Lily and Dunkin

I get up extra early so I can eat breakfast with Sarah before she leaves for school. I haven’t seen her much lately.

“Hey, sis,” Sarah says, her mouth full of granola.

I nod, loving every time she calls me sis, even though I’m wearing boy clothes and my hair is still pretty short. Reaching up to touch it, I can’t wait for it to grow long. This time, I’m not going to cut it, no matter what Dad says. But I have a feeling Dad won’t mind my long hair anymore.

It feels like everything’s changed with him since yesterday, in the best possible way. If my blood test comes back okay, I’ll start on the hormone blockers soon, and that’s all thanks to Dad’s change of heart. I’m still dying to know what Dr. Klemme said to him, but it’s up to him if he wants to tell me.

Dad’s drinking coffee and has his newspaper shield in front of his face. But he lowers it and looks at me.

I smile.

He puts the paper up again.

What’s with him? Sarah mouths, and points her thumb at Dad.

I shrug. With Dad, sometimes, it feels like one step forward and two steps backward. Today feels like it might be a two-steps-backward sort of day, but that’s okay because yesterday was about a thousand steps forward.

“How’s school going?” Sarah asks, slurping the last of her almond milk from the bowl.

“It’s okay.” I don’t tell her about Vasquez and the Neanderthals, which is definitely not okay. “I like Language Arts class a lot.”

“Of course you do,” Sarah says. “You’re such a word nerd.”

She’s right. I am a word nerd; I love books and writing and probably always will. “How’s school going for you?” I ask, pouring some granola into a bowl.

“It’s school,” she says. “I wish I were in college already.”

“Me too,” I say, which is kind of hilarious because I practically just started eighth grade.

“Did you feed the dog yet?” Dad mumbles from behind the newspaper.

Sarah looks annoyed. I’ve got to go, she mouths.

“I’ll do it,” I say, and watch my sister sling a bag over her shoulder, rinse her mouth at the kitchen sink and head out.

I fill Meatball’s dish with half a cup of dry kibble. He can barely keep his wiggly butt still on the floor until I give him the signal that it’s okay for him to eat. “You’re some dog,” I tell him, referencing one of my favorite parts of Charlotte’s Web. I scratch behind his ears. “Some dog.”

Dad lowers his newspaper and looks at me while I pick at the dry granola in my bowl.

“You know I love you,” Dad says. “Right?”

I stop chewing. “Right.”

“Just wanted to make sure you knew. That’s all.” Newspaper shield goes back up.

I resume chewing. “I know.”

“Good,” he says from behind the paper. Then he lowers it again and looks at me. Really looks. “You happy about the hormone blockers?”

I swallow. “Of course.”

“You’re absolutely sure that’s what you want?”

“Absolutely!” A part of me is afraid he’s going to take it all back, say I can’t get them after all.

“Good,” Dad says, running a hand through his hair. “Because they’re expensive.”

A wave of guilt washes over me. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Dad puts the newspaper down and looks right at me. “You’re worth it. And don’t forget that.”

I go over and give him a big squeeze.

He acts startled.

Then he hugs me right back.

—

I’m in a terrific mood by the time Dare arrives to walk to school together.

When I tell her about the hormone blockers, she squeezes me tighter than an anaconda. I can’t breathe, and I don’t care, because I really do feel terrific.

“Knock, knock,” Dare says as we head out of Beckford Palms Estates.

“Who’s there?” I ask.

“Interrupting cow,” Dare says.

I stop walking, face her and shield my eyes from the sun. “Interrupting cow wh—”

“Moooooooo!” Dare cracks up and bumps my hip. “Get it? Interrupting cow says—”

“Yeah, I get it.” I shake my head and keep walking. “I get—”

“Moooooooo!”

“Oh my gosh, please st—”

“Moooooooo!”

As I walk to school, I feel like the luckiest person on the planet.

Mooooooo!

At school, while Dare and I stand at my open locker and she keeps moooooing every time I say something, Dunkin lumbers toward us. My breath catches. It would be so nice if he started talking to me in school. I’d love to know if he made the team. I’m sure we could be friends if only it weren’t for…

Vasquez and a few of the Neanderthals burst from a crowd of kids, and Vasquez slams my locker closed. “Score!” he yells, and runs off.

“Neanderthals!” Dare screams after them.

I silently watch not Vasquez, but Dunkin, who instead of coming over, makes a wide arc around us, head down. Was he going to come over if Vasquez and the Neanderthals hadn’t done that? Why does Dunkin keep sitting with them? Doesn’t he realize Vasquez is an ASSasaurus and the rest of the Neanderthals are baby ASSasauruses? And if he keeps hanging around with them, he’s probably going to turn into an ASSasaurus, too!

“Can you believe this?” Dare asks.

“Of course I can. Vasquez is always doing obnoxious things. I’m glad my hand wasn’t in my locker. Or my head!”

“Not that,” Dare says, waving her hand dismissively in the direction Vasquez went. “This!” she says, flicking a flyer stuck to the wall near the lockers.

“The eighth-grade holiday dance,” I say. “So what?”

“It’s only October, and they’re putting up a flyer about a dance in December. It’s not even Halloween yet! There should be a law against advertising holiday stuff this early.”

I read the small print on the flyer. “Semiformal. Eighth-grade students only. It’s the big annual dance,” I say. “Who cares when they put it up?”

“Who cares?” Dare puts a hand to her hip. “It’s like people putting up Christmas decorations in July. It’s like someone planning a Thanksgiving meal at…at…Groundhog Day. It’s way too early, McGrother. Heck, I don’t even know what I want to be for Halloween yet. And that’s really soon!”

Someone from the lacrosse team walks past and shouts, “Hey, girl!” to Dare.

“I don’t know what I want to be for Halloween, either,” I say, even though I definitely do have an idea. “Are you going?”

“Trick-or-treating?” Dare asks. “Does a dog sniff another dog’s butt to say hello? Of course I’m going. I already found an extra-long pillowcase to collect all the candy.”

“I didn’t mean Halloween,” I say. “I know there’s no force on earth that could stand between Dare Drummond and a fun-size Snickers bar.”

Dare makes an exaggerated bow. “You know me so well.”

It’s true. I know everything about Dare Donilynn Drummond and she knows everything about me. Everything. “I meant are you going to the dance?”

Dare’s eyes shift to the left, like she’s thinking about something. “I don’t know,” she says, gripping my shoulders. “Like I said, it’s way too early.” She kind of shoves me toward class. “See you at lunch.”

I whip around. “Hey, Dare?”

“Ye—”

“Mooooooo!”

She shakes her head at me.

“I got you,” I say under my breath, still feeling pretty terrific. Even the Neanderthals can’t make me feel bad today.

THIS IS SERIOUS

Coach Ochoa has us gather around him in a semicircle on the gym floor. He gets down on one knee and grimaces.

“Guys,” he says, “I’m not getting any younger and I won’t be coaching at Gator Lake forever.”

Some of the guys whisper to each other.

It feels like I’m an extra in some sappy Hallmark movie.

“I really love coaching basketball.” He looks each of us in the eyes. “But do you know what I love more?”

“Winning!” the guys yell.

“That’s right,” Coach says, standing with a wince. “And this year, I want us to win.”

“Oh yeah!” Vasquez shouts.

“Not just some games.”

“No!” everyone yells.

The assistant coach stands off to the side, holding a clipboard and nodding at whatever Coach says.

I still haven’t added my voice to the chorus because I don’t want to shout the wrong thing and sound like an idiot.

“Not just District,” Coach says, putting both hands in the air. Now it feels like I’m at a revival. I half expect someone to shout, Hallelujah!

“No!” the guys yell.

“This year,” Coach says, pumping his fists skyward, “I want to go all the way.”

I hold back a giggle; I’m so mature.

“I want to win State.”

“State!” the guys scream. “State! State! State!” They begin to clap, so I do, too.

Coach signals us to settle down. “And you’re the ones who are going to make that happen. Being on this basketball team is an honor, boys. Representing Gator Lake Middle School is an honor. Each of you was chosen for this team for a reason. Except you, Diaz.” He points to a short guy in the front. “Your dad asked me to make you the team’s statistician, so you’re the statistician. And water boy.”

Diaz nods and laughs nervously.

I’m so glad I’m not Diaz right now.

I’m lucky to be part of this team. To be on the inside, not the outside, like the kids who were cut. I get to be here with these guys, preparing to be the very best at something. I wish Mom could see me. And Bubbie, since her help got me here. I know Dad would be so proud.

Don’t think about Dad. Not now. Not when I’m feeling so happy.

“So I need to ask you beasts one more question.” Coach looks at each of us again, then says, “Are…you…all…in?”

“Yeah!” everyone shouts. Even Diaz. Even though he’s just the statistician and water boy, and cheerleaders probably never go for the statistician and water boy.

The vibrations from each person’s voice give me energy. I want to scream, All for one and one for all!

I’m about to do it, too, when Coach blows his whistle.

Everyone scrambles up, and we’re directed to split into two groups. Half go with Coach Ochoa to one side of the gym; the other half go with the assistant coach to begin drills.

I’m with the assistant coach to practice layups, using both our right and left hands. It feels awkward when I shoot with my left.

The rest of the team is at the other end, running back and forth about a million times.

“Suicides,” Diaz whispers to me. “I’m glad I’m only the statistician.”

My stomach clenches. Suicides?

“Wonder how long before someone upchucks,” Diaz whispers. “Someone always upchucks during suicides.”

“Dorfman!” the assistant coach yells, and I realize it’s my turn to shoot a left-handed layup. I miss the shot by a mile and run to the back of the line. After several shots, I’m sweating like a maniac and am so thirsty. I remember how important it is for me to have water with my meds so I don’t dehydrate, but I don’t want to be the only one going out to the hall to get a drink.

One of the guys running suicides staggers off to the side near the bleachers and throws up.

“There it is,” Diaz says.

“Diaz!” Coach shouts. “Find maintenance. Tell them we need a cleanup in the gym.”

“Sure thing,” Diaz calls, and jogs out.

He’s lucky to leave the gym because he doesn’t have to smell the odor, which is wafting to where we’re practicing layups. I feel sorry for the guys who are running back and forth at top speed. Back and forth. Back and forth. With a pile of upchuck a few feet away.

I can’t believe Coach Ochoa doesn’t stop practice until the gym floor is cleaned, but he doesn’t.

And the kid who threw up doesn’t go to the nurse or home. He doesn’t even sit. He goes to the hall—probably to rinse his mouth and get some water—and comes right back to running.

I wish I could go out and get a drink.

Man, this basketball stuff is serious.

Hope I can keep up.

THE REAL REASON

When the sides switch and it’s time for me to run suicides, I’m grateful the puke has been cleaned.

I don’t want to be embarrassed by the guys I’m running against, so I give it all I’ve got. Pump my arms. Move my legs. Pump my arms. My legs tangle with each other, and I go sprawling.

Coach offers two words of encouragement: “Get up!”

The kids on the team are silent as I rise to my feet. Without even brushing myself off, I get back to the business at hand—running—even though both knees and my right wrist hurt and I feel a little like crying.

After suicides, I lean against the wall, sure I’ll never be able to catch my breath. My legs hold me up almost as well as cooked noodles would. I’ve never been so ready to go home and climb into my bed in my life. But, apparently, Coach hasn’t finished with us.

“Three-point shooting contest, boys. I’ll try to end practice every day with something fun.”

This is fun?

A few boys cheer at Coach’s announcement.

I try to shoot by pushing off with my leg muscles, like Bubbie taught me, but there’s nothing left in them, so I miss a bunch of shots and look like a loser in front of the guys. I feel like throwing the ball across the gym in frustration. I’m positive I’d have more energy and stamina if I weren’t taking my meds.

When practice is finally over, the guys funnel into the locker room, red-faced and slumped forward, but Coach taps my shoulder. “Dorfman, stay.”

My feet grow roots into the gym floor. Is he going to make me run extra suicides by myself ? Shoot layups or three-pointers? Then a voice in my head says, Maybe he’s going to tell you that you did a great job. A half smile forms on my face, but when Coach backs me up against a wall with thick padding, my smile disappears and my mind switches, racing to the thousand possible things I did wrong during practice.

Coach Ochoa squints, and a fan of wrinkles spread beside his eyes.

He’s so close that I smell aftershave and something sour on his breath. His morning coffee, maybe.

My legs tremble, more like twigs than tree trunks.

“Listen, Dorfman.” Coach pokes my chest with his right index finger. Is he even allowed to do that? “Why do you think I picked you for this team?”

I wish Vasquez were here instead of in the locker room. He’d know the right answer. He’d shout it out with great enthusiasm.

Apparently it was a rhetorical question because Coach answers it himself. “You’re on this team for one reason and one reason only.”

This time I venture a guess, my voice shaking like a leaf in a gale: “Vasquez?”

“What?” Coach steps a millimeter closer. “No! Why would you say that?”

I’m literally looking down at Coach, but it feels like he’s so much taller than I am.

“You’re on this team because of your height, Dorfman.” Then, as though I’m too stupid to know what “height” means, he says, “Because you’re tall.”

I wish Coach would back up and give me room to breathe. I wonder if my sweat is dripping on him.

“I can teach you a lot of things. I can teach you to run and shoot. I can teach you to dribble well with your right and left hands. I can teach you a good number of plays. But there’s one thing I can’t teach you, even if I had all the time in the world. Do you know what that is?”

I do know because Bubbie already explained this to me, but there’s no way I’m saying it. So I stand there, awkward and embarrassed.

“Height.” Coach sprays spittle on me, but I don’t wipe my neck. “I can’t teach height. Dorfman, you will spend so much time on the bench this season your butt will get splinters. But when I put you on the floor, you’ll throw the other team into a panic. They’ll think you’re a scoring machine. It’s all about intimidating them with your height. Got it?”

I nod, but I don’t want to get splinters in my butt. I don’t handle pain well.

“And I will teach you how to catch passes from your teammates under the basket and put them up all day long.” He gets even closer. “Dorfman, are you in 110 percent?”

I nod furiously, even though 110 percent is a statistical impossibility.

“I can’t hear you,” Coach says in an ominously low tone.

“Yes, sir!” I shout. “I’m in 110 percent.”

“Good man,” Coach says as he claps me on the upper arm and shoves me toward the locker room. “Go get changed. I’ll see you tomorrow. And don’t shrink overnight.” Coach laughs at his own lame joke.

I laugh, too, even though it wasn’t funny.

In the locker room, Vasquez asks, “What’d Coach want?”

I can’t tell him Coach only picked me because I was tall, not because of all the hard work I did with Bubbie. “Nothing.” I shrug. “He just said I did a good job today.”

Vasquez pounds me on the back. “That’s awesome. Coach doesn’t usually take the time to throw someone a compliment. See, I told you you’re going to be a superstar. See you tomorrow, man.”

I nod and open my locker. “Tomorrow.”