“Nizhoni Begay!”
Coach! I whip my head around, because of course I’m not listening (Hello! Monster!), and she is right there in my face. So close, in fact, that drops of spittle fly out of her mouth and hit my cheek every time she shouts my name. I surreptitiously wipe off the spit, trying not to look completely grossed out, even though it’s pretty gross.
Coach is no monster, but she has issues with personal space, too—she’s always in mine. She’s also a little short for basketball—but no one would ever tell her that, because she makes up for being height-challenged by being really loud. Coach is Hopi, so it’s not her fault she’s so short. Besides, she’s scary in other ways. I’m not worried she will eat my eyeballs for hors d’oeuvres or anything. (Eyeball hors d’oeuvres are very popular with monsters. I read that somewhere, FYI.)
Coach snaps her fingers inches from my nose. “Are you even listening?”
I nod. Total lie. Besides, it’s time-out. Nobody listens during time-out.
“There’s five seconds left in the game!” she yells. “Your focus should be on me”—she points at herself with two fingers—“and your teammates.” She gestures at the group of seventh-grade boys and girls now huddling around me. “We need you to pay attention.”
“Sure thing, Coach,” I chirp obediently, but honestly, all I can think about now are eyeballs stacked like meatballs on a toothpick for easy snacking.
Coach is talking again. “Okay. Davery is going to pass the ball in. Who wants to take the last shot?”
“I’ll do it!” I say, raising my hand.
The rest of my team groans in disbelief.
“Put your hand down, Nizhoni,” Coach snaps. “You’re standing right beside me.”
“Oh, right.” I lower it. “But I can take the last shot.”
Coach looks at me. The whole team looks at me. I stand a little straighter to seem extra tall. I, in fact, am not height-challenged. I have a good inch and a half on Coach.
“I’ll take the last shot,” I repeat. Firmly.
“Are you sure, Nizhoni?” Davery whispers. He’s my best friend—okay, my only friend—and always has my back, but right now he looks a little worried. His brown eyes are narrowed in concern behind his glasses and his lips press together thoughtfully. He runs a nervous hand over his short-cropped curly hair.
“Easy as pie,” I insist. “You pass the ball to me. I’ll be at the top of the key, and—swish!—Isotopes win!” I bust out my most confident smile.
Davery just crinkles his brow.
“Does anyone else want to take the last shot?” Coach asks, looking pointedly at the rest of the team. Everyone looks down or away or anywhere else but at Coach, because no one wants that kind of pressure. “Anyone?” she asks again, desperate.
I clear my throat loudly.
“Okay,” Coach says, resigned. “Davery passes the ball to Nizhoni. Nizhoni, you take the shot. Be ready!”
Movement in the bleachers catches my eye. It’s the monster.
I watch as he makes his way past the other spectators. He’s pushy, knocking into people’s knees without even saying Excuse me. Rude! But then, monsters aren’t known for their good manners. Some folks give him a dirty look as he shoves his way through, but most just move aside, rub their arms like they’re cold, and mutter unhappily to the person next to them.
I lose sight of him as the crowd rises to their feet.
I twist my neck this way and that, straining to see where he disappeared to in the midst of screaming fans, but he’s gone. Lost in a sea of black and red.
Coach claps just as the buzzer sounds, signaling the end of time-out.
Everyone on the team extends an arm into the middle of the circle, touches hands, and yells, “Isotopes!”: a rallying cry for what must be the worst mascot in the history of mascots—expect maybe for this one team I heard of called the Fighting Pickles. But really, who even knows what an isotope is? Davery once tried to explain it to me—something to do with the history of nuclear technology and atomic bombs in New Mexico, blah, blah—but I fell asleep halfway through.
Coach is yelling. We hurry to take our spots. Davery is at midcourt with the ball in his hands. I run to the top of the key and get ready for the inbound pass.
I try to visualize the winning shot I’m about to make, like Coach tells us to. I can see it all—the crowd chanting my name, my teammates hoisting me on their shoulders and leading me around the gym in victory, just like a champion in a sports movie. Everyone will know me. I’ll be a superstar! Fame! Glory!
I take another quick peek at the crowd, double-checking for the monster in the suit. Nothing, nothing…No, wait…
There he is! Bottom row, courtside, twenty feet away. His eyes are red and he’s staring right at me!
Four things happen all at once.
1. I scream.
2. The ref blows the whistle.
3. Davery shouts my name.
4. And I turn toward him just in time for the basketball to hit me—smack!—right between the eyes.
I wake up flat on my back, blurry faces hovering over me. My own face feels warm and sticky, and I reach for my nose. My hand comes away coated in blood. I blink away tears as I recognize Coach, Davery, and a few other teammates staring down at me. A low murmur of disappointment in the air tells me that the game is over. I hear the shuffle of thwarted Isotopes fans leaving the gym.
And then I remember. I prop myself up on my elbows and look around, but I don’t see the monster in the black suit anymore.
I sneak a glance at the scoreboard. The score was tied before, but now the Isotopes are down by two, which means…we lost.
I groan, more from embarrassment than pain.
“Take this,” Coach says, shoving something cold and lumpy in my hand. An ice pack.
“What happened?” I ask, pretty sure I already know but hoping I’m wrong.
“You don’t want to know the details,” Davery warns me.
My nose hurts so badly it feels like it’s going to fall off. But I guess it’s not, because Coach grunts and says, “Walk it off, Begay. You’re fine.” Then Coach walks away herself. My teammates, who’ve been staring at me with various levels of horror, disgust, and disappointment, leave, too. I hear someone mutter, “What a loser.”
“Thanks for caring,” I mumble after their retreating backs.
“You okay?” Davery asks. He holds out his hand to pull me up.
“I’m fine,” I say through a bloody nose, holding the ziplock bag full of ice to my face. Once I’m on my feet, I see that the gym has pretty much emptied out. Discarded popcorn bags and paper plates litter the bleachers.
“Coach tried to call your dad, but nobody answered,” Davery informs me.
“She shouldn’t have bothered,” I mutter. “I’ll just walk home.”
Davery looks concerned, but I shrug it off. I know my friend feels bad for me, but I’m used to Dad not being able to make it to my basketball games, just like he wasn’t able to attend my first-grade school play, when I had my first speaking role as a giant fungus in The Very Hungry Caterpillar: An Interpretive Dance. It’s no surprise that he’s too busy to pick up his injured and humiliated daughter who was clumsy enough to get hit in the face with a basketball and lose the game.