End of the Race (4 page)

Once Fletcher is sleeping peacefully, I pop down the hall to take one more quick peek at Gingerbread. Her body will have to work hard to beat that nasty infection. I wonder if she’ll show signs of improvement by morning. Twenty-four hours on antibiotics can make a big difference. As I turn off the lights and walk back down the hall to the kitchen door, I think about tomorrow—and my mind wanders back to basketball. Tomorrow’s game against Fort Washington is an important one for our team. Will I be struggling
like Gingerbread? With a rush of adrenaline, I realize that my biggest worry isn’t Fort Washington, it’s Darla. Somehow, I have to stand strong against Darla’s efforts to upset me on the court.

T
his morning I woke up worrying about Gingerbread. Gran said not to disturb the dog, but how can I concentrate on schoolwork, not knowing if she’ll pull through? I peeked just for a sec. Gingerbread was sleeping fitfully, twisting this way and that. At least she was still alive. All through history and math I was distracted. The English class discussion of
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
interested me, but when the last bell rang and it was time to rush into the locker room for my basketball gear, my heart started pounding, partly for Gingerbread and partly for me, getting ready to face Darla.

Now it’s game time and I must force myself to focus on basketball.

“Darla on center. Maggie on power forward,” Coach Williams bellows. Darla smirks triumphantly. “Lucy on small forward. Chelsea on point guard.” Coach rattles on down the list, clipboard in hand, as I run to position. So Darla’s back on center.

Oh, brother, is Coach Williams trying to torture me by switching us back and forth? Impossible. He’s much too nice.

Fort Washington, the only team to defeat Ambler last season, nabs the ball off the jump. Their forward speeds downcourt and attempts a pass. Darla intercepts it and races to Fort Washington’s basket. She leaps up and sinks a 3-point shot. Ambler cheers rise. The scoreboard clicks to Fort Washington 0, Ambler 3. Hands slap Darla high-five as she runs back to position.

“Got to be tall to sink it, Shorty!” she hisses as she passes. Maybe Darla’s right. Now that I’m older and on junior varsity, everyone’s sprouting up closer to that basket except me. My measly five-foot, four-inch height is starting to be a real handicap.

But Darla’s not so lucky on the next go-round. Every
time she gets the ball, her block, who’s hefty and all arms, has her completely covered.

Each time I’m right in there, waiting. “Pass it, Darla, I’m open!” I yell, hands waving, feet ready to bolt.

“Pass it to Maggie!” Lucy yells. She’s up front as well but shadowed by a girl who blocks all escape routes. Darla scowls at me, then Lucy.

“Pass it, Darla,” booms Coach Williams.

“I’m open,” I yell pointlessly, realizing that Darla has no intention of passing. Ever.

Instead, she dribbles up and attempts a shot. The bullish guard intercepts the ball, charges to our basket, and smashes it in.

“Score!” roars Fort Washington’s cheering section. Heavy groans rumble from the Ambler bleachers.

This pattern continues until halftime—Darla trying to shoot, even though she’s blocked, while I’m wide open, shifting my legs like an impatient grasshopper. Fort Washington sinks basket after basket. Coach Williams starts to lose his cool. His face grows beet red and he paces up and down the sideline. By halftime the score is Fort Washington 18, Ambler 3.

We circle around the water jug and try to catch our breath.

“Darla,” Coach Williams groans, “you’ve got a team here. Take advantage of it. Maggie was open many times. We know you’re a good player, but even a great player can’t do it all.”

Darla looks mad, but she doesn’t say anything.

Coach Williams makes notations in his books. “Maggie, I want you to switch with Darla. Lucy, back in on small forward.”

“The coach is incompetent,” Darla mutters as we jog to our spots.

“How so?” I ask, tucking in my sweaty jersey.

“He should know you’re not supposed to switch the players’ positions in midgame. That’s amateur. The coach at my old school would never do that.”

I’m tempted to blurt out that not passing to your teammates is amateur, too, but I decide it’s better to keep my mouth shut and not egg her on.

The ball goes into play. I’ve caught it! I dribble down the court, the bullish Fort Washington guard mirroring my steps. I pivot and bounce-pass
to Lucy over the guard’s sturdy left knee. Lucy passes back to me, under the guard’s right elbow—just as I planned. The hoop’s right over me, but I don’t have a chance. This guard’s got me cloaked. Must try. Can’t give up.

“Shoot, Maggie!” Lucy yells.

I have to prove my stuff, focus on the basket. If Gingerbread can focus every ounce of strength into recovery, so can I.
Gingerbread, this one’s for you.
I toss with all my might, over the guard, and the shot sinks in. “BASKET!” The Ambler crowd jumps for joy. The score’s now Fort Washington 18, Ambler 5. Just about everyone but Darla slaps me on the back. “Awesome! Way to go!”

“Great teamwork, Maggie!” Coach Williams shouts.

Darla sidles up and whispers, “Just beginner’s luck, Shorty.”

Yeah, right, I’ve only been playing this game ever since I could lift a ball!

But the next time I attempt my bounce-pass to Lucy, the Fort Washington guard steals it, races to the basket, and scores. Somehow, my touch is clumsier, slower. Somehow, the Fort Washington guard’s touch is greased, totally on target. Five times the burly guard sinks it in, to resounding
cheers from Fort Washington—and the next thing I know, the game’s over and we’ve lost.

“Sorry I couldn’t come to cheer you on. Had to help someone in my math class,” Sunita explains as we walk to the lunchroom. “How did the game go yesterday afternoon?”

I smell hamburgers and fries, normally my favorite, but I’ve lost my appetite since yesterday’s embarrassing loss. “Not so great, Sunita. I only scored two baskets.”

“Two baskets—that’s wonderful!” Sunita pats my arm.

“Yeah, but I fumbled the rest. I don’t know what came over me. Fort Washington smeared us.” I sigh. “Maybe it had to do with Darla saying my baskets were just beginner’s luck.” I drop my backpack at our regular table, grab a tray, and get in line.

“Sounds like she psyched you out,” Sunita replies. She chooses salad, a bag of spicy peanuts, and fruit juice.

I’ve managed two bites of burger and a sip of OJ when Brenna comes bounding over.
“Hola, amigas!”
She unzips her cooler and unwraps sliced
green peppers, a pita sandwich with sprouts and hummus, and a carrot soda. Yuck. Way too healthy! Brenna’s the only one among us who still brings her lunch to school. She claims the cafeteria food is full of hydrogenated oils, sodium nitrate, and food coloring. Whatever. I’ll take school burgers and fries any day.

“I had so much fun in Costa Rica. We hung out with giant sea turtles and learned about their yearly egg-laying ritual on the beach!” Brenna grins. “I didn’t miss Ambler one bit—except for Dr. Mac’s Place and you guys. Fill me in, please.” She takes a bite of pita and chews. Sprouts poke out of her mouth like new seedlings.

“We had quite an afternoon the day before yesterday,” I start. “First of all, Gran recruited a new volunteer—Taryn Barbosa from our old elementary school. She’s only in fifth grade.” I roll my eyes.

“She is a bit young, but Dr. Mac says that Taryn’s great on the clinic phone,” Sunita says, pouring spicy nuts in her palm and crunching a mouthful. Sunita is so diplomatic.

I tell Brenna all about Gingerbread, her stress fractures and nasty cuts, how she almost stopped breathing
during surgery, and what a relief it is that she’s starting to pull through it all. “The weird thing was, her owner, Roselyn, wouldn’t tell us where she lived or even give her last name. Roselyn seemed nervous about something, don’t you think, Sunita?” She nods.

Brenna turns to say hello to Darla, who’s carrying her lunch tray past our table. “Hey, Darla, come sit with us.” Brenna waves her over. Darla spots me and hesitates. “Come on, Darla, don’t be shy.” Brenna pulls out a seat.

Darla, shy? You’ve got to be kidding!

Darla sits and opens her milk carton, looking uncomfortable.

“We’re lab partners,” Brenna explains. “Maggie, Darla, Sunita, have you all met?”

“Darla and I are both on the basketball team,” I say stiffly. Darla offers a half-smile.

“Hello,” Sunita says. She glances at Darla with curiosity, having heard my tale of woe.

“So go on, Maggie,” Brenna urges. “Tell me more about the greyhound.”

I’d rather not have Darla knowing all about Dr. Mac’s Place, but Brenna’s putting me on the spot, so I have no choice. “Gran said it looked like
the greyhound had a racing injury. We asked Roselyn if Gingerbread was a racing dog. She got nervous again but said she had no idea.”

“Greyhounds are cool,” Darla says, flipping back her blond ponytail. “I have a retired racing greyhound named Hoops. He’s the best dog in the whole world.”

“Great,” I reply halfheartedly.

“Do racing dogs make good pets?” Sunita asks. “It seems like they’d be kind of hyper.”

Darla takes a gulp of milk, then continues. “They’re actually very gentle, but there are certain things you have to know about retired racing dogs.”

“Like what?” asks Sunita.

Darla gestures with her hands as she speaks. “They often have no experience with streets or with staying close to their owners, so until they’re retrained, their owners can’t let them run free. Hoops used to run off. We had to retrain him little by little.”

“Hoops—cute name,” Brenna chirps.

“Thanks,” Darla says. “Hoops is a champ at catching passes.”

“Could he sink this?” I ball up my napkin and toss
it into the nearest trash can, way over by the lunchroom door. “Score!”

Sunita and Brenna clap, but Darla’s expression sours.

Sunita smiles patiently. She knows I don’t act like a jerk unless I’m uncomfortable.

Riiiinngg.
Saved by the bell! I jump out of my seat, never so thrilled to race off to my English class. Who knows, maybe I’ll even be inspired to join the discussion of
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
. “Catch you girls later.”

O
n Saturday morning, Gingerbread’s still feverish, but her temp’s down a degree and her foreleg is less swollen. I’ve given her as much TLC as I can while making sure she gets tons of rest and sleep. Fletcher’s been going out with me and Sherlock, my basset hound, for brief walks, bundled in a warm coat. The vaporizer and antibiotics have made his coughing fits manageable, and he’s starting to act like his old self again.

There’s no more snowfall, but it’s absolutely freezing. All our windows have icicles and starry frost formations. There’s a foot of hardpack, and if Podge’s surgery wasn’t scheduled for this afternoon
I’d be racing down Pine Needle Hill on my sled with all the other kids in the neighborhood. All, that is, except David, who offered to shovel the walk up to the clinic. He really is a pretty good guy.

I open the clinic door to see how he’s doing. A blast of cold freezes the lining of my nose. David is shoveling his way up the clinic stairs.