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Sweat rolls downmy temple and I hunch down, resting my hands on my knees.
"Trey!" I yell. "Just. Hit. The. Ball!"
"You're not throwing it properly!"
"TREY!"
We've been stuck in this godforsaken field court for the past thirty minutes. The scorching sun is burning my skin to shreds and I'm already tan enough as it is. Thankfully no one occupies the space other than us; we decided to stay after school so I can finally teach Trey how to play.
If Justine partakes in some classes, then that means she has to have some skill. And I need to make sure Trey is always on par with her.
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But it's nearly impossible when he can't even get a single shot.
"Don't blame me for your lack of eye coordination," he spouts. "You've been hitting the ball to my right. Every time. I'm in the middle, Adelaide."
"Don't use my name against me." I gesture wildly to the sun. "It's too bright here so excuse me for being a little blind!"
"There's an invention for that, you know," he retorts. "It's called sunglasses. Ever heard of it?"
"Ever heard of shut up?"
"Not quite, care to explain?"
This boy.
"Lesson over," I surrender, feeling weak and dehydrated.
As Trey and I exit the court and walk our way through its front gates, we keep debating over silly little things — which of Marvel and DC is the better comic franchise, our theories on the missing Malaysian airplane, Leonardo DiCaprio's lack of Oscar awards, and even about Joffrey's death in the latest Game of Thrones episode. (I thought it was the perfect death; Trey says he deserved worse.) There's never nothing that we don't talk about.
