Time-Out (2 page)

“Hoopsters?” he asked, then cleared his throat. “I don't think I'm good enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It's a pretty big deal, Owen. Serious, you know? I mean, Oswald went there and so did Wallace.”

“Yeah, and they ended up drafted by the NBA,” I reminded him. “Just like Hendricks, Bajard, and that rookie Masters who's playing for the Knicks.”

“Exactly, they're pros.”

“Yeah, but they weren't back then,” I told him. “They were just like us.”

“Just like you, maybe. You're a way better player than me, O.”

It was true, so I didn't bother denying it. “So, you're just going to hang out at home?” I asked, feeling disappointed. I wanted to have a friend there with me.

Chris shrugged. “Kind of. There's a basketball day camp at the recreation center I might sign up for.”

“Are you kidding me? Dude, this is
Hoopsters
we're talking about!”

He nodded and bounced the ball he carried everywhere, including the bathroom. “I know. Maybe next year.”

I thought about how much fun me and my best friend could have in basketball heaven.

“Chris, that's crazy! Come on. Just sign up and we'll have the best time together.”

Of course, we'd probably be split up by skill level on day one, but that was okay. We could still hang out during our free time.

“I'm just not ready, O.”

When he turned onto his street, I sighed. It was another case of the men versus the boys in basketball. Turning down Hoopsters to hang out at the rec center seemed like the dumbest move Chris could make.

Sure, he might learn a few things, but there would be so much more to see and do at Hoopsters. And thinking he wasn't good enough wasn't going to make him any better.

But Hoopsters was going to make
me
better than ever.

And that's when it hit me. Maybe going by myself was a good thing. Maybe it would give me an edge over the rest of the Pioneers. Maybe being an awesome player meant staying one step ahead of everyone else.

Sure, I knew that working together was important and all that, but the truth was that every team on the planet had a number-one player. A guy who everyone agreed was top dog.

And why couldn't that guy be me?

The van and the car were both parked in the driveway when I got home, which was perfect.

“Hey, O, how was school?” Mom asked when I closed the back door behind me and dropped my backpack on a chair.

“Awesome,” I told her, grinning.

“Hold on,” Dad said as he walked into the kitchen. “Did you just say school was awesome?”

“Well, not school, exactly.”

“Ahh,” he said, then chuckled. “Practice.”

“Practice was good, but the awesome part came after,” I said, then told them about Hoopsters allowing twelve-year-olds.

“Wow!” Dad said, giving me a high five. “That
is
awesome.”

“What's Hoopsters?” Mom asked, putting a super-stacked lasagna in the oven and setting the temperature.

“Just the best basketball camp on the planet,” I told her when she closed the oven door.

“Sounds like fun,” she said, opening the fridge.

“Totally.” Catching her while she was distracted was probably a good move. I took a deep breath before telling her, “The best part is that it's happening when we're on break from school.”

Mom swung the door closed and stared at me. “You don't mean spring break.”

“Yeah,” I said, giving her my biggest smile.

“Honey, that's our family time.” She looked at Dad, then back at me. “I'm sorry, Owen.”

Uh-oh.

“What? You mean I can't go?”

She shook her head. “The beach is a vacation for all of us.
Together.
”

“I know, but this is so much better than the beach.”

“What's better than the beach?” Russell asked.

I hadn't even heard him come in.

“Hoopsters,” I told him, then turned back to Mom. “This camp will be so much fun, and good exercise and—”

“We're not going to Cannon Beach?” Russ gasped.

“Of course we are,” Mom told him, rubbing his already messy hair.

“Yeah,
you guys
are going,” I said, nodding. “But
I'll
be at Hoopsters.”

“Owen,” Mom said with a warning tone.

“Dad?” I begged, knowing that he was the one with basketball in his blood. He was the one who played in college and got as excited watching the Blazers on TV as I did.

He was my only hope.

“I'm sorry, bud,” he said, shaking his head. “Mom's right. Spring break is family time.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing!

“So you guys are going to kill my dreams so we can sit around and play Monopoly?”

“I like Monopoly,” Russ said, fixing his glasses.

“And read?” I practically choked.

“What's wrong with reading?” Dad asked. “I've got a stack of mysteries set aside.”

“Mysteries?” I asked. The only mystery was how I could possibly be related to these people!

“Murder mysteries,” Dad explained. “I'm
dying
to get into them.” He paused. “Get it?”

“Good one, Dad.” Russ smiled, but all I saw were the seeds stuck in his braces. Why did Mom keep buying eight-grain bread? Why couldn't we have the squishy white stuff like everybody else?

And why couldn't I go to Hoopsters?

I hadn't convinced her yet, but I wasn't about to roll over. This was way too important to let go. All I had to do was make her understand how awesome Hoopsters was.

“I don't think you get what's happening here, Mom.”

As soon as I saw her face get all pinched, I knew I'd started out wrong. “Oh, I
get
what's happening, Owen,” she said.

“This is the opportunity of a lifetime,” I explained.

Instead of saying anything, she gave Dad her famous you-handle-this look.

It was one of her worst.

“
Lifetime?
” Dad asked, but didn't wait for an answer. “I'm pretty sure it's held every year, O.”

He patted me on the shoulder, like that would help.

“But I want to go
this
year.” The words came out super whiny, but I didn't care.

“And I want all of us to enjoy our
family tradition
of spending the week at Cannon Beach,” Mom said.

“Scrabble,” Dad said, rubbing his hands together. “Card games. Hot-dog night. We all love that trip.”

Not anymore.

“Never mind,” I muttered. “No one cares what I think. No one's listening to me.” I walked toward the stairs, wanting to get away from all of them.

“Of course we're listening,” Mom called. “We're just not
agreeing
.”

“Forget it,” I snapped, trying not to think about the pair of Evans 1.0s that would never exist.

I didn't give much thought to Owen's dashed dreams, mainly because my own were still alive and thriving.

After weeks of anticipation, my Masters of the Mind team was mere days away from the biggest challenge of our lives.

State.

Months earlier, we'd blown through the regional competition, barely breaking a sweat, and it was time for the next phase of our Masters' season.

And the pièce de résistance? Or, as my brother would say, the cherry on top?

We were absolutely ready.

We'd scheduled extra meetings and run through every kind of drill, challenge, and game we could think of,
repeatedly. We'd practiced, prepared, and trained as though we were Olympians, and I felt to my very core that our efforts would be rewarded.

In the middle of science class on Wednesday, I caught myself imagining the closing ceremony at state, complete with medals and a podium. The national anthem played as my teammates and I placed hands over our hearts and sang those stirring and emotional words.

In English on Thursday, I could practically see an amazed crowd of friends, family, and complete strangers on their feet. I could hear the thunder of their applause as our team of five achieved the highest score ever recorded in the history of Masters of the Mind.

It made me giddy.

But during social studies on Friday afternoon, I stopped myself in the middle of picturing the team winning the national championship, then conquering the world with mental gymnastics.

I suddenly felt uneasy about the thoughts I was having, uncomfortable with the wildly confident voice in my head.

And, with a bit of a shock, I realized why.

I sounded like Owen.

I shook my head in an effort to clear it and spent the rest of class reminding myself what truly mattered. Masters of the Mind was about brainstorming, teamwork, communication, creativity, and a thousand other wonderful things.

The only goal for Saturday morning was to do our best and to have fun.

It was that simple.

That night, I gathered my clothes for state, smiling at the team logo printed on my T-shirt. To my surprise, Mitch Matthews had designed it for us, and it was perfect. Silhouettes of each member of the team posed as
The Thinker
were printed in solid black on our emerald-green T-shirts. The frames of my glasses and my curly hair were obvious, just like Nitu's trademark braid.

I folded the T-shirt and placed it on top of the dark blue jeans that would match the rest of the team.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Mom asked from the doorway.

“Definitely,” I said, turning to face her.

I was ready to do my best and have fun.

And if that led us to nationals? So be it.

Stop, Russ.

Mom smiled. “I hope you know how proud of you we are.”

“I know,” I said, smiling back at her before returning my attention to the task at hand.

“Russell?”

“Yes?”

“I mean
all
of us. We're all proud.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling my cheeks get warm. “Of course.”

I'd never doubted Mom's support of my involvement with Masters of the Mind, but Dad and Owen had taken a little longer to come around. It thrilled me to know that they were truly behind me.

“Good luck,” Mom said. “Not that you need it. You kids have worked awfully hard.”

I nodded. “We're ready.”