Locker 13 (2 page)

I was so excited to make the team. But I wasn't counting on one problem—an eighth grader named Stretch Johannsen.

Stretch's real name is Shawn. But everyone in the world calls him Stretch—even his parents. You might wonder how he got that name. But if you saw him, you wouldn't wonder.

Stretch had some kind of a growth spurt last year in seventh grade, and he became a big blond giant practically overnight. He's taller than anyone in the high school. He has shoulders like a wrestler and long arms. I mean,
really
long arms, like a chimpanzee. He can reach halfway across the gym!

And that's why everyone started calling him Stretch.

I think a better name for him would be
Ostrich
. That's because he has long skinny legs, like bird legs, and a huge chest that's so wide it makes his pale, blue-eyed head look as tiny as an egg.

But I would never try my nickname on him. I don't think I can run fast enough. Stretch doesn't have much of a sense of humor. In fact, he's a pretty mean guy, always trash-talking and shoving people around—and not just on the basketball floor.

I think once he got over the shock of being a giant, he decided to be really impressed with himself.

Like being a giant is some kind of special talent or something.

But don't get me started. I'm always analyzing people, thinking too hard about them, about everything. Hannah is always telling me I think too much. But I don't get it. How do you stop thinking?

Last week after a practice, Coach Bendix said nearly the same thing. “You've got to play on instinct, Luke. There isn't time to think before every move.”

Which, I guess, is another reason why I ride the bench. Of course, I'm only in seventh grade. So, unless another giant forward tries out for the Squires, I'll probably get to play next year—after Stretch graduates.

But for now, it's really embarrassing not to get to play. Especially since my parents come to every game to cheer me on. I sit on the team bench and watch Mom and Dad up in the gym bleachers, just staring at me. Staring …

It doesn't make you feel great.

Even the time-outs are painful. Stretch always comes trotting over to the team bench. He wipes the sweat off his face and body—and then throws the towel onto me. Like I'm some kind of towel boy!

During one time-out late in the first game, he took a long gulp of Gatorade and spit it onto my uniform shirt. I looked up and saw my parents watching from the bleachers.

Sad. Really sad …

Our team, the Squires, won our first two games, mainly because Stretch wouldn't let anyone else handle the ball. It was great to win—but I was already starting to feel like a loser. I wanted to play!

Maybe if I have a really strong practice today, Coach Bendix will try me out at guard, I told myself. Or maybe even as a backup center. I laced up my shoes and triple-knotted them for luck. Then I shut my eyes and counted to seven three times.

Just something I do.

I straightened my red-and-black uniform shorts, slammed the gym locker shut, and trotted out of the locker room and onto the floor. Guys were at the far end, taking three-point shots, everyone shooting at once. The balls bounced off each other, bounced off the hoop. The backboard rang out with a steady
thud thud thud
.

Some of the shots actually dropped in.

“Luke, get busy!” Coach yelled, motioning me to the basket. “Get some rebounds. Make some shots. Get loose!”

I flashed him a thumbs-up and ran to join the others. I saw Stretch leap up and make a high rebound. To my surprise, he spun around and heaved the ball at me. “Luke—think fast!”

I wasn't expecting it. The ball sailed through my hands. I had to chase it to the wall. I dribbled back to find Stretch waiting. “Go ahead, man. Shoot.”

I swallowed hard—and sent up a two-handed shot.

“He shoots—he
misses
!” Stretch shouted. Some guys laughed.

My shot bounced off the rim. Stretch took three fast strides, reached up his long arms, and grabbed the rebound in midair. He tossed it back to me. “Shoot again.”

My next shot brushed the bottom of the net.

“He shoots—he
misses
!” Stretch repeated, as if that was the funniest thing anyone ever said. More loud laughter.

Stretch took the rebound and tossed me the ball. “Again,” he ordered.

Everyone was watching now. I sent up a one-handed layup that almost dropped in. It rolled around the rim, then fell off.

“He shoots—he
misses
!”

I could feel sweat rolling down my forehead. Why can't I get lucky here? I asked myself. Come on, Luke—just one lucky shot. I slapped my left hand rapidly against the leg of my shorts seven times.

Stretch bounced the ball to me. “Go, champ. You're O for three. You got a streak going!” More laughter.

I shut my eyes for a second. Then I sailed this one high—and gasped as it sank through the hoop.

Stretch grinned and shook his head. The other guys all cheered as if I'd just won the state junior high tournament.

I grabbed the ball and dribbled away from them. I didn't want to give Stretch a chance to ruin my victory. I knew he would keep me shooting till I was one for three hundred!

I turned to see if Coach Benson had watched my shot. He leaned against the wall, talking to two other teachers. He hadn't seen it.

I dribbled across the floor, then back toward the others. Then I made a big mistake.

A
really
big mistake. A mistake that ruined my life at Shawnee Valley Junior High.

“Hey, Stretch—think fast!” I shouted. And I heaved the ball at him as hard as I could.

What was I
thinking
?

I didn't see that he had bent down on one knee to tie his sneaker lace.

I froze in horror—and watched the ball fly at him. It hit him hard on the side of the head, knocked him over, and sent him tumbling to the floor.

“Hey—!” he cried out, stunned. He shook his head dizzily. I saw bright red blood start to flow from his nose.

“Stretch—I'm sorry!” I shrieked. “I didn't see you! I didn't mean—!”

I lurched forward, running to help him up.

“My contacts!” he cried. “You knocked out my contacts.”

And then I heard a soft squish under my shoe.

I stopped. Lifted my foot. Stretch's contact lens lay flat as a pancake on the gym floor.

Everyone saw it.

Stretch was on his feet now. Blood rolled down his lips, his chin.

He didn't pay any attention to it. He had his eyes narrowed on me. He lumbered forward, clenching and unclenching his giant fists.

I was doomed.

 

Stretch reached under my arms and lifted me up. He was so huge and strong, he picked me off the floor like I was a ventriloquist's dummy.

“Whoa. It was an accident,” I whispered.

“Here's
another
accident!” he said. When he talked, he spit blood in my face. He tightened his grip under my arms.

He raised me higher and gazed up at the basket. Is he going to make a three-point shot with me? I wondered.

Yes. He is. He's going to slam dunk me!

Behind me, I heard shouts. A whistle blowing. Running footsteps.

“Take it outside, Stretch!” I heard Coach Bendix shout.

Huh?

Stretch slowly lowered me to the floor. My knees started to buckle, but I managed to stay on my feet.

Stretch rubbed a hand across his bloody nose, then wiped it on the front of my jersey.

“Take it outside,” Coach repeated, edging between us. “Let's pair up, everybody. One on one. Stretch—you and Luke.”

“No way,” Stretch muttered.

“He's your backup,” Coach said, poking Stretch in the chest with his whistle. “You've got to teach Luke. I'm putting you in charge of Luke's development.”

Stretch snickered. “Development? He doesn't have any development!”

“Go to my office. Get some tissues and stop that nosebleed,” Coach instructed Stretch. “Then take Luke to the practice court behind the playground. Show him some moves. Teach him something.”

Stretch stared at the floor for a few seconds, as if thinking it over. But he knew better than to argue with Coach Bendix. He nodded at me. “Let's go, Champ.”

What choice did I have? Even though I knew it was pain time for me, I turned and followed him outside.

It was late afternoon, pretty cold to be outside in basketball shorts and a sleeveless jersey. Since it was November, the big, red sun had already lowered behind the houses across the street from the playground.

I shivered.

Stretch didn't give me much of a chance to get ready. He pounded the ball hard on the asphalt court and came racing at me like a stampeding bull.

I tried to slide to the side. But Stretch lowered his shoulder and slammed it hard into my gut.

“Ohhh.” I groaned and slumped back.

“Defense!” he shouted. “Get your hands up, Champ! Get ready. Here I come again!”

“No—wait—!” I pleaded.

The ball thundered in front of him as he drove into me again. This time he kept his body up straight. The force of the collision sent me sprawling to the asphalt.

“Defense!” he shouted. “Show me something. Block me. At least slow me down a little!”

Groaning again, I climbed to my feet. I felt as if I'd been hit by a truck.

Stretch dribbled around me, circling me, his eyes locked angrily on me. His nosebleed had stopped, but he still had dried blood caked under his nose.

I rubbed my chest. “I … I think I broke a rib,” I whispered.

With a wild shout, he slammed into me again. This time I flew back—and smashed into the thick wooden post that held up the backboard.

“You're going to pay for those contacts, Champ,” he called, hulking over me so I couldn't stand up, dribbling the ball inches from my feet.

“Yeah. Okay,” I said, trying to rub the pain from my chest. “I said I was sorry.”

“You're gonna be more sorry,” he said. He bounced the ball hard against my bare leg. “Get up.”

I didn't move. “It was an accident,” I insisted. “I really didn't see you bend down. Really.”

He picked at the caked blood under his nose. “Get up. Let's go. I'm supposed to teach you something.” He laughed really loud. I'm not sure why. Then he swept a huge hand back through his short white-blond hair and waited for me to stand up. So he could teach me more lessons.

I climbed shakily to my feet. I felt so dizzy, I had to grab the wooden post. My head ached. My ribs ached.

“Can we … uh … play a different game?” I asked weakly.

“Yeah. Sure,” he said. “Hey—think fast!”

He was standing so close, and he heaved the ball so hard, it felt like a cannonball as it shot into my stomach.

I stumbled back. And let out a sharp gasp.

And then realized I couldn't breathe.

I struggled hard to suck in some air.

No … no air … I … can't … get … air….

I saw bright yellow stars. The yellow darkened to red.

Pain shot through my chest. The pain spread, growing sharper, sharper.

I was down on my back now, staring up at the sky, staring up at the dancing red stars. I wanted to scream. But I had no air.

Can't breathe … can't breathe at all….

The stars faded away. The color faded from the sky.

All black. All black now.

And as I sank into the blackness, I heard a voice.

A beautiful, soft voice from far, far away. Calling my name.

An angel, I realized.

Yes. Through the blackness, I heard an angel calling my name.

And I knew that I had died.

 

“Luke? Luke?”

The blackness lifted. I blinked up at the afternoon sky. The voice was closer now. And I recognized it.

“Luke?”

My chest ached as I took a deep breath.

Hey—when had I started to breathe again?

I lifted my head and saw Hannah running across the basketball court. She wore a blue windbreaker, unzipped, and it flapped up over her shoulders like wings. Her red hair glowed in the late afternoon sun like a halo.