Lizzy Legend Read online

  FOR CHRISTINE MCNAMEE SMITH

  1st Quarter

  They said it’d never happen, that I was crazy to even dream it. But there I was under the bright lights at the Mack Center, surrounded by twenty thousand screaming fans, millions more watching at home. And hunched beside me, so close I could see the vein flickering in his temple, the hole where his diamond earring would go, the individual sweat droplets forming on his shiny forehead: the most famous athlete in the world, the guy on my freaking cereal box—Sidney Rayne.

  “You okay?” I asked him. “How you holdin’ up?”

  He chomped his gum, smirking.

  “I’m worried about you, man. You look nervous. You always this sweaty?”

  He peeked up at the scoreboard.

  They were up one.

  5.7 seconds left.

  “I let you have that last one,” I said.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “More fun when the pressure’s on.” I diagrammed the final play on my palm, like we did at the playground. “So here’s me,” I said. “Right here. That’s you. What’s gonna happen is I’m gonna catch the ball, right over here, I’m gonna start—”

  “Surprise me,” he said.

  “You sure?”

  He winked. “More fun that way.”

  It was actually hard to hear him. The crowd was chanting my name.

  LIZ-ZY LE-GEND (clap clap clap-clap-clap).

  LIZ-ZY LE-GEND (clap clap clap-clap-clap).

  “Listen,” I said, leaning closer now, shoulder to shoulder, “in case I don’t get another chance, I just wanna say—”

  “Save it, rook.”

  “Nah, man, please, just let me say this.” I was surprised to find myself getting choked up. “I had your poster on my wall growing up—you know, the one with your legs pulled way up high, looks like you’re flying? I used to look up every night before bed and I’d think: Man, Rayne’s a punk. If I could just get one shot at him . . .”

  He laughed.

  “Took me a while,” I said, reknotting my braid, “longer than I expected. But here I am, and here you are. And I just wanna say—”

  “Don’t say nothin’, rook. Just show me what you got.”

  He was right. There was nothin’ left to say. What happened next, we both knew, would outlive us both. It was a defining moment. The kind every baller lives for.

  I caught the ball just outside the arc. I started right, got him leaning . . . then “drew the curtain.” I pulled the ball hard across my body, the famous Trudeaux crossover.

  Later, Sid.

  Three. I pulled up at the foul line.

  Two. I lifted the rock.

  One. A picture-perfect release, wrist tipped down like the head of a swan.

  The ball hit the front of the rim, skipped forward, kissed the backboard, hit the front of the rim again, toilet-bowled around twice, sank 99 percent of the way in, then, somehow, at the last instant . . . spun out.

  I stood there, palming my knees, stunned.

  A second later, I was back at the playground in Ardwyn. The rocking, sold-out arena was now an abandoned factory with all the windows knocked out. The gleaming hardwood was now cracked, weedy cement. My only fan was a Buddha-shaped black boy in an unzipped winter coat, making a wood-chip angel beneath the monkey bars.

  “We win?” he called, flapping lazily.

  “Nah,” I said. “Lost by one.”

  Toby sat up. It looked more like he’d squashed an angel. “There’s something wrong with you,” he said, squinting. “You know that, right?”

  He shuffled over, sleepy-eyed, schoolbag on his shoulder. He had to keep his legs a certain distance apart or his baggy jeans would fall down. “I mean, are you that competitive? You can’t even let yourself win?”

  “I wasn’t playing against myself.”

  “Oh, you were playing against Rayne again. Right. Forgot.”

  Wood chips were sticking out of his flat-top. He pinched one out like a Jenga tile and flicked it at me. I spun the ball on my finger—my middle finger—and looked over at the brick row houses on Dayton Road. Each had a little cement stoop and a weathered plastic awning.

  “I’m just gonna shoot a few more,” I said. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

  “Dude, haven’t you been out here since sunrise?”

  “Yeah.”

  “For the love of god, why?”

  “Because Dad won’t let me out before then.”

  Toby frowned. He flicked another wood chip at me and waddled off toward school, holding his breath as he passed beneath the sneakers strung along the power lines like dead birds.

  EIGHTH-GRADE BASKETBALL TRYOUTS

  Jim Gulch—Ardwyn Middle School Boys’ Basketball Coach

  You know what I remember most about that day, for some reason? The first thing that comes to mind? Her sneakers. I don’t even remember what it was about them. They were, like, bright or something? Like blindingly bright? I remember joking that I needed sunglasses to look at them. I guess she got a new pair for tryouts.

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  Oh, god. [Sighs.] Nah, they weren’t new. Dad had enough to worry about. I couldn’t ask him for a new pair. I just couldn’t.

  Molly Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  I’ll be honest. It was kinda weird.

  Megan Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  Totally weird.

  Molly Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  I mean, we’d never even talked to Lizzy.

  Megan Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  She’s scary.

  Molly Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  Not scary. Just, like, intense.

  Megan Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  Yeah. One day I saw her doing push-ups in the stairwell.

  Molly Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  So this one day in study hall we were painting our nails and she comes up, all curious, and just starts, like, staring.

  Megan Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  Watching us like we were zoo animals or something.

  Molly Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  And so, trying to be nice, I’m like, “Hiiiii, Lizzy. Do you want us to paint your nails?”

  Megan Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  She thought this was funny.

  Molly Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  God, she’s so weird.

  Megan Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  And then—we couldn’t believe it—she went up and took a bottle of Wite-Out right off Mr. Zaleski’s desk and started painting her sneakers, those disgusting sneakers with duct tape on them, the same way: dab it on, brush, blow, repeat.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  Yeah. So the big day finally comes and Lizzy shows up in these painted white sneakers.

  William Richards—Eighth-Grade Basketball Player

  Like she didn’t already stand out enough.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  Imagine this long line of boys and just this one—

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  [Raises eyebrows.]

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  Like I said, this whole line of basketball players, and one with these painted—

  Jim Gulch—Ardwyn Middle School Boys’ Basketball Coach

  [Blows whistle.] “Everyone on the baseline! Now! ”

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  The first hour we didn’t even touch a ball. We just ran. And ran. And ran.

  Jim Gulch—Ardwyn Middle School Boys’ Basketball Coach

  [Blows whistle.] “Again!”

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best
Friend

  Oh, god. I’m winded just thinking about it.

  Jim Gulch—Ardwyn Middle School Boys’ Basketball Coach

  [Blows whistle. Clicks stopwatch.] “Again!”

  William Richards—Eighth-Grade Basketball Player

  We were all bent over, gasping.

  Jack Schulte—Eighth-Grade Basketball Player

  Sean Dormond was curled up in the fetal position.

  Sean Dormond—Eighth-Grade Basketball Player

  Jack was puking in the trash can. I looked over—

  Jim Gulch—Ardwyn Middle School Boys’ Basketball Coach

  Lizzy wasn’t even breathing hard.

  Jack Schulte—Eighth-Grade Basketball Player

  She was just standing there.

  William Richards—Eighth-Grade Basketball Player

  She was rolling her neck like, Wait, did we start yet?

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  Coach Gulch had this cheap wire-bound notebook. I remember after the last sprint he looked down at his stopwatch, then at me, then at the watch again, then shook his head and scribbled something in the notebook.

  Jack Schulte—Eighth-Grade Basketball Player

  The best player—besides Lizzy—was Tank.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  Dude was huuuuuge. Like six six, two hundred fifty pounds in eighth grade.

  Megan Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  He got his arm stuck in a Pringles can one time. Remember that?

  Molly Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  Yeah, they had to cut it off.

  Megan Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  The Pringles can. Not his arm.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  Tank and Lizzy had a little history, too.

  Sean Dormond—Eighth-Grade Basketball Player

  Yeah. Back in first or second grade, there was this legendary fight at the playground. It all started when—

  Molly Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  Oh, I remember that! Lizzy knocked out Tank’s front teeth!

  Megan Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  Yeah, on the basketball court. She did this, like, running jump punch—bam!

  Molly Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  And then, wait—didn’t she, like, pick up the teeth?

  Megan Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  Yeah, she stepped over him, with the whole school watching, and she’s like—

  Molly Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  “You mind if I borrow these?”

  Megan Church—Head Cheerleader/Identical Twin

  And that night she cashed them in with the Tooth Fairy!

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  [Frowns.] I didn’t pick up the teeth. That’s disgusting. But he did deserve it. And I’d do it again.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  No, no, no. It wasn’t on the basketball court. It was over by the swings. Tank said something about her dad. Or was it her mom? Well, anyway, it doesn’t matter. The point is that Lizzy and Tank already have this long history, right, and now they’re going at each other in tryouts. Tank starts off strong. He’s killing everyone. He’s just so freaking big. The skinniest kid in the whole school, Josh Gowen, is trying to guard him.

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  Josh is like one of those inflatable tube men at used car dealerships.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  Yeah, Josh is flailing. He just keeps getting “tanked on” over and over. Finally, Lizzy’s like, “Yo, Josh, switch.” And Josh is like, “But you’re a . . . guard.” Of course meaning, But you’re a . . . girl. Lizzy frowns and chucks Josh out of the way—

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  This is actually one of my favorite moves. It takes a little setup, but it works almost every time against a bigger player. He’s got me pinned behind him. I spread my feet wide and fight to hold my ground. After a few bumps, he lowers his left shoulder, and that’s the signal—that’s how I know he’s about to charge. So I sidestep.

  Jim Gulch—Ardwyn Middle School Boys’ Basketball Coach

  Oh yeah, I remember that. Tank fell right on the ball. It made this loud oof noise. And the whole gym went quiet. It was hard to tell if the air had come out of the ball or his lungs or both. He rolled over, furious, face red as a—

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  I took the ball and dribbled down the other end and swished another three.

  Toby Sykes—Trudeaux’s Best Friend

  Then she looked back and blew him a kiss. I was dyin’, man.

  Lizzy Trudeaux

  Coach Gulch smirked and scribbled again in his notebook.

  When the final roster was posted outside the locker room, Toby bumped me out of the way with his big butt and checked the list first. Halfway down, he shrieked like his finger was stuck in an electrical socket.

  “What?” I said. “I thought you wanted to get cut.”

  “I did! He put me on the team!”

  “Relax, Drama Boy. I’m sure you can get yourself kicked off.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.”

  It made more sense when I noticed the asterisk, aka Mark of Shame, beside his name. Down the bottom, in small print, it said: *Team Manager.

  I took a deep breath and ran my finger down the list.

  Once, twice, three times.

  “That’s funny,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re on there, right?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe they put you right on the high school team. Didn’t your dad do that? Play for the high school team when he was in middle school?”

  To be totally honest? I still wasn’t worried. I’d been featured on ESPN.com the previous summer. I was definitely the best point guard, boy or girl, in the district. Everyone knew it. It had to be a mistake. I went to Coach Gulch’s office. “Coach?”

  “Oh hey, Lizzy. Come on in.”

  Gulch’s office was a janitor’s closet that’d been “repurposed.” It still reeked of dirty mops and bleach. Hundreds of manila envelopes were stacked up to the ceiling on both sides of his desk. Every time Gulch finished a notebook, he sealed it in an envelope, signed across the flap, and mailed it to himself, thereby copyrighting, he claimed, all the original notes and plays within. The problem was that he had a terrible memory, so he couldn’t remember the plays, and he couldn’t open the envelopes without spoiling the copyright—what was known as a “Gulch-22,” a riddle that couldn’t be solved.

  “Heck of a show you put on out there,” he said, peeking up over his supermarket-bought glasses. “Really impressive. Reminded me of your old man. And I don’t say that lightly.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  Gulch leaned back and mounted his size-sixteen Reeboks on his desk, accidentally kicking over a can of Dr Pepper. “Son of a . . .” If nothing else, he certainly talked like a real coach. He mopped up the soda with an ungraded Scantron test. He was the school’s health teacher, but everyone knew he just played movies all the time so he could draw up new plays. “What can I do for ya?”

  “I saw you posted the final roster,” I said.

  “This about Sykes?”

  “Toby?”

  “Yeah, he’s a goof. But every team needs one. Keep things light. And someone to fill up the water jug. You know.”

  “It’s not about Toby.”

  “No? What’s up?”

  “It’s just . . . I think you forgot to put my name on the list.”

  Gulch dropped his glasses on the desk and rubbed his eyes with the base of his palms. “Listen . . . you know I can’t . . . I just thought it’d be fun if . . .”

  I glared.

  “Come on,” he said. “I can’t actually put you on the team. You understand. Your tryouts are next week. I was just letting you—”

  “Tell me I’m not good enough,�
� I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Tell me I’m not good enough and that’s why I’m not on the team, and I’ll go.”

  “Listen,” he said again, “I’m sorry, okay? My hands are tied on this one. If it were up to me, I’d say put the best five on the court. Period. But it’s not up to me. League rules. Boys can’t play with girls, and girls can’t play with boys. No exceptions.”

  The bell for the next period rang.

  He stood, searching for something under all his envelopes.

  “Coach,” I said. “I’m the best player in the school. You know it.”

  “No one’s disputing that.”

  “And besides, you should want a girl on your team.”

  He found his keys. Smiled.

  Was he even listening?

  I stepped forward. “I said you should want a girl on your team.”

  “I’m sorry, Lizzy. I have class.”

  “These boys are soft.”

  “I’m sorry, Lizzy, I just can’t . . .”

  When I finally got to the playground after school, I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and looked around. It was the same dreary place I’d practiced a thousand times, but I swear for a second I had no idea where I was. The voices started up in my head.

  You seen that Lizzy Trudeaux play?

  Oh yeah, man. Caught a game last week. She’s great . . . .

  I heard that!

  Yeah. Really amazing. Maybe the best I’ve ever seen . . . .

  Really?

  I’m serious! You gotta see her! She’s incredible . . .

  . . . for a girl.

  The drug dealers were lurking at the edge of the playground—the normal shift change was at sunset—but I didn’t care.

  I kept shooting, a lone ponytailed silhouette beneath the flickering light. Same routine every time. Four dribbles. Bend the knees. Deep breath. Swish.

  “Easy,” Dad said, appearing out of nowhere. “It’s not the ball’s fault.”

  He was in his short-sleeved blue gas station shirt. Hands in pockets. “Gulch called me,” he said, rocking up on his toes. “You wanna talk about it?”

  People said Dad was always soft-spoken, but I wondered. Didn’t he look so joyful with all his teammates in those old black-and-white photos? So full of life, with his long hair and sideburns, waving a towel over his head? Holding up the state championship trophy?