“Talk to me, miss, talk to me!”
“Don’t listen to her, she’s the biggest liar on the South Side.”
“You wanna photograph me doing my jump shot? I’m gonna be all-state this year.”
I’d had to use a crowbar to get them away from Love and onto the court. Even as they fought over equipment and shooting rights, they kept an eye on her.
I shook my head: I was paying too much attention to Love myself. I took a ball from April Czernin, another promising guard, and tried to show her how to back into the three-second lane, turning at the last instant to do that fadeaway jumper Michael Jordan made famous. At least my ball went in, always a plus when you’re trying to show off a move. April repeated the shot a few times while another player complained, “How come you let her keep the ball and I don’t get no time, Coach?”
Being called “coach” still disconcerted me. I didn’t want to get used to it-this was a temporary gig. In fact, I was hoping to line up a corporate sponsor this afternoon, someone willing to pay good money to bring in a pro, or at least semipro, to take over the team.
When I blew my whistle to call an end to free-form warm-ups, Theresa Díaz popped up in front of me.
“Coach, I got my period.”
“Great,” I said. “You’re not pregnant.”
She blushed and scowled: despite the fact that at any one time at least fifteen percent of their classmates were pregnant, the girls were skittish and easily embarrassed by talk about their bodies. “Coach, I gotta use the bathroom.”
“One at a time-you know the rule. When Celine gets back, you can go.”
“But, Coach, my shorts, they’ll, you know.”
“You can wait on the bench until Celine returns,” I said. “The rest of you: get into two lines-we’re going to practice layups and rebounds.”
Theresa gave an exaggerated sigh and made a show of mincing over to the bench.
“What’s the point of that kind of use of power? Will humiliating the girl turn her into a better player?” Marcena Love’s high, clear voice was loud enough for the two girls nearest her to stop fighting over a ball to listen.