“And I’m sorry about your bike. Really.”
I almost believed him.
Almost.
Unlike the rest of the Net Sports Unit, which was haphazardly arranged, we had assigned teams for volleyball. Coach Fortes set us up to play tournament-style. There were no eliminations, but the team with the best record would get extra credit.
I did not understand the point and purpose of assigning extra credit to the winners when they were—statistically speaking—the most likely to be athletic types and therefore the least likely to need the extra credit.
Me being me, I was stuck on a team with Fatty Bolger, which gave him even more opportunities to joke about balls flying at my face.
Like I said. At least he was predictable.
Trent served first—he always served first—and we bump-set-spiked back and forth, while I tried to stay out of Trent’s way, because he was a very intense volleyball player. He was especially intense since we were playing against Chip’s team. Despite being best friends, Chip and Trent battled like Emotionally Compromised Vulcans when they were on opposing teams.
I didn’t get that at all. If I’d had a best friend—Javaneh was my closest friend, but we weren’t anything approaching bestfriends—we would have always been on the same team. Not in the sense of a Net Sports team, but in the sense that I’d be happy for them if they won, and they’d be happy for me if I won.
Fatty elbowed me out of the way to set the ball for Craig, who was in front of us, to spike.
“Get with the program, Kellner!” Coach Fortes shouted.
I was with the program. It’s just that Fatty Bolger seemed to be operating a different version of it.
So the next time the ball came at me, I planted myself right under it, locked my elbows and bumped it.
But instead of going upward, the ball shot straight forward, right into the back of Craig’s head.
I was terrible at Net Sports.
Craig looked back at me as he scooped up the ball.
“Sorry.”
Craig shrugged and tossed the ball under the net to Chip, who was serving next.
“Watch where you’re aiming,” Trent said. “Terrorist.”
This was not the first time I had been called a terrorist. It didn’t happen often—no teacher let it slide if they heard it—but school was school, and I was a kid with Middle Eastern heritage, even though I was born and raised in Portland.
It didn’t bother me that much.
Not really.
I mean,D-Bagwas a lot worse.
Terroristwas so ridiculous that I could shrug it off.
Mom always said those kinds of jokes didn’t bother her, because Persians couldn’t be terrorists. No Persian can get up early enough in the morning to bomb anything.
I knew she said it because it really did bother her. But it was easier if we could make fun of ourselves about it. That way, when boring Hobbits like Fatty Bolger said things, it didn’t matter. We had already made the joke ourselves.
I guess it actually did bother me.
Just a little bit.
INTERMIX RATIO
“Hey, son. What happened to your backpack?”
