2009-08-12 03:09:55 UTC
“No. Please go away,” I brushed away Yvonne’s annoying hand.
“It’s already four thirty, get up, you ***,” she said. “You will be late for practice. You’re to catch up on your stamina, idiot!” She shook me harder.
With a groan, I sat up. “It’s just Saturday, today. Why can’t I sleep some more? I am really tired,” I slouched, still half and a quarter unconscious.
“If you hope to make the team this time, you are going to have a lot harder than this. Get up or else I am getting water,” she threatened.
Then I did not have a choice. It’s better to wake up dry than have water crackling away in your ear(s)! I dragged myself from the bed to the bathroom and splashed water on my face to get rid of the sleepiness.
When I was done, Yvonne ordered me to eat some biscuits and a glass of juice, though I was not at all hungry, while she wrote out a note to mom and dad, explaining where we were, and stuck it to the fridge with a smiley magnet.
“I don’t see the need of writing out the same note again and again everyday, explaining where we are,” I pointed out, munching on a biscuit. “You could use the same note. It is just a waste of energy, time and paper.”
“Suggest that to mom,” Yvonne said, picking up her glass of water, and draining it in go.
I snorted, now half asleep. I managed to finish my food, a feat, considering the state I was in. I picked up the backpack. Yvonne joined me. “Run,” she said, opening the door.
I started running with the growing strain on my back from the three bottles of water, towels, a pair of Yvonne’s shoes, sunscreen (I had to carry that though there was no sun at four thirty in the morning), and some other beauty products that she could not live without a couple of hours. I had to do this everyday for the past month, so I was used to it.
“Good,” she said, and tossed me the ball. “Do the stretching exercises, and then run five more laps of the court.”
I did the exercises, and started running. If you are absorbed thinking about something, it makes the journey shorter. So I always do that, and it worked for me.
“Done,” I said, gasping for air. I clutched at my stitch.
“Fine, start with ten lay-ups, both from left and right sides,” she said, plugging her ears with her iPhone. “Make sure that they count. Each lay-up you miss, two laps of the court, or five push-ups.”
“Fine,” I said, fully awaken by now, because it’s hard to sleep when sweat gets into your eyes. Plus, I hate sweat bands, and I never use because they suck.
She continued to watch me as I shot baskets one after another. I don’t usually miss lay-ups. She unplugged one ear, and looked at me.
“One on one,” she said, “After you shoot five free throws. Make them count.” She plugged her ear right back, and watched leisurely sitting on the bench, while I screwed up my face in concentration and aim before shooting.
Three out of five.
“Four laps or ten push-ups?” she asked sweetly. I fumed.
“The push-ups, please,” I growled and started. After five minutes of strenuous work, I let myself fall to the floor on my stomach with a groan.
“Tired?” she asked.
“Very,” I said, massaging my arms.
“Sorry about that,” she shrugged. “Well, get up. I will be the defence.”
Talk about a *****.
***
On Monday, I screwed up my face, and parked my bike in the shed. I was screwing my face because my best friend Nathan Carter had the look on his face. The very one, whenever he had on his face when he felt he had done something that was a big deal for other people. He usually messed up.
“Hey, a new guy just transferred here,” he said, tugging on my sleeve of my shirt. I jerked free, and gave him an annoyed look. He started tossing his soccer ball from one hand to the other.
“So?” I asked. “What’s the big deal? It’s Monday. Every new student usually starts on Monday.”
“He’s gorgeous,” he shrugged.
“Are you gay?” I snapped. Of course, he was not, but he sure acted like one enough.
Nathan pursed his lips. “Yeah, right,” he said in a sarcastic tone. “I am gay.” He rolled his eyes.
“No big surprises there,” I snickered. “What’s his name by the way?”
“Dale Brooke.” Nathan said the words with a sense of importance, as if he was the one promoting Brooke or something. “And he plays killer basketball.”
The last word caught my attention. “Basketball?” I squinted. “Really? Well, then I must check him out if he’s a basketball player.”
Nathan always tries to act as a matchmaker for me, and then messes up. I am always careful not to mention any guy’s name that I may have a crush on. Nathan’s been with a numerous girls, and he is sad of the fact that I have no boyfriend, even though I am best friends with a womaniser. I have not even gone out with anyone, my whole life. Not that I want to, anyway. I am just fine the way I am. It’s much, much better to stay single than go out with an asshole.
“He’s cute, you know,” he said. “You two would make a cute couple.”
See what I mean? He is starting to work already.
“But I have