Dedicated to marriannananana for their amazingly dedicated rant on the previous chapter.

Chapter Forty-Two

A ball dully passed between my hands with the tunnel of my legs serving as an obstacle, as I waited tolerantly. I was beginning to question my sanity, for it was barely past dawn. The sky was still an omniscient black, the sun having yet to make its entrance for the day. It was a peaceful dark, though. Not scary, but rather mute and serene. I liked it.

      I continued to screw around with the object in my hand, twirling it on a finger, and becoming slightly amused as I watched it spin around. When I was younger, the tricks I now found effortless were some of the most challenging things I had ever undertook. The ability to handle a basketball with such ease wasn’t a skill that I was born with, no, it took years of dedicated perseverance to finally master.

      The first time that I picked up one of the orange balls with miniature craters in it, I couldn’t have been more than four. I was in a public park with my mom and I was just mindlessly running around in circles, giggling and screaming. All of the sudden, something came in contact with my leg, jolting me temporarily out of my senseless world. It was a basketball.

      I stared curiously down at the item, wondering what it was and what magical capabilities it possessed. Considering it didn’t serve any real harm, I made the decision to pick it up—well, try to, at least. Before I even had the chance to reach my grubby little hands out and touch the ball, a giant grasped it. Well, it was really a teenager, but, to a child of my age, the kid might as well have been a giraffe he was so tall (in comparison to me, of course).

      I watched as the boy walked away with the orange thing in his hands, and then began to drop it to the ground. It confused me as to why anyone would purposely allow something to fall, until I noticed that the article miraculously bounced back up to his hands, the process only to be repeated multiple times. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before in my extensive four years of existence.

      I waddled over to my mother who was chatting with another woman, adjusting her hair every few seconds, paranoid that the light wind would “ruin” it. I tugged at the hem of her cotton skirt, trying to get her attention. She looked down at me, a sweet smile playing at her bright red lips.

      “What is it, sweetie?” she had asked.

      “What’s that?” I pointed over to where the boy had gone.

      She blinked at me, slightly confused. “A boy,” she answered, not comprehending my question. It wasn’t the first, but it was one of many gaps of misunderstanding we had and would encounter together.

      “No, mommy!” I shook my head, blonde curls flying everywhere. “The ball.”

      She looked closer over to where I had indicated, and merely nodded. “Ah, it’s a basketball, Liz.”

      And the rest was history. I somehow developed an addiction to the sport, the only consolation for my mother being that it was better than cocaine and I was getting exercise. I slowly but surely became the player that I now was, and learned so much, not just about the sport, but also about life. I liked to think that I didn’t find basketball, but that basketball found me. Maybe it was a bit egocentric, but it didn’t really bother me too much.

      My thoughts and steady, rhythmical dribbling of a basketball were abruptly interrupted by the familiar voice I had been anticipating. “So, that asshole finally asked you out, huh?”

      I glanced up from the paint-chipped tar of the cool ground, only to lock eyes with a pair of familiar cobalt ones. A small grin met my face as I surveyed the boy before me. On the outside, he looked just like the same, overconfident guy I met months ago, but, on the inside, I knew that he wasn’t.

      Just like the first fateful morning we had met, shimmering stones were stabbed into the cartilage of his ears. Laxly hung sweatpants met his legs, and his torso was clad in an oversized sweatshirt, the ensemble not doing his toned body justice. My eyes then lingered down to his feet, and the edges of my mouth couldn’t help but rise. He was wearing Jordans. They weren’t fancy by any means—simply a pair of aged gray ones with black accents—but they were Jordans, nonetheless.

      When my pupils traveled back up to his face, a mien of distance engulfed it. “By ‘asshole’ I assume that you mean your best friend for all of eternity and beyond,” I managed to reply back smoothly.

      “No,” he shook his head firmly, “I meant asshole.”

      “Well, he’s not one, but, to answer your question, uh, yeah, we’re going out, I guess,” I said, tucking the orange ball beneath my armpit as I had done so many times before. “So, do you want to tell me anything about you and Eric, or are you just going to stand there, looking dead?”

      “That asshole and I live in the same town, go to the same school, and like the same girl. There’s not much more to tell than that,” he said stubbornly, his eyes fixed on a spot behind me so that he wasn’t quite looking straight at me.

      “Eric likes me, though,” I expressed slowly, trying to piece together his words, “well, at least, I think he does. So that would mean… Dylan Collins, you do not like me! Shut up!”

      “You are so fucking blind, Lizzie!” Dylan groaned, taking a tired step towards me.

      I stared at the boy quizzically, nothing seeming to make sense, though it was probably just the hour at which we were conversing. “Dylan, you can’t ‘like’ me, I’m… I’m…”

      “You?” he supplied.

      “Yeah,” I nodded, “I’m me.”

      “But that’s why I like you, Lizzie,” he said earnestly. “You’re you.”

      “I’m not like most girls, Dylan, and I never will be. I’m never going to be the type to give two shits about my appearance or the latest celebrity gossip,” I sighed. “I’m a tomboy—the girl who plays basketball and is debatably insane for reasons unknown to you or anyone else right now. I’m weird, have issues, am overly aggressive, crazy, and, well, I’m not ‘normal.’ You don’t like me, believe me.”

      “No, Lizzie,” his voice was stable as his eyelids pattered up, allowing his irises to sear into mine, “you’re more than that. You’re beautiful inside and out, and, honestly, when I found out that you played basketball, it made you all the more attractive. I like you, Lizzie—the real you, not this bullshit front you put up. Besides, I don’t know if you’ve figured it out yet, but I’m not exactly ‘normal’ either, so it’s okay.”

      I grinned at the boy standing before me, a nagging question establishing itself in my mind. “Then, if I’m not anyone of those things, who am I?”

      “Well, that’s easy,” Dylan said as if he had figured me out completely, “you’re the girl who wore Jordans.”

      The girl who wore Jordans. Huh. Strangely, it had a nice ring to it. It was the type of thing that I could see becoming a book title one day. Liz Turner: The Girl Who Wore Jordans. Well, it was certainly true and I liked the sound of it. Also, it came from a place of candor and authenticity. To Dylan, I was the girl who wore Jordans. It meant more, though, than being a female and wearing a particular brand of shoes. It was who I was. The basketball player who had encountered gender to be an obstacle, and yet still been able to overcome it. Quite simply, I was, indeed, the girl who wore Jordans.

      “Am I?” I peered down at my shoe choice—Jordans, no less.

      “Yeah,” Dylan replied, “you are.”

      “So, then tell me this, Dylan,” I began, “what happened to the boy who was best friends with Eric Wilson?”

      “Wilson didn’t tell you?” he grunted at the mention of Eric.

      “No, he did, but I wanted to hear your account of it,” I said, swiftly repositioning the ball so that it was in my hands, but not for long. I flung the round sphere to the individual across from me and he caught with ease. “It’s your turn.”

      “I’ll make you a deal,” he started to dribble the ball in place all while looking straight at me, “if you tell me why people ‘can’t’ know that you play basketball, then I’ll tell you what really happened between that asshole and me.”

      “I have a different proposition,” I countered, realizing how dangerously close I was, “if you can beat me in a game of one-on-one, then I’ll tell you. If I beat you—which I have no doubt will be the end result—then you have to tell me. Sound like a plan?”

      “Sounds fair enough to me,” he couldn’t wipe off the confident smirk that was displayed across his features. “How many baskets do I have to make to win?”

      “You won’t win, and just one,” I said simply.

      “Okay,” he passed me the ball, “you start.”

      “No, no, you can,” I tossed it back over to him. He gazed at me warily, unsure of at what I was playing. Shrugging it off, he approached the arc of paint that marked out the fading three-point line. I did the same, stepping in front of him.

      Dylan pounded the ball on the ground at an angle so that it ended up in my possession, as standard procedure. I threw it back to him, and he went right into action. He tried dribbling around me, but I merely crouched down, following his motions. Judging by the general area that he was moving, he was headed in for a simple jump shot, probably hoping to use his few inches of extra height as an advantage.

      My intuition was correct, seeing as how after moving around the court for a few seconds, he got to a place he didn’t think I was capable of guarding, and shot the ball. My arms immediately flew up as I jumped, catching the ball in mid air. He stared at me, confused as to how he hadn’t made the shot.

      “My turn,” I proclaimed, jogging back over to the three-point line.

      “I have a feeling this is going to be a long game,” he determined.

      “No, not really,” I shook my head. “It should pretty quick, actually.”

      “Oh? And why is that?”

      “Because I’m going to tell you exactly what I’m going to do and still be able to make it in,” I told him.

      “And what are you going to do?” skepticism filled his tone.

      “I’m going to veer to the left, to fake you out, and then I’m going to go to the right, because that’s my dominant side,” I began to dribble the orb with solely my left hand despite what I had just informed him. “After, I’ll move in, brushing past you, and a take a perfect layup.”

      “Really?” he smirked, crossing his arms over his chest dubiously.

      “Really,” I affirmed boldly.

      “Just like that?”

      “Just like that,” I nodded. “Ready to lose, Collins?”

      “In your dreams, Turner, in your dreams!” he shot back cockily.

      “I’m about to make my dreams a reality—just you wait,” I declared.

      “I am,” he said, as I passed him the ball to which he easily lobbed back.

      Then, as promised, I held the ball in two hands, shifting over to the left. He followed my mobility, and I then quickly snapped back over to the right. As he tried to keep up with me, I went full speed, knocking against his shoulder in the process—as predicted. I came up under the basket, and jumped so that the ligaments on only my right side lifted, preforming the perfect layup.

      I stared up as the ball neared the hoop, a split second of fear shooting through me. It orbited the rim two times, and I watched keenly as it wavered between going in and making me feel like an idiot. Thankfully, the hypothetical writer was rooting for me this time, for I observed with sheer delight as the orange sphere plunged into the net, swishing through.

      “That, Mr. Collins, is what I like to call ‘my reality’,” I said, allowing a sigh of respite that I didn’t know I had been detaining to exit.

      “It was a good shot, I’ll give you that,” he said evenly. “So, now do you expect me to tell you about a friendship about as extinct as the dinosaurs?”

      “Yes,” I smiled victoriously, the anticipation building up within.

      “I’m guessing he told you some B.S. story about how I got mad because he asked out my sister?”

      “Kinda,” I said, thinking back to Eric’s words.

      “Well, if my memory serves correctly, which I know it does, I can tell you that more happened then just that,” he said, walking over to the nearest basketball hoop and resting his back against it. We were about a yard away from each other, and he looked as though he was deep in thought, contemplating his future words. “Campbell, Wilson, and I were best friends.”

      “I know,” I expressed, as I began to descend to the stiff ground of the court, laying my prone body on it.

      “What are you doing?” confusion clouded his tone.

      “Lying on the ground,” I answered as if it was obvious.

      “Oh,” he brushed it off, “Well, anyways, during freshman year, Wilson said he had a crush on my sister. Campbell and I would always tease him when she was around because we thought it was nothing more than a crush.” I heard a shift in movement, but, being unable to see anything due to my position, I wasn’t quite sure what it was. “Then, he asked her out and my insane sister said yes. I was beyond pissed and stopped talking to both my sister and Wilson.”

      “Why did you stop talking to your sister?” I questioned, realizing what the activity had been. Dylan’s head came down next to mine, so that it was upside down. He too had lain down, but in a way so that the only parts of our bodies that were adjacent were our heads. The top of his scull was at the same place as the bottom of my chin, and vice-versa.

      “Because I was mad. She was dating my best friend and my best friend was dating her. I wasn’t a fan of the relationship, so didn’t communicate with either for quite a while,” his voice was louder now, coming in right by my ear.

      “But you lived in the same house, how did that even work?”

      “When I make a decision, I stand by it. I decided that I didn’t like what she was doing, so protested by not talking to her,” he shared.

      “For two years?” I thought back to how long Eric had said the relationship had lasted.

      “For two years,” he confirmed. “And then Mackenzie finally cracked. Basically, I gave her an ultimatum—”

      “Sounds like someone’s been brushing up on their vocab,” I commented.

      “Yeah, I didn’t feel like failing English this year, so figured that studying was my best bet,” he said sarcastically. “Do you want me to finish or would you like to tell me a story?”

      “No, you can continue,” I invited.

      “Well, yeah, I told her that she had to choose between Wilson, her wimpy boyfriend, or me, her brother,” he went on with a rigid exhale of carbon dioxide.

      “And she chose you,” I guessed, based on what I knew about the two’s current relationship. As siblings went, they got along pretty darn well. They weren’t about to win an award for functionality, but they were close and loved each other.

      “And she chose me,” he sighed. “Mackenzie’s never been one to let boys effect her. She’s had countless boyfriends and has never really been super invested in any of them—until she met Trevor. She really likes that guy.” I smiled at that, happy that both Trevor and Mackenzie were happy. They made a cute couple. “When she broke up with Eric, he couldn’t recover. It was bad—really bad. He swore that he’d never date another girl, and then you came along.”

      “Why was I different?” I inquired, genuinely perplexed.

      “Because you’re you, Lizzie,” he sighed. “There’s something about you that draws in people. I don’t know what it is. The first time I met you, though, I knew that I wanted to know you. You were different.” The context in which Dylan was using the abnormal adjective was as a compliment, but it was definitely, well, different. I liked it. Average and normality had never really been me, so “different” worked just fine. “Also, you’re beautiful, aren’t afraid to tell people what you think, and another reason I won’t name because you’ll think I’m vain. You’re you.”

      “And he held off asking me to be his girlfriend for so long, why?” I questioned, choosing to not think about the justification Dylan had skimmed over.

      “I told you before,” Dylan snorted, “he’s an asshole and a wimp. He didn’t want to get heartbroken or some shit, so was scared, I guess.”

      “You seem to know quite a lot about how Eric thinks. Want to give me any pointers?” I joked.

      Surprisingly, Dylan replied with an apathetic, “Sure,” followed by some information of which I wasn’t previously aware. “The first thing you should know about Wilson is that he’s clingy as hell and won’t let you out of his sight for a second—”

      “But Eric’s not a dependent person,” I pointed out, not comprehending.

      “You haven’t seen the boyfriend side of him. Ask Mackenzie if you don’t think I’m telling the truth. Or, better yet, wait until Monday. You’re his girlfriend now, Lizzie, things are going to change,” he winced at the word “girlfriend”, but continued. “Also, he’s possessive—majorly possessive. He’s a control freak and needs to have everything go his way. He’s Eric Fucking Wilson.”

      “Look, Dylan, I know I’ve only known him for a little over six months, but that doesn’t sound like Eric,” I breathed, inhaling the familiar smell of the pavement that was millimeters away from my nostrils.

      “Well, I’ve known him practically my whole life,” Dylan scoffed. “When Eric dates someone, it’s not just another page—or even a chapter in his life. No, it’s the whole goddamn book.”

      “That’s a crappy metaphor,” I wheezed a laugh.

      “What I’m trying to say, Lizzie, is that when you break up with Eric, it’s not going to be something small and easy. No, you’ll be openly declaring war, Lizzie,” he said surely.

      “And what makes you so certain that I’ll break up with him?” I demanded, willing myself to heave the top half of my body up so that only my legs and butt were bonded to the cement. My hands pressed on the concrete, stabilizing me. Dylan mirrored my stance so that we were both looking intently at each other.

      “Because I know him, Lizzie,” I was about to protest, but he kept going, “and I know you.”

      “What makes you think that you know me?” I retained an impassive expression. It was his turn to open his mouth in objection, but I too continued, “And why would I even break up with him?”

      “Because you don’t really like that asshole—no, you like the idea of that asshole, and something else about him that I can’t understand. Maybe it’s his face,” he added the part at the end with an evident grimace.

      “If I don’t like him then why am I, uh, with him?” I stood shakily as Dylan did the same. The whole aspect of “relationship terminology” wasn’t really my thing.

      “Convenience,” was his simple response. “You like someone else, but Eric was easy. He’s the guy everyone wants you to be with. It’s expected.”

      “And who’s this ‘someone else’ that I like?” I humored him, taking a confident stride in his direction so that we were a mere foot apart.

      Dylan didn’t even try to hide the smirk on his face as he took a step equally as large as mine, our bodies practically touching they were so close in proximity. “Me,” the single pronoun flitted out of his lips so easily. Before I could react with a comeback, those lips of his had launched themselves on mine. He was fucking kissing me.

      Now, I wasn’t completely sure because I had never been in a relationship before, but I was fairly positive that kissing another dude was considering a big “no-no.” Especially when that other dude happened to be Dylan Collins.

      Unfortunately, my lucidity kicked in when it was too late. There was something about kissing Dylan that made me lose all rationality and logic. I physically couldn’t tug away from him—not because his hands that had found their way to my waist were holding me too tightly, but rather it was like there was an invisible force gluing us together. Nothing in my range of limited willpower could peel me away from the kiss. The hardest part to internally admit, though, was that I didn’t want to pull away. I liked kissing Dylan. Yeah, I liked kissing him a whole lot more than I probably should have.

      There was so much craving packed into Dylan’s lips as they hovered over mine. Everything started out slow but thrilling, and then things took a turn. So much emotion filled Dylan’s mouth as he deepened the action, his tongue somehow finding its way into my mouth. Then, before I could even register that we were moving, my back pressed against a hard object of metal that was slightly rounded and about the width of one of my thighs: the basketball hoop.

      As our months and tongues mashed together, it felt like something in me was exploding and the only thing that I wanted—no, needed to do was kiss Dylan Fucking Collins. Everything else in the world was irrelevant. Dylan was the only person that mattered at that moment. Just when I thought that I was legitimately about to burst, Dylan abruptly ceased all contact with me. He fucking stopped.

      “W-what the hell, Dylan?” I stammered, my intellect slowly flooding back.

      “Don’t you even dare to deny that you didn’t feel something, Lizzie,” he threatened, panting heavily, “because I fucking did.”

      “Oh, y-yeah? What did you f-feel?” my heart beat rapidly, as I closed my eyes for a brief moment, the memory of his lips on mine infiltrating my sane thoughts.

      “Something,” he answered, as I sent him a pointed look, indicating that elaborating would be in his best interests. “It felt like a fucking stampede of kangaroos decided to throw a party in my stomach.” I considered his analysis, and, in a way, it was accurate. Not quite the words I would’ve used to describe the emotion, but it got the same idea across. “What did you feel, Lizzie?”

      “N-nothing,” I said as my lips acted as traitors, tingling numbly as I spoke.

      “Bullshit,” he shook his head, rejecting my reply.

      “Fine,” I snapped, “do you really want to know what it felt like?”

      “Yes, I do,” he stressed firmly.

      “It felt like I was being electrocuted,” I recalled, his face growing confused. “As if a lightning bolt was being shot threw my spine, potentially causing me paralysis.”

      “So, I paralyzed you?” he questioned, taking my description the way it hadn’t been intended.

      “Yeah, but it was a good thing—don’t worry,” I quickly added. “Like… electricity.”

      That explanation seemed to resonate better with him, as understanding finally passed across his face. “Oh,” he said slowly, and then a wide grin surfaced. “So, you liked it.”

      “I think that I’m done talking to you right now,” I said, picking my basketball up off of the ground, and beginning to walk away.

      “You like me, Lizzie, I know you do,” Dylan proclaimed, grasping my wrist so that I was momentarily paused. If I had wanted to, I could’ve yanked out of his grip quite easily, but that was the thing—I didn’t want to.

      “I like basketball, too,” I remarked, not turning to look at him.

      “Yeah, but you really like me.”

      “I really like basketball, too,” I insisted.

      “Why would you even want to date that tool when you know that there’s a connection between us,” he said. If “soul mate” was the next thing to pop out of his mouth, I was prepared to run, and run fast. “How can you even think about dating him when, at the same, you can kiss me like that?”

      He then kept quiet, waiting raptly for my response, of which I had none. “I don’t know,” I finally uttered truthfully. And with that, I hauled my feet away from the boy who knew how to leave my mind completely and utterly askew. Well, I was definitely fucked. Kissing another guy? Yeah, it definitely wasn’t the “best” way to commence a relationship. If only being teen wasn’t so complex…