Falling Short: Chapters 38–54

Sixth-, seventh-, and eighth-grade kids are all here, each vying for their own spot on the team.

He musses my sweaty hair.

Nick’s shaking his head, scoffing, “Man. Some people got no heart.”

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or just a fluke...but Marco has legit knocked the ball loose from me—twice!

It doesn’t take long for his pickup truck to turn the corner with sixties rock blaring.

Apá tousles my hair.

“Looks like the pupil has surpassed the master.”

That’s when Apá offers to buy us burgers in celebration of Marco’s amazing feat.

Marco’s side is arranged like he’s getting ready for his very own back-to-school sale. Mine, on the other hand, looks more like a movie theater concession stand.
Social studies homework takes an entire Snickers Bar. Science...a bag of Skittles.

But I leave feeling like I’ve spent an entire week at one of those prestigious camps Isaac attends.

The 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 number stickers he put on the chess pieces to explain the different positions were pure genius.
I didn’t know that each player, each pawn—as Isaac put it—has his own set of jobs and abilities.

I pull back my T-shirt sleeve, looking for any sign of puberty. Still, nothing! Not one meager hair, just another bit of lint.

Mom picks up her pace.
Me, I lag behind her, weighed down by fear.

This last trip, however, Nurse Isabel and Amá step aside and have what my social studies teacher would call a sidebar. It’s pretty much when adults, usually lawyers, step away to discuss important details they don’t want others to know—in this case, me.

Suddenly, I feel a hand rest on my shoulder. I glance over at the rugged fingers and knotlike knuckles, then up at the police officer now standing at my side.

I texted Dad days ago. Longest text of my life. Guess I rambled a bit.

With Mr. Castillo at Isaac’s home recuperating, Mom and I decide to give Isaac a ride to the tournament.

“Isaac,” I call out, feeling a slight tremble in my voice.

Dad made it. He actually came...for me!
That’s my cue to warm up.

We get the lead back pretty easily and the crowd mellows.

He’s got a huge container of fresh watermelon juice he claims will give us the electrolytes and potassium our bodies need to recharge.

They try convincing me to sit with them on the team bench for the next game, only I refuse. Eventually, we compromise, and I agree to wear my jersey as I cheer.

Suddenly, it’s like the philharmonic of farts! Loud, explosive farts that seem to roll their r’s.

I’m about to ask the rest of the team but stop as everyone else concurs with bazooka sounds of their own.

My heart plummets down to my high-tops.

The entire gym goes silent, minus a few hecklers.

It’s at that moment that I realize something pretty profound. I’ve got nothing to prove...to anyone.

But instead of getting across the line with his final second, he instead glares down at Marco, looking smug as can be.

We all rush Isaac, flailing our arms and jumping around.

Isaac hobbles over and wraps his arms around me.