Alley-Oops I Think I'm Falling in Love (With the Wrong Guy)

There was just one problem with my plan — I'd have to talk to people, new people, about things other than basketball. I had to consider how bad I really wanted answers.

... And the truth was, not that bad. Not at first.

My curiosity was promptly extinguished as I attempted to approach Whitney Drew and Allie Price. As I drew near, the sound of their tittering laughs filling my ears, I immediately knew that I was in way over my head and I pulled the ejection cord.

I thought I could put it behind me. I was content to let this one die. Until the disruption returned with a vengeance.

When the girls returned, they enticed new victims. Taylor apparently had a standing invitation, because he left every time — he reminded me of a golden retriever, lovable, goofy, but easily distracted by moving objects. For whatever reason Roscoe turned down their daily barrage. Well, most of the time.

The few times he gave in, Whitney and Allie would loiter just beyond one of the basketball hoops. They'd cling to each other and giggle nervously, whispering behind their hands, as they watched us play.

In the before times, no one ever would have noticed this, but now, every other boy on the court was breaking their neck trying to see who they were looking at. Eventually they'd garner enough attention that the game would stop and they'd drift onto the court.

Then Whitney would prance over, go on tip toe, and whisper into Roscoe's ear. I couldn't help but notice how much she touched him, how unnecessarily close she stood to him, how many rules she broke, and yet no one said a word.

I squinted at my teammates, wondering if they'd seen the unwarranted way she latched onto his arm for balance, but they didn't bat an eye at it.

Had the rules changed? After all these years, was that kind of touching suddenly allowed?

I painstakingly monitored every trending social norm, because I didn't want to violate them. I wanted to be as nondescript as humanly possible. I would love to be invisible.

And as I mentioned previously, I wanted to be like Jane Goodall. So, the opportunity for anthropological observation was too good to pass up.

... Or more likely, I just had an overactive imagination and needed friends. That was probably it.

I sniffed and folded my arms across my chest. Suspicious of this new gesture, but unsure why. For whatever reason, whenever Whitney performed this charade, Roscoe almost always caved. If they didn't beg, his love for basketball prevailed.

After another such raid, I decided it was time to conduct an experiment. I wasn't brave enough to inquire after the "secret game" directly, but I could try and suss it out on my own.

I decided to see if the touching rules had truly changed —I was going to break them and see what happened.

Selecting a test subject was more stressful than I originally thought, mostly because I didn't want to actually go through with it. I'd been heavily conditioned against this sort of thing. I wished Taylor were still there, if only because he'd respond warmly, regardless of the outcome.

Gritting my teeth, I decided on a neutral target. Preston was a tall, pudgy, pale-skinned kid with an easy-going demeanor. He was so unhurried in all his movements, he didn't seem like he'd be athletic, but his shot was impeccable and his passes were precise. When he scored, I made my move.

An occasional high five was normal, I needed to kick it up a notch. Mustering up some courage, I took a deep breath, and closed the distance between us. I pinched my eyes shut as if preparing for a blow and I wrapped my arms awkwardly around his middle, giving him a hug.