Biggie Read Online Free Page A

only want the ball to drop, no other movement.
    Damn, I wish I had rested during the last half-inning. My legs ache. “Man up,” I whisper. I ignore my body and concentrate on perfection. I lift my leg as high as I can—maybe three inches—and snap my wrist when I release the ball, causing the pitch to spin instead of drop. I let it go wrong. The ball just hangs there and I stop breathing. Michelle swings and hits a line drive to left field. My neck snaps as I follow the line drive.
    Killer reaches out and catches the ball with his right hand. He slides on the asphalt and rolls over with skid marks busting open down his leg. I can almost hear the sizzle like bacon bouncing on a skillet as he slides on the hot surface. He jumps up, shakes off the pain, and screams to Jet, “No one on your team’s going to reach base today.” He flips the ball back at me and gives me a nod. I see blood mixed with small pebbles of gravel on his forearm. He takes a deep breath, rolls his neck, and ignores the little pieces of parking lot trapped in the sticky red substance escaping from a series of tiny cuts.
    â€œLast batter!” Coach Phillips yells.
    Justin Martinson steps up to the plate. If not for me and my lard ass, he would be the biggest kid in school. But while I say nothing and stay invisible, he’s the class clown. He shakes his big ass to make the girls laugh and invents new sound effects for fake farts to get the guys to applaud and shout. I don’t know what to expect. He might strike out by taking an overexuberant swing or hit a home run.
    Knowing Justin’s the last batter calms me, and I get a second wind. I’m able to take a deep, relaxing breath. I stand upright, feeling confident. I squeeze the Wiffle ball with precision like a nurse taking a pulse. I toss the pitch, releasing the ball just above my head. The ball drops, slices, and hovers in space. Justin swings as hard as he can and yells as loud as he can, but the ball barely bounces off the bat.
    Like a raindrop, the ball drops straight onto the asphalt, bounces twice, and stops just a few inches in front of home plate. With no catcher, I run toward the spinning ball. As I get within stretching distance of the ball, a sharp pain shoots through my chest. My knees buckle, my neck stiffens, and my eyes slam shut. I don’t fall as much as tip over, landing on my right elbow and rolling onto my belly.
    Killer grabs the ball and throws out Justin as the hot asphalt leaves grill marks on my forehead. My breaths become choppy as I try to roll over onto my back. Everyone must be looking on in horror as I vibrate like a fish out of water.
    â€œBiggie, you okay?” Coach Phillips says and helps me sit up.
    My forearms have stingy pains, and I can’t take a long breath or close my mouth without a lump forming in my throat. As the pain in my chest lessens, the sting from my tears mixed with warm sweat intensifies in my eyes.
    Why did Mom rip up the note? I struggle to get air. I am dying. Right here in the parking lot, right after throwing a perfect game. Why did Coach make me play? He knows I shouldn’t be doing school-based physical activities.
    â€œYou’ll be all right,” Coach says. “Just too much heat.” He rubs my shoulder and Michelle brings me some water. She bends down like a World War II nurse and pours the cold liquid into my mouth.
    As she leans over me, Michelle places her hand on my chin, and I start to feel better. How do I know? Because I start getting turned on. I know it’s sad, but this is the most action I’ve ever gotten from a Finch girl. She pours some water down the back of my neck. The water feels like razor-blade slivers of ice cutting my neck. “That’ll cool you down,” she says.
    My breathing slowly returns to normal and I feel comfortable enough to close my mouth. Coach and Killer help me up. “Everyone hit the showers,” Coach says.
    I sit there