hand, shaking a final bag of goodies into the pi?ata and then closing the hatch.
Mel had happy danced right there in the aisle of Party City when she found it, then leapt up on Phoebe’s back as they hurried to the register, almost knocking them both to the floor in the process. Mel was so excited, Phoebe actually felt bad bringing up the practicalities of stringing the pi?ata up at their wide-open playing field—namely how and where—but Mel waved Phoebe’s concern away. She’d think of something.
Only it’s clear Mel hasn’t. Why else would she conveniently hang back in the parking lot to get “organized” while asking Phoebe to get the pi?ata set up?
Phoebe rolls her eyes. It’s funny how much their relationship on the field is mirrored in their real life. More than she ever would have thought.
Phoebe looks around, trying to figure something out. She nixes stringing it up at a corner of fencing (no room to get a good swing in), draping it down the backside of the bleachers from the top rung (not enough rope). But if she can hang it from the base of their scoreboard, that might work nicely. The scoreboard is large, mounted on three tall metal polls, and tall enough for the pi?ata to sway over their heads.
Phoebe carries the pi?ata over on her back. At the scoreboard, she takes a ball of twine in her hand and shoots it like a free throw. It takes a gorgeous arc, a comet tethered to the pi?ata at her feet. Phoebe knows it will sail over the crossbar. She doesn’t have to watch. But she does, just for fun.
Swish.
Phoebe’s first love was basketball.
Her first crush, LeBron.
Phoebe had started playing basketball with the kids on her block after getting a hoop for Hanukkah when she was eleven. Her driveway became home court for any girls and boys wanting to scrap. It didn’t matter how cold it was that winter, every day after school, there’d be a pile of discarded sweatshirts and ski jackets on the ground as stinging-cheeked kids played until it became too dark to see.
Phoebe was tall, taller than any of the boys, and she loved posting up under the basket, ready to receive a pass. She’d do a quick dribble to reposition herself, then a little move, maybe a pump fake. Boys always fell for her pump fake—they were so hungry to block her shot—diving for a ball that never left her hands and leaving her with a wide-open shot.
Come spring, her height advantage began to shrink, and Phoebe found herself moving to the point guard position, sinking a gorgeous three-pointer every so often, but mostly working the court to find an open teammate, bouncing a perfect pass their way. She didn’t mind scoring fewer points; she took pride in every assist.
By that summer, the boys were becoming more physical. They were suddenly stronger and taller and when they would hold up their arms for passes, Phoebe tried not to notice the hair growing in their armpits. Some of them straight up wouldn’t guard her, they’d just throw their hands up, and they definitely got weird when Phoebe got physical with them, pushing her backside into their stomachs as she inched as close to the basket as she could get.
Derek Noble from two blocks over went out of his way to be rough with her, throw an elbow up, push on her from the back. He bruised her good one time, an elbow right in the ribs, but she wouldn’t allow herself to cry. By this time, the neighbor girls who used to play alongside her now sat in the shade, watching them, barely keeping score, whining that everyone should go swimming instead.
Eventually J. P. Coakley got a hoop for his twelfth birthday, and Derek and the rest of the neighborhood boys started playing at his house instead of hers. Phoebe could have walked four houses down from her driveway and joined them, but to be honest, none of them were very good. Her father gave her more of a run for her money playing HORSE.
She still loves watching basketball with her father. And since becoming a Wildcat, she’s always been number 23, an ode to LeBron.
J. P. transferred to Central Catholic after the end of eighth grade, and as far as Phoebe knows, he doesn’t play basketball. Derek Noble, however, goes to West Essex. He is a varsity basketball starter, also number 23.
Last February, Phoebe had a late PT appointment, so she