We never usually played in the Cedar Hill Summer Basketball Tournament. Not that the word “tournament” really summed it up. It was more of a basketball-related gathering hosted by the Cedar Hill Residents Association every July. As part of an ever-growing agenda that included park maintenance, a neighborhood watch, and outdoor movie nights, the CHRA were always coming up with ideas that would keep us teenagers off the street and out of trouble in a “socially desirable and positive way” during the summer. The basketball tournament was one of the few that had actually stuck, and over the years it had become a tradition that everyone made fun of but no one wanted to miss. It was really about the only thing the neighborhood kids actually did together; the rest of the summer we were like lazy suburban tumbleweeds, floating around the town in twos and threes.
For Millie and me, the whole thing had always been more of a spectacle enjoyed from the sidelines while eating ice cream and pointing out hot boys, but in the interest of “getting back up on the social horse,” as Millie called it, we had decided to take part this summer. I was hesitant at best; if nobody wanted to hang out with the daughter of a murderer, who would want to play basketball with one? Thankfully, Millie’s brother, Alex, had invited us to be part of his team. I suspected it was a way to make it more of a challenge for him — the trophies from the past three years were probably gathering dust on his bedroom shelf by now.
“We might actually win this thing, you know.” Millie was reclining on the bench, arms splayed out behind her as she scoped out our surroundings.
As always, there were twice as many spectators squishing themselves into the bleachers and spilling out onto the grass that surrounded the courts. Erin Reyes and the rest of her gang had already secured a prime vantage spot at the top of the bleachers. Instead of playing in the tournament, they would most likely be practicing how to eat their Popsicles as seductively as possible. They were already doing an uncomfortably good job. Just beyond the courts the river flowed lazily, reflecting the clear sky, and along the bank, rows of young trees leaned over the water like they were peering inside for something.
“I remember the last time I played basketball,” said Millie wistfully. She stared up at the sky and I could see the sun was already dusting freckles across her pale cheeks. “I was trying to pass the ball to Alex, but he missed it and it smashed the kitchen window.”
“Good times,” I remembered fondly.
“What about you?” She snapped her head down.
“Maybe never?”
Little creases rippled along Millie’s forehead. “I’m sure you’ll be good at it.”
“You better be,” someone interrupted.
Millie’s brother, Alex, was stalking toward us, his grin revealing nearly all of his perfectly square teeth. He was accompanied by two of his friends — the first I recognized as Robbie Stenson, a stockier, way less attractive version of a Ken doll, who came complete with floppy brown hair and overly groomed eyebrows. He didn’t walk so much as lope around, kind of like a stylish troll. The other boy I had seen once or twice at Millie’s house playing video games, but he never seemed to say much. He had bright red hair, gangly limbs, and a forehead that was shinier than the rest of him.
Millie bounced to her feet. “It’s about time you showed up. We have a tournament to win.”
“Soph, you know Stenny and Foxy, right?” Alex indicated behind him.
Ah, boys and their stupid nicknames. “Yeah, hi.” I waved.
Robbie Stenson gave me a too-cool-for-this-introduction head nod so subtle I barely registered it, while “Foxy” threw a fluorescent yellow vest at me. I fumbled it and had to bend down to pick it up. They were obviously less than thrilled about having me on their team.
Millie caught her vest on reflex and then dropped it like it was on fire. “No way. I’m not wearing this. It reeks of sweat.”
“Are you serious?” Alex’s voice was already weary with sibling-related fatigue.
Millie curled her lip in disgust. “I’d literally rather die.” I suppressed my smile. Their British accents made even the most banal exchanges sound way more Masterpiece Theatre than they had any right to be.
Robbie, Foxy, and I put our vests on without protest; mine fell to my knees and halfway down my arms, engulfing everything but my luminous kicks. Eventually, and after some not-so-subtle peer pressure on my part, Millie wriggled into hers.
“You’re such a tyrant,” she muttered under her breath.
“At least your legs still look good,” I tried to reassure her. But we couldn’t hide from the ugly truth. We were both swimming in oversized fluorescence.
“We’re up on court one first,” Alex started, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. “Our team name is the Sharpshooters.”
Millie and I grimaced. “That’s the worst name ever,” we chorused.
“Why don’t you come up with something better, then?” Alex challenged.
“Oh, oh, oh!” Millie started hopping up and down. “What about Victorious Secret?”
Alex’s face fell, and Foxy let out a groan.
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Robbie cut in.
“How about the Human Highlighters?” I suggested, gesturing at our hideously luminous vests.
“Fine.” Alex threw his hands up in surrender, and Robbie and Foxy nodded their reluctant consent. “We’ll change it.”
Millie cupped her hands around her mouth and made her voice sound crackly. “That’s one small step for Sophie, one giant leap for Alex’s sense of humor.”
Robbie sprinted off to reregister our name, leaving us with Foxy and Alex, who was already taking the whole situation a million times more seriously than we were.
“I’ve done a little recon,” he said, conveying his info like a Navy SEAL. “A lot of the other players are younger than us this year, which gives us the advantage …”
Millie punched me in the arm and my attention fell away from her brother. “What?”
“Now you’re literally going to die.” Her eyes had grown to the size of saucers, and I swiveled to follow her gaze. “That’s them, right? The Priestly brothers?”
She wasn’t fully wrong about the dying thing. My heart definitely slowed down for at least a couple of beats. Across the far court, the Priestly brothers were coming toward us; there were four of them this time, their connection to each other made plain by their olive skin and dark hair.
“I never thought I’d actually find basketball shorts attractive on a guy” was all I could manage.