What Happened to Goodbye(63)
Author: Sarah Dessen

“And I don’t want to spend the rest of high school worrying about court dates,” I replied. She got quiet, fast. “So this is what I’m offering. Spring break plus four weekends before graduation, but my choice of when they happen. Do we have a deal?”

Silence. This was not the way she wanted it, I knew. Too bad. She could have my company and my time, my certain number of weekends and my senior spring break. But she could not have my heart.

“I’ll call Jeffrey and tell him we’ve worked something out,” she said. “If you’ll send me those break dates and the other ones you have in mind.”

“I’ll do it today,” I replied. “And we’ll just follow up as it gets closer. All right?”

A pause. It was like a business deal, cold and methodical. So far from those spur-of-the-moment trips to the Poseidon, all those years ago. But nobody went to North Reddemane anymore. Apparently.

“All right,” she said finally. “And thank you.”

Now, I stood there with Dave, holding the ball. He was grinning, in defensive stance—or what counted as such for him—bent over slightly, jumping from side to side waving his hands in my face. “Just try to get past me,” he said, doing a weird wiggle move. “I dare you.”

I rolled my eyes, then bounced the ball once to the left before cutting right around him. He scrambled to catch up, doing several illegal reach-ins as I moved closer to the basket. “You’ve basically fouled out in the last five seconds,” I told him as he batted at the ball, me, the air around both of us. “You know that, right?”

“This is street ball!” he said. “No fouls!”

“Oh, okay. In that case . . .” I elbowed him in the gut, making him gasp, and moved under the basket. In those few seconds, the net clear above, I remembered all the things my dad had taught me as if they’d been imprinted: watch the hoop, elbows tight, touch light, light, light. I shot, the ball arcing up perfectly.

“Denied!” Dave said, leaping up and batting the ball away.

“Interference,” I called out, grabbing it back.

“Street ball!” he replied. And then, as if to prove this, he tackled me and we both went down onto the grass beside my deck, as the ball left my hands, rolling under the house.

For a moment we just lay there, his arms loosely around me, both of us breathing heavy. Finally, I said, “Okay, so with that, you left the realm of basketball entirely.”

“Full contact,” he said, his voice muffled by my hair. “No guts, no glory.”

“I’d hardly call this glory.”

“You didn’t make the shot, did you?”

I rolled over, so I was on my back, him panting beside me. “You are, like, the weirdest basketball player I have ever seen.”

“Thank you,” he said.

I laughed out loud.

“What? Was that supposed to be an insult?”

“How could it be anything else?”

He shrugged, brushing his hair out of his face. “I don’t know. I think my game is unique, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“That’s one word for it.”

We lay there for another moment. His arm was still next to mine, elbow to elbow, fingertips to fingertips. After a moment, he rolled over, and I did the same, so we were facing each other. “Want to make it best of two?” he asked.

“You didn’t score,” I pointed out.

“Details,” he said. His mouth was just inches from mine. “We big thinkers choose not to dwell on them.”

Suddenly, I was just sure he was going to kiss me. He was there, I could feel his breath, the ground solid beneath us. But then something crossed his face, a thought, a hesitation, and he shifted slightly. Not now. Not yet. It was something I’d done so often—weighing what I could afford to risk, right at that moment—that I recognized it instantly. It was like looking in a mirror.

“I think a rematch is in order,” he said after a moment.

“The ball is under the house.”

“I can get it. It’s not the first time.”

“No? ”

He sat up, choosing to ignore this. “You know, you talk this tough game and everything. But I know the truth about you.”

“And what’s that again?” I said, getting to my feet.

“Secretly,” he said, “you want to play with me. In fact, you need to play with me. Because deep down, you love basketball as much as I do.”

“Loved,” I said. “Past tense.”

“Not true.” He walked around my deck, grabbing a broom there and using the handle to fish around beneath. “I saw how you squared up. There was love there.”

“You saw love in my shot,” I said, clarifying.

“Yeah.” He banged the broomstick again, and the ball came rolling out slowly, toward me. “I mean, it’s not surprising, really. Once you love something, you always love it in some way. You have to. It’s, like, part of you for good.”

I wondered what he meant by this, and in the next beat, found myself surprised by the image that suddenly popped into my head: me and my mom, on a windy beach in winter, searching for shells as the waves crashed in front of us. I picked up the ball and threw it to him.

“You ready to play?” Dave asked, bouncing it.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Are you going to cheat?”

“It’s street ball!” he said, checking it to me. “Show me that love.”

So cheesy, I thought. But as I felt it, solid against my hands, I did feel something. I wasn’t sure it was love. Maybe what remained of it, though, whatever that might be. “All right,” I said. “Let’s play.”

Eleven

“Hi,” the librarian said, smiling up at me. She was young, with straight blonde hair, wearing a bright pink turtleneck, black skirt, and cool red-framed eyeglasses. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I replied. “I’m interested in looking up some town history. But I’m not sure where to start.”

“Well, no worries. You have come to the right place.” She slid back in her rolling chair, then got to her feet, coming around the desk. “We just happen to have the most extensive collection of newspapers and town-related documents in town. Although don’t tell the historical society I said that. They tend to be a little competitive.”

“Oh,” I said. “Right.”