Chapter 1

The Bet



I spin the basketball between my palms so fast the faded black lines zig zag on the pebbled surface.

“We don’t have all day, Kelli.” Perry the Pen pulls his book of spiral bound index cards out of a back pocket. He studies the handwriting samples on them like what I have to say isn’t important.

The old basketball bulges slightly as I grip it tight. Whapping Perry smack on his shiny dark nose is very tempting.

“You want to place a bet?” His business partner, Scotty-Scott Drambowski, adjusts a dark green baseball cap over his eyes.

The back brick wall of Holy Angels Catholic school rises two stories behind me, blocking out the September noon sun. “What do you think?” I hook my heel onto the ledge of one of the basement cafeteria windows.

“NOW, Johnson.” Perry yanks a pen out of his tightly curled black hair and clicks it in my face like someone snapping their fingers at a dog.

A fourth grader zooms up to us, pushing his way in front of me. I tuck one finger in the collar of his white polo shirt and drag him backwards.

“We’re busy, kid.” I growl.

Sammy Agnew coughs like a cat about to hack up a hairball and twists out of my grasp. He looks frantically at the three of us sixth graders, settling on Perry the Pen. Sammy shakes an orange field trip slip like it’s on fire. He gasps, “I need, I need,” pulling the edge of a dollar bill out of his pocket.

Just then, a big yellow bus cruises up to the front of Holy Angels, brakes screaming like a soul trapped in detention. Diesel fumes waft back to us on the playground behind school.

Perry the Pen talks out of the side of his mouth, barely moving his lips. “Not in front of the you-know-what, Sam-a-rama.”

“I’ll block.” Scotty-Scott says nicely, and raises an eyebrow at me.

I take two steps over to stand next to Scotty-Scott. We keep our backs to where our principal, Sister Mary Ignatius, patrols the playground. Sister Iggy’s black veil billows out behind her like a super hero’s cape.

Perry eases a bundle of pens out of his pocket. “Last year. Yeah...” He snaps the rubber band around his pens, the “Arsenal of Ink”. His beady black eyes turn inward slightly. He’s not only the finest forger to ever put on a Catholic school uniform, he’s got a memory as sharp as an eighty year old nun’s. “That was a nice piece of work. Creative excuse for covering your books late. Mom sig. Bic pen, blue, fine point.” Perry flips his index card book shut and steadies the permission slip on it.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Sammy hops left a few feet to the corner of the school. Gripping the bricks tightly, he leans around to see what’s what with the bus.

The kids who get carsick on field trips are already lined up to get seats right behind the driver. It’s one of those September days that start out cold and get steamy around noon. That bus is going to get really hot. And they’re going across town to the stinky fish hatchery. I should forget this bet and wager on the number of fourth grade pukers.

I should. But I won’t.

“I don’t need Perry on this one.” I tilt my head and whisper, chin down, watching Perry work his forger’s magic. “I just need you, Scotty-Scott, I mean. Um, I didn’t mean-” I peek to the right and feel my face going red. Even worse, I whispered that into Scotty-Scott’s sleeve instead of his ear because he’s taller than me now.

“It’s Scott.” He says, not seeming to notice my embarrassment. “So, what’s the bet?”

Without warning, I get slammed sideways.

Scotty-Scott throws an arm around me as we stumble against the wall. The basketball flies out of my arms, hits pavement and then Perry’s hands. Perry’s index card book pops up, pages ruffling like one of those birds that comes out of a magician’s sleeve. Wind sweeps across the back of the building, blowing leaves up my plaid uniform skirt. The permission slip shoots over our heads.

Like one of those movie stunt runners, the orange paper rides the wind, skittering against bricks and looking to escape.

Sammy lets out a yelp dogs could hear for blocks.

I knock Scotty-Scott’s arm away, and launch, tapping a foot against the window ledge, four inches above the ground. Bam! I’m up like it’s a tip off at the start of a basketball game. The paper curls into my right palm. I slap the other hand up, trapping it like an alligator’s jaws.

I’m in trouble.

Usually, my vertical jump is from a level floor. Unless we’re playing at St. Patrick’s where the floorboards are warped and slanted. Then even I could end up sliding across green linoleum into the concession stand.

But at this crazy angle in midair, either I land hard on the wrist of my shooting hand or I improvise. I pull my arms in and twist, saving the paper, landing on one foot with the other one kicked up behind me.

My skirt flips up and out around me as I spin and glimpse who knocked into me; Matt, John and Joe. I swing my upraised leg in a wide arc. Like dominos, one two three, my heel sweeps across their knee caps, and back they go. I hand the permission slip to Perry the Pen.

“Dude,” Matt sneers, “she IS a girl.”

“Coulda fooled me.” Joe brushes leaves off the back of his pants.

“A ballerina girl.” John laughs, “where’s your tutu, Kel?”

Matt jumps around like he’s a twirly dancer. He didn’t change any over the summer. He still has the same height and smell as a chimpanzee.

Sammy runs for the bus, waving the paper to dry the ink. Perry the Pen holds the dollar bill up to the light, then tucks it into his pocket.

“Something on or not?” Scotty-Scott says.

“Kelli the spaz princess says she can hit free throws.”Matt pretends to attempt a free throw and falls over. Most everyone laughs, but Matt snorts real loud and gross.

I snatch my basketball off the ground. “Yeah. A bet for free throws. Can you cover it?”

The rest of the sixth grade boys basketball team crowd in.

Scotty-Scott takes his hat off, then puts it back on, pulling it even lower over his eyes. “You’re not kidding?”

Up to this point I am fifty/fifty or less on free throws, even though I’m easily the best player on the team. Possibly in the whole school. Coach says maybe I need to be slamming up against people in order to hit the hoop accurately.

“Twenty free throws in a row. I pay a quarter for every one short of that.”

Scotty-Scott takes down the names of those who say "In".

Matt, who still counts on his fingers in math class three days out of two, asks. "For each of us or do we have to split it?"

"For each of you." I say, calmly.

There is silence until Scotty-Scott says, "Five bucks, guys, she-" he turns to me, "you. You could lose five bucks to each of them. And they shell out?"

He waits.

They all wait.

"A favor. I sink the whole twenty, I get to name a favor."

"What favor?" Joe asks, but the rest of them push him back.

"Take it, Scott.”

“She can’t hit free throws."

"In or out, guys?" I bounce the ball. One two. One two three.

The guys hit a quick huddle, trying to look serious and not laugh. Joe smirks and looks a question at Scotty-Scott.

Scotty-Scott nods, and outs a hand at me. "Bet!"