Chapter 8

Chapter 8 Defense defense (defense), n. The argument presented in a court of law to prove the innocence of the accused; (in sports) the act of protecting your goal against the opposing team. It wasn't hot enough to sweat, but Evan was sweating. Two wide rivers ran down the sides of his face, and every time he spun he could feel droplets flying off the tips of his hair. He was going to get this shot right even if it killed him. He'd been working on it all afternoon. Actually, he'd been working on it all month. It was a turnaround jumper from the top of the key. A good

fifteen feet from the basket, and he was shooting with his left hand. That's what all the greats could do —shoot with their weak hand and still make the basket. Evan's dad used to say to him: "Work from your weak side, and no one will be able to defend against you." Evan turned his back to the basket and planted his feet on the painted lines of the driveway. He dribbled once, dribbled twice, dribbled three times, then—like a rocket shooting off its launching pad, he sprang into the air and pivoted his whole body around. Even as his body was falling back to the ground, he got off the shot, falling away from the basket as the ball sailed toward the pole and— missed. Sometimes he made it; sometimes he didn't. About one time out of every ten he made the shot. Evan wanted to flip that around so that only one time out of every ten he missed. It was a killer shot. If he had that kind of shot in his pocket, he could beat anyone on the court.

Dribble once, dribble twice, dribble three times... "Hey, Evan." Evan straightened up and looked toward the street. Megan was riding her bike toward him. She came to a sliding stop, then hopped off her bike before walking it across. Evan shook to get some of the sweat out of his eyes. Then he ducked his head and wiped his face on the sleeve of his T-shirt. Girls do not like sweat. "I thought you had a dentist appointment," he said as she pushed her bike onto the driveway. "It was short. Just a checkup," she said. "Is Jessie still in there?" Megan nodded her head in the direction of the house. "Yeah. Still getting ready for The Big Day." Evan was dreading the trial. Every fourth-grader was going to be there—on the playground after school tomorrow—and what if Jessie couldn't prove that Scott Spencer was guilty? She wasn't a real lawyer. And could Evan really count on his friends? It seemed like every day this week Paul and Ryan had

gone to Scott's house after school. Maybe by the time of the trial, all the guys would be on Scott's side. Evan imagined standing up in front of the whole class and apologizing to Scott. He dribbled the ball, as if he could drum that idea out of his head. "Wow," said Megan. "She gets kind of like..." "Obsessed," said Evan. Then again, he thought about what he'd been doing all afternoon. How many times had he practiced that shot? One hundred? Two hundred? And he planned to keep going until it got too dark to see the basket. So maybe it ran in the family. As if she was reading his thoughts, Megan asked, "You been out here the whole time?" "I'm working on a shot. You want to see?" Megan shrugged and smiled, and Evan decided that meant yes. He set his feet and started his dribbling rhythm. Please let it fall, please let it fall, please let it fall, he said in his head as he bounced the ball on the blacktop. But it didn't. It ka-thunked off the backboard and

ricocheted toward the street. Evan had to run fast to save it from rolling into the road. "That was close," said Megan. "You're really good." Evan shook his head as he dribbled the ball back to the center of the paint. "Close doesn't count in basketball. You either make the shot or you don't." "Well, it was better than I could have done," she said. "And I'm the best shooter on my team." Evan raised his eyebrows. "You play basketball?" "And soccer," she said. "But I'm better at basketball." "Really? Can you make a three-pointer?" Megan laughed. "Sometimes." "So, let's see," said Evan. He tossed the ball to her, and she dribbled across the driveway so that her feet were just outside the three-point line. Evan watched as Megan handled the ball, watched the way her ponytail bounced back and forth and her bracelets danced up and down her arm. "Okay, here goes," she said. "Don't hold your

breath, though." She lifted the ball over her head, then sent it sailing through the air like water shooting out of a garden hose. It landed right in the basket. "Awesome!" said Evan. He scooped up the bouncing ball and made an easy lay-up. "You want to shoot some? We could play HORSE. Or one-on-one, if..." Evan thought about defending against a girl, and his stomach turned over on itself. How did you defend against someone without ever touching them? "Can't," said Megan, looking down the road. "I'm going over to someone's house." "Whose?" asked Evan, bouncing the ball back and forth between his legs. He was a pretty good shooter, but he was a great ball handler. When he made it to the pros, he'd probably be a point guard. Sure, they didn't get all the glory, but point guards ruled the court. Megan waved her hand up the street, but didn't say a name as she strapped on her bike helmet. Evan stopped dribbling. "Whose house?"