Tall Story - Candy Gourlay [19]
‘Why, God? Why?’
Much later, when I was older, Auntie told me that it was not the first time Old Tibo’s shop had been levelled by an earthquake.
The first time was many, many years ago, before Auntie was born, before most people now living in the village can remember. That time, the earthquake had struck while Tibo, his young wife and baby son were inside the shop.
That time, the tremors had been stronger, levelling a chapel and the municipal hall. A few miles away, the hillside had yawned open and swallowed a schoolhouse, just like that. The seabed thrust giant waves onto the shore. A fishing village drowned.
Tibo was pulled out of the wreckage of his shop after twenty-four hours. He broke both his legs and a hip – but at least he was alive.
But both his wife and son were crushed to death.
16
Andi
We pulled into the school car park. The new gym sat on a fat cushion of mist.
Mum frowned and checked the clock on the Toyota’s dashboard. ‘I thought you said the trials were at eight o’clock? There’s nobody here—’
‘Eight-thirty,’ I said, kissing the air next to her cheek and jumping out before she’d even finished her sentence. ‘I wanted to get here early.’ I ran into the gym, basketball under one arm, ignoring her squeal of protest.
The gym was pretty snazzy; it was so new it had yet to absorb the odour of socks and sweat and trainers, the default aroma of any secondary school gym.
I came early so I could warm up.
No. I lie.
I came early because I couldn’t wait a minute longer. I was so excited, the butterflies in my stomach had morphed into monster ostriches.
There was an arctic gale blowing through the gap between the double doors but I shrugged my tracksuit off anyway, I was that eager. On impulse, I had worn the Chicago Bulls basketball kit Dad got me on eBay. It was the first time I’d worn it and it felt crispy on my thighs.
But what if they took one look at me and said, ‘Sorry, you’re too short’?
The thought sent the ostriches galumphing. Stop thinking. Get going. Shoot some hoops.
I threw my stuff on a bench and ran out onto the court, dribbling the ball low as if a defender was already sweating over me.
OK, this is the thing about me and basketball: I may be small and I could be faster … but I never miss.
I. Never. Miss.
It’s some kind of weight-versus-strength-versus-balance thing. I just don’t miss. I shoot and the ball swishes through the basket. Hook shot. Set shot. Turn-around-jump shot. Lay-up. Under the basket. From the free-throw line. And even way, way out, from the three-point line.
It all goes in.
Swish.
Swish.
Swish.
I’d shot twenty in a row before the sound of the gym doors creaking open made me turn round to meet whoever it was – the coach? My new teammates? Heart booming, teeth shredding my bottom lip, I wondered if I looked like an idiot in the Chicago Bulls kit, like I’d dressed up all posh for a jeans-and-T-shirt party. Suddenly I wished I’d worn my plain old Nike sweats instead.
The heavy double doors swung open slowly and a boy shouldered his way in, one arm wrapped around a large kit bag, the other dragging a net sack full of basketballs. Our eyes met and then both of us looked at the other from top to toe. Oh Holy Mother of God, he was wearing a Chicago Bulls kit too. I felt a blush start up in my cheeks and spread to my forehead and ears like a rash.
The boy pointed at the No Entry Unless Authorized sign on the door. ‘Uh, you can’t play here, we’ve got basketball trials scheduled for eight-thirty.’ The stubby dreads on his head bounced like coiled springs.
‘I’m here for the trials,’ I said, hating that my whole face was now radiating more heat than a radiator. I probably looked like a well-boiled