Athlete vs. Mathlete (12 page)

I felt a headache coming on.

The heaviest element is copernicium
.

The lightest is hydrogen
.

I patted her arm. “You couldn't help it,” I told her. I glanced at Arthur, who was looking a little too pleased with himself. “So, you got rid of the cookies but didn't bring anything of your own.”

“Of course I did,” Arthur said, with a smirk. “I'm waiting for my father's personal assistant to bring it in.”

At that moment, a man in a pin-striped suit wheeled a cart down the hallway. It was loaded with boxes of Daley's Donuts.

“Oh man. I love those things,” Jason said, licking his lips.

“My father owns six stores,” Arthur said. “They're still warm.”

“The stores?” Jason asked.

“The donuts,” Arthur said, rolling his eyes.

“We can't sell those,” Nitu said, shaking her head. “They're manufactured.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Arthur told her. “They're fresh, delicious,
and
addictive.”

“Selling bakery donuts goes against the whole concept of a bake sale,” I told him.

Unfortunately, that was the moment the bell rang and school was out. The smell of fresh-baked donuts was irresistible, and within seconds, we were swamped with customers.

As the bake sale went on, the entire student body chose the donuts. I saw Nitu's expression change from hurt to angry and back to hurt again.

Sara handled sales and hurried the line along.

Jason and I took the payments, making change as quickly as we could while Nitu bagged treats.

And Arthur Richardson the Third?

For the next hour, he sat back and watched it all, like he was a supervisor and we were his employees.

When the final donut was gone and the last student left the building, we started cleaning up. Instead of helping, Arthur put himself in charge of counting the money.

“You were a huge help,” Nitu told him, sarcastically.

“I made all the money.” He shrugged.

“This was a
group effort
, Arthur,” I reminded him.

He stared at the table, where all the homemade desserts still sat, untouched. “I beg to differ.”

Fast Break

During practices, Coach Baxter worked us even harder than he had at tryouts. The guy was tough!

I ran harder and faster than almost everyone and tried not to smile when my brother wound up at the back of the pack in nearly everything we did. It served him right.

About halfway through one practice, Coach blew his whistle and we got in a line for layups.

I made my first shot, then passed the ball to Paul, who missed his. I jogged back to the end of the line to wait for another turn.

Then Coach Baxter left Mr. Webster in charge, and he took Russell over to the far basket. While I waited for my turn to shoot, I watched Coach. I hoped he realized he'd
made a huge mistake and was cutting Russ from the team in private.

But I was disappointed.

The two of them spent the next hour working on Russ's dribbling skills.

Well, lack of dribbling skills, really.

Man, I would have loved to get some one-on-one time with Coach! But it was all about Russ.

Everything was about Russ.

I kept checking over my shoulder to watch them, and it was obvious that my brother wasn't getting it.

Coach looked like he was losing patience, or maybe I just hoped he was.

“Owen,” Chris shouted, right as a basketball hit the side of my head.

“Sorry, man,” Paul said, jogging toward me. “I thought you knew I was passing it to you.”

“That was a
pass
?” I growled.

“I
said
I was sorry,” Paul said. “Hey, you're supposed to be keeping your eye on the ball, anyway.”

“Whatever,” I muttered, rubbing my head.

“Whatever, yourself.” Paul shook his head as he walked to the back of the line.

When I took my next turn, I moved in for the perfect layup, but the ball bounced off the bottom of the rim then hit me.

In the face.

“Nice one,” someone whispered.

“Which Evans twin is that?” someone else asked, a little louder, and I heard some of the other guys laughing.

I passed the ball to Nate and walked to the back of the line. I didn't make eye contact with the rest of my teammates and tried not to watch Russ and Coach Baxter either. I folded my arms and waited for my next turn.

Basketball was supposed to be
fun
.

I had to get my brother out of my head.

Fast.

It felt like everything was changing in the worst way. Even though I knew it wouldn't be a big deal to anyone else, I hated that Russ suddenly had the cool shoes
and
the awesome jump shot.

We were supposed to be opposites.

The jock and the brains.

We couldn't
both
be jocks and we couldn't trade places.

I mean, what was the chance of me turning into a genius overnight?

Zip.

At the end of practice, Coach brought Russell back over to the rest of us.

“Our first game is on Friday. That doesn't give us much time before we face Westhill's team.”

“They're tough,” Chris said, like we didn't all know that already.

“What we're going to do at each practice is run drills for the first half and scrimmage for the second. Everybody got that?” Coach asked.

I nodded along with the rest of the guys.

“One weakness we've got is stamina,” Coach continued.

At least four guys turned to look at Russ, who practically ran out of breath walking to the bathroom.

“I'm talking about the team as a
whole
,” Coach said, giving us all the stare down. “Stamina is key, here. We have to be able to keep up.”

The guys nodded again.

“Now, let's get that scrimmage going.”

The next night, I had an English paper to work on, and I didn't feel like it at all. We were supposed to write five hundred words on someone who inspired us.

Obviously, I was going to write about Tim Camden. He was an awesome player, scored tons of points, and did what needed to be done to win the game.

But I was having trouble getting the ideas out of my brain and into my notebook.

I decided to head for the park to shoot some hoops and clear all the junk out of my head. When I called Chris to go with me, there was no answer at his house. So I decided to go on my own, hoping some of the guys would be there.

I dribbled the ball all the way to the park, trying to think about the “inspiration” paper, but all I could think about was Russ and how mad I was at him.

When I got to Sunset, a bunch of teenagers were already playing on the main court.

Great
.

I bent over to retie my laces before heading back home.

“Hey, you wanna play?” someone shouted.

I went for my usual double knots.

“You wanna play?” the voice shouted again, even louder.

I looked up to see who they were talking to, and gulped when I saw that the teenagers were all staring at me.

“Me?” I asked, my voice shaking a bit.

They never talked to us. They never even looked at us.

“You're the only one out there,” a big guy said, laughing. “We're short a man.”

“Short a man?” I repeated.

Could they really be asking me to fill in?

High school kids?

“Yeah,” the guys said.

“And you want me to—”

“Forget it,” a skinny redhead interrupted. “There's something wrong with him.”

“No, there isn't,” I said, standing up.

I didn't know what to do.

The idea of playing with the teenagers was totally scary.

But it was also totally cool.

What if some of the Pioneers showed up and saw me hanging out with them?

That would be
awesome
.

“So?” the big guy asked.

Yes, please
probably wouldn't sound very cool.

“Sure,” I said, trying to act like it was no big deal as I jogged toward the court.

“This should be good,” the redhead groaned.

“I'm Matt,” the big guy said. “You, me, Rick, Devinder, and Jonesy are a team.”

When he said each name, the guys nodded at me, so I'd know who they were. I waited for them to ask for my name, but nobody seemed to care.

They just called me “kid.”

For the next hour, I worked even harder than I had at practice. I was at least a foot shorter than everyone else, and I really had to sweat to keep up.

The guys didn't pass to me much at first, and I started to wonder why they'd even invited me to play. What was the point of being an extra body if you didn't get to
do
anything?

Then Jonesy threw me the ball and I knew it might be my only chance to prove myself.

Two big guys came at me, and I took a deep breath, slowly dribbling in place until I saw the opening I was looking for. I made a break for it, shouldering the guy on the right and squeezing between them.

“What the …?” one of them grunted from behind me.

I was out in the open, only a few steps from the basket.

I knew my safest bet was a layup, so I dribbled in fast and made it.

“Nice!” Matt said, slapping me on the back. “You're a tough kid. I like it.”

I grinned.

I liked it, too.

From then on, whenever the guys gave me the ball, I pushed through whoever was in my way. I used my shoulders and elbows and went straight to the hoop.

Just like Tim Camden.

It was rougher than the Pioneers played, but it worked.

“A go-to guy,” Rick said, after I made another shot. “Give the kid the ball, and he makes it happen.”

“You've got to be aggressive to win, right?” Matt said, punching me on the shoulder.

“Yeah.” I nodded.

Aggressive.

I'd never thought about basketball that way before.

The Pioneers didn't have a “go-to guy.” We just passed the ball around until somebody had a clear shot. We were all
about teamwork, not star players, and I knew that was a good thing.

But I also knew that going for the basket had way better results.

After all, basketball was about scoring points, and no one got points for
passing
.