The word dribbling solely reminded me of sticky baby drool. Yet they were doing it all around me. I knew how to catch a football, kick a soccer ball, and hit a baseball. It's not like I wasn't athletic, basketball just went over my head. I could not for the life of me shoot an orange ball the size of my head into a hoop only slightly larger and almost six feet above me. Not for lack of trying but I always pulled something in my neck or jammed a finger.

          It was an easy day; we could sit on the side-lines if we didn’t want to play. A few sloth-like “too cool for school” kids joined me but they talked to each other about color guard and cheerleading and other things that would fascinate a dull mind. I write mean things in a notebook but do not dare to articulate them. Why ruin my nice girl reputation when it has already been tainted by immature name-calling?

          A goose gasps from across the gym and continues to struggle for breath. She’s not a goose per-say, but she did win best laugh for our senior superlatives. I can’t help but snicker when I hear it; it might possibly be the most ridiculous sound that I have ever heard. Mr. Tough Guy Guido shoots from half-court and it swishes in. A cheer goes up from some girls who should probably eat something, and a kid who just got back from blazing in the bathroom. His eyes are glazed over but no one notices much, or cares.

          “Miss Lucy had a steamboat; the steamboat had a bell…” Some juniors start up a hand jive to put a definitive mark on their inferiority. I roll my eyes in one greatly exaggerated motion and continue to write; they’re too far away to notice. Some underclassmen keep ‘accidentally’ shooting a ball into a gaggle of sedentary senior girls who consequently curse them out. The boys deny the intent and flush furiously for the flirtatiousness, but the girls go back to their intense chat about who had gotten the most wasted last Friday night; random drug test or no random drug test. One of the boys tries his antic again but his teacher snaps at him to take a seat, silently patting him on the back for his effort. My class picks up a game of knock-out, but Guido wins every time – no contest. The teachers don’t notice; their testosterone inundated brains are gathered around a pizza-size section of the tile, absorbedly discussing their football tactics. Is football honestly the only thing that the male population at this school can comprehend?

          I want to stand up and scream in their faces, “Read a book, God damn it!” But I suppress my feelings, as always. I jump to attention as a ball hits the wall above my head. Guido rushes over to retrieve it and laughs at my startled glance, darting away without apology. The lookers-on twitter in their appropriate cliques and I write…oh how I write.