prologue

           "Ball!" someone shouts loudly. Another person whizzes by me, and the ball is thrown in their direction. I'm standing towards the perimeter of the three-point line, too intimidated to do anything. Though I love the sport, I really don't want to be here right now. Suddenly, the orange orb comes right for me. I blink, and then outstretch my arms, thankfully catching it.

           "Sal! Shoot!" calls somebody else. I glance up at the open basket, bend my knees, lift my arms, and release the ball from my hands. But then the second I lose contact with the rubber sphere, it's caught in mid air by none other than Jason Berkley. He sends me a sympathetic smile, and then whips around, shooting the ball with ease and fluidity. Like every time he shoots, the ball goes right through the net with a swish.

           "Nice try, sis," he says, though he doesn't mean it. "Maybe when you're older you'll finally be able to score. Or—better yet—not be on the freshmen team for an embarrassing third time!"

           "Gee, thanks, Jay," I mumble with a peeved roll of my eyes. I try to forget what he said about me being on the freshmen team, but I can't.

           At our school, there are three basketball teams for girls: varsity, JV, and freshmen. When I was a ninth grader, I made the freshmen team. Everyone in my grade did. It was expected. But then last year, I didn't make JV. I made the freshmen team. Again. Jason made fun of me profusely because of it, and was acting all arrogant just because he had made varsity his freshman year. But I'm not Jason, so I didn't made varsity. This year, I'm a junior, so my goal is to at least make JV. I can't be on the freshmen team again. It's just not an option.

           "Nice one, Berk!" compliments one of the guys, slapping Jason's back in an affectionate manner.

           "Thanks, dude!" Jason replies. "Epic layup, by the way."

           The boy replies with a beaming expression, and then he and Jason start chatting about the upcoming basketball season. They begin to walk away with their other friends, but I choose to lag behind in the gym. My eyes flicker over to the basket, and I begin to contemplate why it's so hard for me to put a ball through it. Jason doesn't have that problem. Hell, he doesn't have any problems, but that's another issue in and of itself. His basketball abilities are crème da la crème, and unfortunately, I somehow got stuck with the other side of the basketball gene. The sucky side, that is.

           A bit of commotion causes me to glance over to Jason and his friends. They're standing by the doorway of the gym, about to exit. As they're leaving, someone else is entering. It's Ezra. I don't know a lot about Ezra. He used to hang out with Jason and his friends when they were freshmen, and then something happened, and now they don't talk. Even when Ezra and Jason were close, I still didn't really know him. He's a quiet kid, and often keeps to himself—a bit of a loner, I guess. As far as I know, he's not bad. But then again, I don't know, so maybe he isn't good, either.

           As Jason attempts to stare him down as some form of an intimidation tactic, I can't help but notice the hesitancy in his actions. Jason is normally confident and suave, but something about Ezra unsettles him. I don't know what it is, but in that split second that they make eye contact, I sense apprehension flowing through my older brother. He's not familiar with the concept of being anxious. That's just not Jason. He's one of the most popular guys in school, and everyone either fears him or loves him (which according to Machiavelli, is definitely a plus). Currently, though, he doesn't seem like the serial heartbreaker or the guy that everyone wants to be friends with. He's lost his mojo for a brief moment, within the mute interaction with Ezra. Then he blinks, and he's back.

           He doesn't say a word to Ezra, and Ezra doesn't say a word to him. Jason's friends keep walking, and he joins them. I stay put, trying to piece together what has just occurred. It's a rare occasion to see Jason Berkley disconcerted.

           "Sal," says a light voice. I look up to see Kyle. He's one of Jason's friends. We've never really talked much, but acknowledge each other's existences. Oh, and he's not exactly ugly, either. Quite the opposite, really. Muscles, a strong jawline, piercing eyes, a kind face, and luscious hair that just begs to be played with. He fits the requirements from an exterior perspective of what it takes to be in Jason's tight-knit group. I'm pretty sure that he prefers lacrosse to basketball, but he still plays. They all do.

           "Kyle," I smile. "Hey. What's up?"

           "I, uh, just wanted to tell you that you're actually pretty good," he lies with an encouraging grin. He's trying to be nice because I'm Jason's sister. I decide to call him on it.

           "Thanks, but I'm really not," I argue back, because it's the truth.

           Kyle just shrugs, and he opens his mouth to say something more, but then the distinct pounding of a ball has us both refocusing our attention to the corner of the gym. There, Ezra is dribbling a basketball, standing at the three-point line. He bends his knees, lifts his arms, and shoots. The ball goes in with a swish. I turn back to Kyle. His eyes are narrowed into slits as he studies the other boy, and then he shakes his head, returning to me.

           "So, uh, I guess I'll see you around?" he distractedly offers up.

           "Yeah," I reply, not knowing what has coerced him into initiating the conversation in the first place. This is probably our third time speaking to each other without Jason being present. We're not friends, so it's weird, and pretty random. But he's Kyle, so I don't mind.

           "Are you leaving with your brother, or are you gonna stay around for a while?" he asks hesitantly.

           "I think I'm going to shoot around some more," I tell him with a resolute nod.

           "Cool," he breathes, his eyes darting back over to Ezra for a half a second, "I'll tell Jay. See ya, Sal."

           "Bye, Kyle."

           He waves to me, and then begins to walk away, leaving me alone in the gym with Ezra. I go over to the bleachers and pick up a basketball. A girls' basketball. Tentatively, I start to dribble, but then the ball somehow manages to roll away within seconds. I watch as the orb rotates on the glossy wooden floor, and jog after it. But then it stops. Right at Ezra's feet. He glances down at the ball, and picks it up.

           "Uh, sorry," I apologize meekly. He doesn't make a move to pass me the ball.

           "Sal Berkley," he mumbles, meeting my eyes, "you never were as good at basketball as Jason was, were you?"

           I'm caught off guard my his words, but still manage to return with a hurried and biased, "Well, uh, who is?"

           Ezra shrugs, as if to disagree with me, but he doesn't say anything more. He just takes my ball, and turns to the basket from where he's standing—at the half court line. His knees bend a bit, and so do his arms, and then he jumps, releasing the ball. I see the 3D circular object draw nearer and nearer to the basket. It swishes in, breaking free through the basket and bounces when it reaches the floor once again.

           "Why does my brother hate you?" I suddenly inquire, regretting the question the moment it flies from my mouth.

           "He doesn't hate me," Ezra articulates in an even tone, "he's jealous of me."

           "Why?"

           "Because I'm better than him at basketball." I have to scoff at that. While Ezra may be okay at the sport, Jason's better. "I'm serious," the boy persists. "Did you not just see me make that shot?"

           "I saw the shot," I say, "but as far as I know, you've never been on a school team. Jason's been on varsity for the past three years."

           "And I've been offered a spot on varsity for all three of those years, too."

           "Then how come you didn't play?"

           "It wasn't worth it."

           "What wasn't?"

           He doesn't answer me, and sprints over to where the ball has landed. Picking it up, he tosses it in my direction, and I somehow succeed in just barely catching it. "Shoot the ball, Sal," he instructs. I look at him like he just told me to run through Disney World in only my underwear, and shake my head. He lets out a sigh, and allows a transitory silence to come over us. I'm standing at half court, from where he took his last shot. There's no way I can make a shot from here. Ezra continues to stand there in muteness, and I finally give in, taking a few steps forward, so that I'm at the free throw line.

           I glare at the backboard, and then take a deep breath. The joints in my legs bow, and a ninety-degree angle forms at my elbow between my forearm and bicep. I let out some carbon dioxide. My eyelids flutter shut, and when they open, I'm ready. I release the ball from my hands, and watch as it arches in the air, heading towards the basket. It doesn't make it, though. Instead, it falls about two feet from the mesh net, and clatters to the floor with a mocking glee.

           My vision hesitantly shifts over to Ezra. He's looking at me, but not in a judging or disappointed way, but rather in almost a deep pensiveness. "You're pretty bad at basketball, aren't you?" he muses, instead of telling me some bullshit about how I'm not really that terrible—like Kyle had.

           "Did you not just see me miss that shot?" I murmur, mimicking his words from earlier, though with a slight and relatively significant variation.

           "What if I told you that I could help you make varsity?"

           "Then I'd call you crazy."

           "And what if I actually helped you make varsity?"

           "Then I'd probably kiss you."

           "Tuesday. Four o'clock. Be here ready to play ball."

           "Why?"

           "Because, Sal Berkley, I'm going to help you make varsity."

           With that final remark, he sends me a small smirk, and then walks away. I don't even have a chance to call him crazy.