           "Then I guess you're too pretty to make varsity, too," he counters back, knowing that he has a point. I sigh, and then glare at him. Running hadn't originally been part of this little arrangement. If I had had prior knowledge that we would be utilizing this time to run, then I probably wouldn't have agreed to it in the first place. Even though I suck at it, I like playing basketball—not running.

           "What type of running?" I inquire with a grimace, praying that it's not, like, sprints or something overly terrible like that.

           "I don't know," he replies, "a few types, I guess." I purse my lips into a thin line, and wait for him to explicate. After an elongated pause of awkward silence, Ezra finally speaks, and I'm not exactly loving what comes out of his mouth: "Let's do a sixteen to start, and then maybe a suicide and a few champions." I know what a "suicide" is, and that's about it, so I just blink, and stay quiet, hoping that he'll get the hint that even more elaboration would be a dandy thing in this particular situation. Ezra understands. "A sixteen is running from one end of the court to the other, sixteen times," he tells me.

           "Like, as in the shorter sides?" I question, aware that if it's from baseline to baseline then I'll be dead within about thirty seconds of the exercise.

           "Yeah," he nods. "It's not that hard—especially since you're not dribbling a ball at the same time." I consider refuting his words, but then decide not to, because what's the use? I know that running sucks, and that's all that really matters.

           Then we both head over to the sidelines, and get ready to run our hearts out. Ezra signals that it's time to go, and he's sprinting before I can even think about moving my muscles. I try to catch up, but with his lead, there's no way that we'll finish in even the near vicinity of each other's times. My legs aren't familiar with the extreme physical exertion that I'm putting them through, but I try to nullify negative thoughts like those. Blankness runs through my mind as I give it my all. My lungs are heaving, and I feel like passing out. But I don't. I just keep running and jogging as hard as I can back and forth. It's hard, but I know that it'll be worth it.

After sixteen grueling repetitions of going in a straight line, only to turn right back around and do the same thing all over again, I'm finally done. As The Script would say, "I'm still alive, but I'm barely breathing." I can't respire, and I feel like hurling. My stomach is flip-flopping all over the place, and all I want is to be home on my couch, watching Netflix and texting my friends. I lean over, and support myself by my burning thighs. My throat is closing up, and my heart is pumping fast. As I process how horrific I'm feeling, I'm reminded of why I hate running and athletics. But I like basketball, so that somehow makes my current state somewhat justifiable.

           "Water," I cough, looking up in Ezra's direction. He's barely breaking a sweat, and his cheeks still possess the paleness that they had prior to the running. It's not fair, but right now I don't have the energy to care. I just want water and to stop feeling like this.

           "Where's your water, Sal?" he questions, watching me with apprehension.

           "I—I didn't bring one," I choke out.

           He doesn't ask why I had been so stupid to forget something like a freaking water bottle, and just jogs over to another area of the gym. When he returns, in his hand is a translucent container. He unscrews the cap, and is about to hand it to me when he then hesitantly asks, "Uh, you don't have mono, do you?"

           "Let's see," I muse, recognizing how inopportune the timing is to make a joke, "well, the last person I kissed was...and before that it was...Yeah, I totally don't have mono, dude."

           He glances at me suspiciously, and then gives me the water. I bring it up to my lips, and drink like I've never drunk before. The liquid flows down my esophagus in a soothing manner, and I can finally breathe once again. I continue to sip the pure drink until the bottle is entirely empty, and then I think that I can finally face reality once again. My legs feel ready to collapse, but I stay standing. I can't fall down. Not now. Not ever.

           "How. Are. You. Fine?" I gasp, shaking my head as I look Ezra over one more time. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he wears a bored yet punctured expression on his face that I'm having trouble deciphering.

           "Actually, the question is how are you not fine?" he returns with an elevated eyebrow.

           I roll my eyes in annoyance, and heave out a clipped, "I just ran, and I'm more out of shape than an obese cat. Obviously, I'm not fine."

           "Were you breathing when you ran?"

           His question strikes me as odd, and I open my mouth to reply with something sarcastic, but then close it as I actually take a moment to process the inquiry. When I was running, I had definitely had trouble breathing, but is that to say that I completely forgot? Was there actually a temporary disconnection between my brain and lungs? Though it's sad to admit even to myself, the answer to that is yes. Yes, I forgot to breathe.

           So, I shake my head at Ezra, and don't bother to verbally confess a, "No."

           "You should really breathe when you run," he tells me with a small smirk. "It's just a good tip for, I don't know, life, I guess."

           "Gee, thanks," I reply tersely. "How is running even going to help me? It has nothing to do with my jump shot or my dribbling abilities—it's literally pointless!"

           The boy sends me a small smile, and then shakes his head in almost a condescending way, as if he knows something that I don't. Jason does that a lot, too. Not in the same fashion, but he often makes me feel like the gap between our ages is a whole lot larger than it really is. We're less than a year apart, but he's always patronizing me and making me feel younger. Then again, Jason often makes everyone feel that way—not just me. Alas, I'm his younger sister, but he treats me like I'm little sister.

           There's a difference between younger and little. Younger implies age and numbers. Little is generally equated to size, as if one isn't full-grown and only little. I'm younger than Jason. The dates on our birth certificates can prove that, and while in size Jason is technically bigger than me (thus making me "little"), I just don't like being called little. I'm not Jason Berkley's Little Sister. I'm his younger sister. Or, there doesn't even need to be an adjective added—I'm just Jason Berkley's Sister. Then there's also the possibility that I could just be Sal Berkley, not associated to Jason at all. But that would never happen, so why dwell on the improbable?

           "When you're playing a real game," Ezra starts up, "you're going to need to run. If you can't run fast, everything else is irrelevant. It doesn't matter if you're a better shooter than Steve Nash—if the other team beats you to the ball because you suck at running, then you're screwed."

           I contemplate arguing with him, but instead sigh in defeat. He's completely right, no matter how much I don't want to acknowledge it. If I can't run, then I pretty much can't do anything in basketball. Upon this horrid realization and Ezra realizing that I have come to the realization, it's time for more running. Ezra declares that we're going to do a suicide, which is exactly what it sounds like. It's basically running from baseline to baseline while touching every line in between, and going back and forth and it's just horrendous. As per its name, suicides figuratively make you want to kill yourself when you're done.

           When I've finally finished my suicide, I feel like dying. Again, I can't breathe (though I actually remembered to do so this time around), and again, Ezra looks perfectly fine as if he hasn't just run a suicide. Blood and fluids are flowing through my body, and I just know that I'm going to be sore tomorrow. My heart pumps rapidly, but I don't ask for water. I take deep inhales and exhales, and allow my breathing to adjust to its normal pace. Then, I straighten my legs and return to the baseline.

           Ezra eyes me warily with a bit of curiosity, but I just nod my head, and I'm off. Even with my dearth of stamina, I somehow manage to conjure up some form of unknown energy, and just run. I'm not thinking—I'm just allowing my legs and body to think for me, and I'm doing what I need to. My end point isn't the baseline on the other side like in a normal suicide. No, my finish line is farther away than that, and much harder than a measly little suicide that hurts my lungs. I'm running to make varsity, but more importantly, I'm running to prove to myself that I can.

           And Ezra is running right beside me. He's caught up to me, so I no longer have a lead, but instead of plowing ahead like he did the previous time, now he's jogging, and we're at the same pace. His breaths aren't nearly as heavy as mine, but from a side glance that I'm hoping won't trip me up, I notice a single bead of sweat that has accumulated on his forehead. He may not be panting more than a dog like me, but this is no longer a walk in the park for him, either.

           The weird thing about this all is probably that I've never considered myself to be, well, out of shape. I'm average height, certainly not fat, and I can generally hold my own when I'm screwing around with Jason and his friends. But now, when I'm doing actual conditioning, it just puts in perspective how much I need to improve on. Just because my butt looks good in a pair of jeans doesn't mean that I'm in prime shape to join the V-Squad. In fact, it doesn't mean that at all, really.

           Ezra and I continue to run, only taking the occasional break of a few minutes or so, to ensure that we (meaning I) don't pass out. We keep running until an hour's passed, and then we finally stop, and I think that I'm going to crumble. But I don't. Instead, just like we had begun, I stretch out, and so does Ezra. Every joint in my body aches, but it's a good ache. It's the type of ache that makes me feel accomplished and like I've done something.

           "Same time next week?" Ezra asks, but isn't so much of a question as more of a statement that I can either decline or confirm.

           So I nod my head and say, "Yeah. Same time next week."

           "We'll probably be doing more running. You okay with that?"

           "Running?" I laugh dryly—mainly because my throat is, indeed, dry and not because I'm trying to be all that sarcastic. My eyes connect with Ezra's, and he grins slightly as I utter a confident, "Bring it on, Ezra. Bring. It. On."