By the middle of February, I’ve gotten used to balancing basketball practices with helping out the drama club—something I never expected to like this much. I’ve officially been fake-dating Rue for a little over a month. And thanks to her, what started as punishment turned into the part of my week I look forward to most.
I try not to think too hard as I head into practice on Thursday afternoon. The gym is already loud with shoes squeaking across the polished floor and basketballs pounding against hardwood. Coach has us doing shooting drills, and Tucker falls into line beside me, bouncing the ball. “You coming to Gabe’s thing Friday?”
“What thing?”
He gives me a look. “The party, dude.”
“Oh.” I fake a yawn and take my shot. “Probably not.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “I’m helping out with rehearsal, so I’ll be all burnt out after.”
Tucker laughs. “Still? Bro, I thought the whole theater punishment thing was basically over.”
“It’s not punishment anymore.” The words leave my mouth before I think better of them.
Tucker snorts. “Okay, then. Whatever you say.”
I overhear a few guys nearby talking about who’s bringing what to that party, whose brother can buy drinks, and whether Coach will hear about it if half the team shows up in photos online. The conversation bounces around me with enthusiasm, but I just don’t have it in me to care.
Maybe your friends aren’t as judgmental as you think, Ezra. Maybe you just need to try again.The thought is full of hope, so as I dribble, I tell Tucker, “I’ve been playing this cool racing game where you play as a mushroom that changes color depending on what it touches. Want to come over and try it?”
Tucker just stares at me, but Gabe barks out a laugh. “A mushroom?”
“Yeah.” I glance down at the ball in my hands. “It’s actually pretty fun.”
Tucker smirks. “Man, you really are a nerd.”
Gabe grins. “Seriously, Davis. Every time you talk about games, it sounds like you’re speaking another language.”
The guys laugh. Not in a cruel way, but it’s clear I’m not part of their camaraderie. It’s the kind of laughter that makes me remember what it felt like to stand in the hallway in middle school and let people laugh at Rue because I wanted too badly to be liked.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
Coach blows his whistle and sends us into scrimmage. By the end of practice, sweat is soaking the back of my shirt, and my head is pounding from how badly I want to leave. When I grab my water bottle off the bench, Tucker nods toward the gym doors. “Your girl’s here.”
I look up so fast I nearly drop it.
Rue stands just inside the doorway with her bag over her shoulder and the giant binder holding her script hugged to her chest. Her gold skirt uniform sways around her knees, and the front curls of her hair are pinned back. She’s talking to Coach Dresden.
No, not talking.Laughing.
Coach says something else, and she shakes her head before glancing up and spotting me. Her whole face softens, and it hits me right in the ribs.
Tucker whistles under his breath. “Dude.”
“Shut up.”
But he’s grinning when I walk away from him.
The minute I get close enough, Rue looks me over and says, “You look like you need a drink of water.”
I grin, holding up my water bottle. “Good to see you too, Sullivan.”
Coach Dresden snorts and heads for his office.
A few guys still linger by the bleachers, grabbing duffel bags and pretending not to stare. Which means, whether we like it or not, we’re on.
