Wish Upon a Sleepover Page 8

  Autumn starts to raise her hand but stops herself. “I just read an article about university admission,” she says.

  “Really?” Todd asks. “You read stuff like that?”

  “Well, I know that I want to go to college. So I’ve been preparing. Admission to a university is more competitive than ever. You need a high GPA and excellent SAT scores, AP classes, teacher recommendations, and—” She pauses. Todd’s frown has turned into a grimace. “But I’m sure you’ll get in because you’re a good athlete. I bet you’ll get a scholarship.”

  Todd doesn’t say anything. Why does he look so worried? It doesn’t surprise me that Autumn’s been thinking about college. But Todd is thinking about it, too. Do we already have to start planning our futures? That seems crazy.

  “So?” Manga Girl asks. “Is this your special place? This wall?”

  “No. It’s across campus.”

  Lots of students are walking around. Because of his height, Todd is the only one in our group who looks like he might be old enough to go to college. But nobody stops us and asks us why we’re on campus. The color red is everywhere—on signs, buildings—and most people we pass are wearing red shirts. We cross a street, then follow Todd up some stairs and into the University of Seattle’s athletic center.

  The lobby is lined with trophy cases and some big, framed photos of teams. A group of cheerleaders sits at a corner table, holding a meeting. The girls wear red skirts, the boys red shorts. With her red cape, Manga Girl fits right in. Todd leads us through some double doors, into a huge basketball arena. The wooden floor is shiny, with a red border around it. The word OTTERS is painted on the floor under one of the hoops. There must have been a game recently because the place is littered with water bottles, candy wrappers, and popcorn containers.

  “Wow,” Todd says. “I’ve been here to see games, but I’ve never been here when it’s empty. This is so cool.” He grabs a ball from a cart and runs onto the court. Then he shoots a basket and, just like that, the ball goes into the hoop. I figure he’s going to do this for a while, so I sit on a bleacher. Autumn sits next to me. Manga Girl climbs way up to the top bleacher, takes out her sketchbook, and starts drawing. William sits by himself, in the middle section, watching from under the rim of his fur hat as Todd runs around, dribbling the ball, making every single shot.

  “Why do you think Hailey Chun doesn’t like me?” I whisper to Autumn.

  “I don’t think she doesn’t like you,” Autumn says.

  “Didn’t you see the way she looked at me before she slammed the door in my face?” I try to keep my voice low, but the words want to burst out. “She glared at me.”

  “I think…” Autumn wraps an arm around my shoulder and gives me a half hug. “I think she was focused on her party and her guests. We were an inconvenient interruption. That’s all.”

  As I think this over, I let out a slow breath. Yes, that makes sense. Hailey was rude because she was stressed out. Hosting a sleepover is a lot of work. If my sleepover invitations hadn’t gotten mixed up and mailed to the wrong people, I would have worked real hard on the food and the games, and making sure the apartment was clean. I would have borrowed one of Tutu’s sundresses and put flowers in my hair. I would have played music by our favorite Hawaiian singer—Iz Kamakawiwo‘ole.

  “But she said no thanks when I invited her to my next sleepover,” I point out.

  Autumn hesitates. Then she says, “I think your timing was bad.”

  “Yeah, bad timing.” I want to feel better, but I’m still prickly. My single-minded goal has been to become one of the Haileys. How can I make that happen if Hailey Chun wants nothing to do with me? “Is Todd done yet?” I grumble.

  The arena goes quiet all of a sudden. Todd’s sitting on one of the front benches, his head hanging, his shoulders hunched. What’s he doing? His shoulders start to shake. Wait, is Todd crying? Autumn looks at me. She mouths, What should we do? I mouth, I don’t know. It would be really awkward if we went down there. Wouldn’t it?

  “Whoosh.” A shape rushes by. Manga Girl, who doesn’t seem to care about being awkward, runs down the stairs, her cape flying behind her. She plops herself on the bench next to Todd. “Are you crying?” she asks.

  “No.” Todd quickly wipes his face with his hand. “I’m not crying.”

  So he is crying. Yikes! Autumn and I bolt to our feet, then hurry down the aisle. William stays where he is, but he’s watching. “What’s wrong?” I ask Todd.

  He wedges the basketball between his feet. “I won’t get in,” he says. Even though he’s stopped crying, his eyes still glisten. “I’ll never get accepted here. They’ll never take me. Leilani’s right.” He leans forward, his arms resting on his knees, and hangs his head.

  Manga Girl scowls at me. “That wasn’t a nice thing to say.”

  “Hey, wait a minute.” I shuffle in place. “I didn’t say Todd wouldn’t get in. I said he might not get in. That’s totally different.” Todd sniffles. Is he going to start crying again? I don’t want him to cry. I didn’t mean to get him all upset. “Look,” I tell him, trying to fix things. “You’re the tallest kid in school, so you got that going for you. And you make every single basket.”

  “You’re our school’s star player,” Autumn adds softly.

  “Star player?” Todd wipes his face again, then looks up. “Have you guys ever been to one of my games?” Autumn, Manga Girl, and I shake our heads. We aren’t exactly the sporty types. Todd shrugs. “If you haven’t been to one of the games, then you don’t know the truth.”

  The truth?

  Is Todd hiding some kind of secret?

  17

  Go, Todd, Go

  I’ve never been to one of Todd’s basketball games. Actually, I’ve never been to any basketball games. I’ve never even watched one on TV. Thanks to Ms. Delridge, the physical education teacher at our school, I basically know how the game works. She makes us play it a few times a year, but I really hate all that running around, and all the pushing and elbowing. And tripping, and foot-stomping. It’s like a war zone out there. Liza Zurlinden, a girl in our school, doesn’t have to take PE because she’s pigeon-toed. I have to take PE, even though I’m more of a klutz than Liza. Being pigeon-toed is an actual medical condition, but being a klutz isn’t. I know because Autumn looked it up.

  “What do you mean, we don’t know the truth?” I ask Todd.

  “Are you hiding something?” Manga Girl lifts her cape so it covers the lower half of her face. “Do you have a secret identity?”

  “It’s not a secret.” Todd kicks the basketball real hard. It flies across the court. “The truth is … I’m a benchwarmer.”

  Manga Girl drops her cape. Autumn’s mouth falls open. I scrunch up my face. “Huh?”

  He groans. “I don’t play in the games. I sit on the bench.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “If you don’t play, then why do you wear your uniform all the time?”

  “Coach hasn’t kicked me off the team because I’m good in practice. You saw me, right? I make every basket.” Autumn, Manga Girl, and I nod. William sits very still, listening from the middle section of the bleachers. Todd grips the edge of the bench. “But during a game I get…” He lets go of the bench and clenches his fists. “I freak out, okay? I go out there, in front of a crowd, and I feel weird. I can’t focus. I get dizzy. I get confused. I get…” He grimaces. “I get mental or something.”

  No one says anything. Todd is clenching his fists so hard his knuckles turn white.

  “You’re not mental,” Autumn says calmly. Her raincoat makes crinkling sounds as she sits next to him. “You just get scared. That’s all.” Boy, if anyone understands getting scared in front of an audience, it’s Autumn. She always turns red, and her hands start shaking. Last week she gave an oral report on Chief Sealth for our Washington state history unit, and just before it was her turn, she told me she felt like she was going to throw up. “If I have to do anything in front of an audience, I g
et the same symptoms—dizziness, confusion, inability to focus. It’s called stage fright.”

  He looks at her, waiting for more. We all look at her.

  “Stage fright is a sort of general anxiety.” Autumn nervously fiddles with the zipper on her coat. “When I stand in front of an audience, I worry that some embarrassing event might occur. That I’ll trip and fall. Forget my lines. Make a huge mistake.” She swallows hard. “Get laughed at.”

  Todd’s hands relax. “Yeah, I guess that’s it. What if something bad happens?”

  Mom said that Todd was having a hard time. Was this what she was talking about? “Why are you worried about something bad happening?” I ask. “You’ve got perfect aim.”

  “Yeah, my aim’s good, but…” He bolts to his feet. “It’s a lot of pressure.” He starts pacing. “My parents were the best. The best. They lived basketball. All they ever talk about is the glory years when they won all those trophies. But what if I go out there and…” Autumn blinks her big eyes at him. “What if I miss? What if we lose the game because I mess up? Those thoughts go round and round in my head, and my legs get wobbly and my hands get sweaty. I can’t get a good grip on the ball.” He stops pacing. “The thing is, I really like basketball. It’s the only thing I’m good at. But this year I don’t know what happened. During the first game, I kind of lost it. I couldn’t make a single basket. So I’ve been benched the whole season.” His voice grows louder. “What if I can’t ever get over this? What if I’m like this for the rest of my life?” That question echoes off the arena walls.

  I pretend I need to find something in my pocket, but, really, I’m embarrassed. We’ve seen Todd crying, and now he’s telling us his biggest fear. The truth is, I don’t know him very well. Sure, I’ve spent Thanksgivings at his house, where he tortured me by eating whipped cream with his pumpkin pie, then aiming deadly farts at me. But I never really talked to him. And here he is, admitting some deep, personal stuff. I thought he was our star basketball player, but it turns out he’s too scared to play.

  Too scared to play.

  I don’t know what to say to him. I feel even worse that I made those comments about him not getting into college, but now I realize that what I said might very well be the truth!

  The sound of footsteps breaks the silence. William’s running toward the exit. There’s no use asking him where he’s going. Maybe he needs to use the bathroom. Or maybe he’s bored and he’s going home. He and his big plaid coat disappear through the doorway. We’re not supposed to walk around the city alone, so I’m about to call out to him, when I realize that he hasn’t gone anywhere. He simply slipped behind the door. “He’s gonna whisper something,” I realize. We all go quiet so we can hear.

  “Whisper, whisper.”

  “What’s that?” I holler. “Can you say it again?”

  “Whisper, whisper.”

  “Dude, we can’t hear you,” Todd calls.

  “He said, ‘exposure therapy,’” Manga Girl tells us. I look at her with surprise. She shrugs and points to her fox ears. “I have superior hearing.” William walks back inside, takes his seat in the middle section, folds his hands in his lap, and just sits there.

  I thought William couldn’t get any weirder, but he just proved me wrong. “What’s he talking about?”

  “I know,” Autumn says. She turns on the bench and looks up at William. “Exposure therapy is a type of behavioral therapy. The theory is that if you expose yourself to your fear, over and over, you’ll begin to feel a sense of control, and the fear will eventually go away.” William nods.

  Manga Girl chews on the end of her pencil. “They did something like that in Critter League issue number sixty-seven.”

  “Is that one of your comic books?” I ask.

  She folds her arms and glares at me. “Critter League is not a comic book, Leilani. It’s manga. Manga is an art form.”

  “What did they do in issue sixty-seven?” Autumn asks. I can’t believe she’s interested. She doesn’t like those kinds of stories. I plop onto the bench next to her.

  Manga Girl pushes her cape behind her shoulders. “Well, global warming melted the northern ice cap, exposing the league’s headquarters, so they had to rebuild in a new secret location. So in issue sixty-seven, Beaverboy, who’s the leader, chose a tiny island in the middle of Lake Forgotten. But the Toxic Riders were on alert, flying over the area, so he told his team that, instead of using a boat, they must swim to and from the island to avoid detection. Lynxgirl was too afraid of water to cross, because she’s part feline. On the first day, she stood next to the water. On the second day, she stuck her foot in. On the third day, she waded in up to her knees. On the fourth day, she agreed to float. On the fifth day, she put her face in the water. On the sixth day, she tried swimming, and on the seventh day, she swam to headquarters and was never afraid of the water again.” Manga Girl frowns. “Only problem was, because she spent all that time dealing with her fear, she missed out on some crucial intelligence briefings regarding the Garbage Island Mission, and she didn’t get a major storyline again until issue seventy-two.”

  Longest. Explanation. Ever.

  Todd rubs his ear. “What’s that got to do with my problem?”

  “Lynxgirl used exposure therapy,” Autumn tells him. “She slowly exposed herself to the water and, thus, conquered her fear. I think William mentioned it because, well, because I think he wants you to try it. Is that right, William?” He nods.

  Todd still doesn’t get it. And I don’t get it, either. But Autumn does. She gets everything. She scurries onto the court and grabs a basketball. Then she comes back and hands it to Todd. “You’re worried about making mistakes in front of a crowd, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Then go shoot baskets. We’ll be your spectators. We’ll make all sorts of noise, just like a real audience.”

  Manga Girl leaps onto the bench. “Yeah, we’ll scream and stomp and try to distract you.”

  “But you’re not a real crowd,” Todd tells her. “This isn’t a real game. I don’t feel nervous.”

  Autumn chews on her lower lip. She looks toward the exit. She looks at Todd. Then she holds up a finger. “Wait here.” Faster than I’ve ever seen her move, she races out of the arena. Where is she going? I don’t see how this therapy thing could possibly work. Like Todd said, he doesn’t feel nervous around us. And besides, it took Lynxgirl a whole week to swim to the island, and we need to get back to the apartment before dark.

  “Where is he?”

  “Is that him?”

  “Hey, kid! You think you can shoot? Show us what you got!”

  The cheer squad hurries into the arena. There are fifteen of them, and they spread out along the red border and begin stomping and cheering. Some wave pom-poms. One of the guys does a backflip. “T! O! Double D! T! O! Double D!” Todd stands like a statue as they cheer his name. I’m equally shocked. What. Is. Going. On?

  Autumn hurries back to our bench, a big grin on her face. “Autumn, what did you do?” I ask.

  She’s out of breath, and her cheeks are red. “I told them that Todd is a really good basketball player, but that the coach benched him because he has stage fright. I told them that he needs to practice in front of a crowd.” She gasps for air. “I think this might help.”

  I can’t believe it. Autumn talked to a bunch of strangers? That’s a really big deal!

  Todd hurries over. “What’s going on?” he asks us. “Why are all these cheerleaders shouting my name?”

  “Go, Todd, go!”

  “Don’t look at me,” I say, my hands in the air. “This wasn’t my idea.”

  Autumn is still breathing pretty hard. Apparently, she needs to get more exercise. Too much time with books, probably. “This is your exposure therapy,” she tells him. “You can practice with a crowd. They’ll be your crowd.”

  “No way,” he says, shaking his head. Then he scowls at her. “I’m not doing it!”

  “But I thought…” She frow
ns. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to butt in.” She slowly sits on the bench. Her shoulders slump.

  “Jeez, Todd, you didn’t have to yell at her. She was only trying to help,” I tell him.

  The same guy does a backflip again. “Go, Todd, go!”

  Todd shuffles in place. “Sorry, Autumn. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’m just…” He looks around. “I don’t think this will work.”

  Suddenly, William’s standing next to Todd. Even his walking is silent. He hands Todd a basketball. Todd grimaces as he clutches the ball. Manga Girl starts jumping up and down. “Go, Todd, go!” she shouts. William starts stomping his feet. Because all the noises are echoing, it sounds like the crowd has tripled in size.

  Todd looks down at Autumn. I know by the way her head is hanging that she’s trying to disappear into her raincoat. That was a super brave thing she did, going out there and talking to the cheerleaders. He doesn’t understand how shy she is. So I start to feel really mad at Todd for hurting her feelings. And I’m about to tell him that when he wanders onto the court. He moves like he’s in a slow-motion dream. He wipes his palms on his shorts. Then he stands in front of the hoop. He dribbles the ball a few times, looks around. The cheerleaders jump up and down. Seriously, why is this such a big deal? I just saw him shoot dozens of baskets. He can do this.

  But his hands are shaking. And his face has gone really pale. I want to close my eyes, because I know what’s about to happen, like a sign on the freeway that flashes ACCIDENT AHEAD. And won’t that be extra embarrassing for him? To miss in front of everyone? But I can’t look away. Even Autumn looks up.

  Todd takes aim.

  The ball leaves his hand and flies through the air.

  And misses the basket.

  As the ball rolls away, everyone falls into silence. Todd doesn’t move. But William walks across the court, picks up the ball, and throws it back to Todd. The cheer squad starts hollering again. “Basket! Basket!”

  Todd wipes his forehead. He dribbles again. He looks around. Dribbles. Takes aim.

  Another miss.