Rush The Game

CHAPTER ONE
    MIKI .
    My head jerks up. My attention narrows. I push off the chain-link fence that marks the limit of school property. My friends are sitting cross-legged on the grass a few feet away under the massive oak tree we’ve claimed as our little corner of the field.
    Actually, Glenbrook High has a ton of fields: two softball, two baseball, five tennis courts, track and field, the discus/hammer throw, four general-purpose fields, and the football turf with the thousand-seat bleachers. Our spot is at the edge of an all-purpose field, chosen by my friends for the excellent view of the track and the tennis courts. They like to watch boys in shorts.
    We’re here pretty much every day after school. Definitely days when there’s track. No track today, just a lone boy running laps.
    Miki .
    There it is again, a boy saying my name. Like he knows me. Like he expects me to listen when he speaks.
    I can’t place the voice and I can’t see the speaker. Last year, a girl in my class had this creeper guy following her home. I hope I haven’t acquired a shadow of my own. The possibility sends a chill crawling up my spine despite the late-afternoon sun that’s warm on my face.
    I take a couple of steps toward the path that runs from the school fence to the street—one of several that fan out from the school like the spokes of a wheel. The path’s more of a small park that sits between two houses, a narrow strip of asphalt bounded by wide strips of grass. Trees rise on either side, their branches forming a green canopy. It’s not quite fall yet; the leaves won’t change color for a few weeks.
    I wander to the edge of the small park and stop half a dozen yards from my friends, a dozen yards from the street.
    There’s no one on the path.
    But someone said my name.
    From where I’m standing, I can see a handful of little kids being ushered across the street by the crossing guard in front of Oakview Elementary a block away. I watch for a few minutes, until no more little kids wait by the side of the road and the crossing guard gets ready to leave.
    “Miki!” This time, it’s my best friend, Carly Conner, calling my name. She’s stretched out on the grass, her long legs crossed at the ankles. The weight of her torso rests on her bent elbow, her #11 Extra Light Blond hair falling in a sleek curtain just past her shoulders. I like it better than last month’s #100 Bleach Blond.
    At five feet six, I’m a shade taller than Carly. My hair’s as dark as hers is pale. My features reflect the fact that my mom’s dad was Nisei—second-generation Japanese-American—but my eyes are my dad’s mom’s unique shade of indigo blue. Every time people tell me I look “exotic,” I have to resist the urge to kick them in the shin.
    Carly’s brows lift. Her unspoken question hangs between us: Why are you over there instead of over here?
    I open my mouth, but before I can say a word, Deepti Singh asks, “Did you see him?”
    “See who?” I ask, too sharp, thinking she knows something about the boy who was calling my name.
    “What bug crawled up your ass?” Dee snaps back at the same time as Carly pushes upright and says, “New guy.”
    Then Kelley Zimmer chimes in with, “Incredibly hot new guy,” and I realize we’re talking about completely different things.
    Dee crosses her arms over her chest and presses her lips together. Hurt feelings. I sigh. Carly gives me her make nice look. She’s a middle child. Always the peacemaker.
    “How do you know he’s hot?” I ask, more to mollify Dee than from genuine interest.
    Success. She perks up and says, “We heard from Sarah. She saw him. Sort of. His profile, anyway.”
    “I got to see more than his profile.” Carly draws out every word, playing Dee and Kelley like the keys of a piano. “I took the attendance sheet to the office for Ms. Smith during last period, and he walked in just as I was walking out. We were practically chest to chest.”
    I know Carly might be exaggerating just a little. She probably saw him from across the office, but her modified version makes a far better story.
    “And?” Dee asks.
    “Let’s just say his guns”—Carly strokes her fingertips along her biceps—“ought to be licensed .”
    I snort at the outdated expression. Carly shoots me a look and waggles her eyebrows. Of course, she’s pushing all Dee’s buttons, and Dee plays right into her hands.
    “Oh. My. Gawd.” Dee’s eyes widen, and she claps her palms