Last Line of Defense Read online

  Last Line of Defense

  Heads or Tails

  Copyright © 2015

  Published by Scobre Educational

  Written by N.J. Corbo

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Scobre Educational

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  La Jolla, CA 92037

  Scobre Operations & Administration

  42982 Osgood Road

  Fremont, CA 94539

  www.scobre.com

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  Scobre Educational publications may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use.

  Cover and layout design by Jana Ramsay

  Copyedited by Renae Reed

  eISBN: 978-1-62920-252-5 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-62920-461-1 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-62920-469-7 (mobi)

  HOW TO READ THIS BOOK

  You should start a Heads or Tails book like any other, on page 1. At the bottom of each page, you’ll see a direction to move on to the next page, or you’ll be presented with a choice: Heads or Tails?

  Flip a coin (or just pick randomly), and turn to either the “heads” page or the “tails” page to continue the story. Or, you can read more about each option, and choose the path that sounds the best to you.

  You can read this book over and over and never take the same path twice. Enjoy your journey into the glory, and agony of high school basketball!

  Chesterton Middle School Dragons – Key Players

  Phil “Fixer” Halverson, Center, 8th Grade

  That’s YOU! Your defensive skills are so amazing, they call you “Fixer,” because if the offense is not pulling their weight, they can always rely on you to set things right by blocking lay-ups and dunks, and jumping on rebounds. You can’t make a free throw overhand to save your life, but your underhand toss is pretty good. Too bad you never show anyone.

  Tommy Gildea, Point Guard, 8th Grade

  He’s the shortest on the team, but also the quickest. His handles and driving are pretty good. He is lethal once he gets to the paint, because he’s fast and can spin back and forth to get off an open shot. He’s a mad scorer. He’s not necessarily a powerful defense, since he goes for so many steals, but he’s a decent passer, though more likely he’ll be looking to score first.

  Matty Gildea, Shooting Guard, 8th Grade

  He has agility and strength, and can play down low or anywhere. He can drive both ways decently. He has speed and good decision-making skills, and he’s an okay shooter. His handles are solid as well, but not great. His passing skills are excellent.

  Ashton Green, Small Forward, 7th Grade

  He’s your most explosive player and can get up really high for a rebound. He’s strong and can defend well. Good handles, great at dribbling and passing.

  Mark Cunningham, Center – 2nd string, 7th Grade

  About four inches shorter than you and decently athletic, he has pretty good handles. He drives and finishes to his left, but isn’t as good on the right. He’s a solid shooter and a very energetic defender. He’s the guy who goes in when Coach subs you.

  Late fall means bonfires, pumpkin muffins, big piles of red and orange leaves, and, best of all, basketball season. It’s usually your favorite time of year.

  You are Phil “Fixer” Halverson, center for the Chesterton Middle School Dragons. You’re tall for 13 (six-one, to be exact), and you’re fast. You may not be able to make an overhand free throw to save your life, but on the court, you’re in control – at least, you used to be. A lot of things have been changing recently.

  Before a big game, your mom normally makes hotdogs and cookies decorated like basketballs. She cheers and yells out the Dragon’s rally cry: “Dragons, dragons everywhere. You can run, but you can’t hide, from dragon fire and dragon pride!” Tonight though, she barely opened a plastic container of cheese puffs, and now she’s just staring at them like they offended her. She looks like she might cry.

  You gently take them from her and force a smile. “I’ll get it, mom.”

  You wish your mom wasn’t sad, but you try not to think about it. The big game against the Lindonville Lions is in two days, which means it’s time to get pumped. It seems like Lindonville and Chesterton have been racing each other for first place since the beginning of time. The towns compete over everything from holiday decorations to environmental friendliness, and forget about sports. It’s crazy. Even though people get more excited about the high school teams, you guys still feel the pressure.

  Luckily, some things haven’t changed. So, as usual, your best friends are over. Tommy and Matty, the twins you’ve been friends with since kindergarten, and Ashton, who you met last summer, when he moved in near your grandparents. It was at a game of pick-up in the park. Although you only have two inches on him, he couldn’t get the ball by you. No one could. That day, Ashton gave you the nickname “Fixer” because when things were going south for your team’s offense, you just kept fixing it on the defense.

  You’re all sitting on the rug in your living room. Matty is flipping through offensive plays in the playbook.

  “What’s up with your mom?” Tommy asks, as you toss him the cheese puffs.

  “I dunno. She’s been weird lately.” You say, and quickly change the subject. “We need to go over some defense too, Matt.”

  “Why, dude? We’ve got you,” he laughs.

  Tommy tells Matt to open his mouth wide, so he can shoot cheese puffs into it. He makes six in a row and you all cheer.

  Still crunching, Matty says, “Alright, Fixer, what do you do in Press Breaker if you’re playing five and three has the ball?”

  “Hang back in case they reverse it,” you say. But then your brain kicks in and you correct yourself. “No, I mean, run down the court.”

  Your face feels hot. You should know that. What’s going on?

  “C’mon, Fixer,” Ashton teases, “gets yer head in the game, son.”

  You try to laugh it off, but you know your head isn’t in the game. You feel like your grandparent’s dog, Pepi, whenever you say, “Let’s go, boy” – confused and a little worried. At least you do okay with the rest of the plays.

  After the guys leave, your little brother, Jesse, emerges from his dark hole of a bedroom and sits by the fireplace with his tablet. He’s swiping at the screen madly, probably playing some dumb video game where he cuts or crushes things. You don’t like those. You like destroying zombies. There’s just something great about saving the world. You walk over and sit on the couch.

  “Hey, Jess, did you finish your homework?”

  “Shut up, jerk, you’re not mom,” he scowls, and then adds, “Where is mom, anyway?”

  “I think she’s in her room. I’m gonna make a PB&J. You want one?”

  “Fine,” he sighs.

  It’s late when your dad gets home. You hear your parents’ bedroom door slam and your mom stomps down the stairs. You hate it when they fight. It makes your chest and throat feel tight, like something is pressing down on you, and then your head starts to hurt.

  Well after midnight, the house is silent, but you’re still staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling, wishing you could make the pain in your head stop. Next thing you know, it’s morning. The garage door opens and the Petersons’ dog barks as your dad drives away.

  You bolt out of bed and bang on Jesse’s door.

  “Get up, bus’ll be here in 15.”

  Downstairs, there’s no sign of your mom, so you throw a couple frozen waffles in the toaster. While th
ey cook, you splash water on your face, get dressed, and grab your backpack.

  Jesse still isn’t up.

  “Dude, c’mon!” you yell into his room, and he tumbles to the floor in confusion.

  “Not cool, Phil,” he hisses.

  “Just get ready,” you plead, knowing that there’s little chance you’ll make the bus at this point.

  Back downstairs, you put some peanut butter on your waffles and throw two more in the toaster for Jesse. He comes stumbling into the kitchen. Looks like he got even less sleep than you.

  “Where’s your backpack?” you ask.

  “Ugh,” he grunts and goes back upstairs.

  When you get out the door, the bus is halfway down the block.

  Even though you run the seven blocks to school, you’re still late, which is really not good. Coach is a stickler for rules, and believes academics come before sports. You avoid him all day but, as you’re heading into the locker room before practice, he stops you.

  “Listen, Halverson,” he says – Coach never calls you “Fixer.” “You’ve been distracted lately, and now today you’re late for school. What’s going on?”

  GO TO PAGE 50. You decide to tell your coach what’s going on with your family.

  GO TO PAGE 26. You assure him everything is fine and it won’t happen again.

  Listening to your dad yell at Jesse makes you feel sick to your stomach, but you don’t know what to do, so you put your headphones on and start your English homework. After a while, the yelling stops and there’s a knock on your door. It opens slowly. Your dad doesn’t look as big as usual. In fact, he looks like someone let the air out of him. His shoulders are bent, and his eyes seem sunken back in his head. He looks like a deflated version of himself.

  He doesn’t say anything. He just picks up a picture from your dresser. It’s of the two of you playing hoops in the driveway. Your dad never says “basketball.” He says “hoops.” You always loved that. He taught you how to play, and he’s been so proud of you, but it seems like he just doesn’t have time for you anymore.

  He’s standing there, shrunken, staring at the picture, and you can feel yourself getting angry. You’ve always thought of him as the strongest guy around. Indestructible. For some reason, the way he seems right now, it’s like he’s broken a promise.

  “Dad,” you say, ending the silence. “I think you were too hard on Jesse. If you weren’t gone so much, he probably wouldn’t get in so much trouble.”

  “Phil, you’re talking about things that you do not understand,” he says, regaining some of his height.

  “You’re right. I don’t understand,” you say. “Nothing makes sense.” Before he has a chance to respond, you tell him to just forget it and flop onto your bed, rubbing next to your eyes. That stupid headache is back.

  Just as you’re finishing up math, there’s another knock. This time it’s Jesse.

  “Hey,” he says, leaning against the door frame. “I just wanted to, uh,” he hesitates. “I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “You stuck up for me with dad.”

  “Oh, yeah, right” you say. You hadn’t actually considered that that’s what you were doing. You just wanted your dad to know he was messing things up for everyone.

  Jesse looks out into the hall, but doesn’t move to leave.

  “Do you remember our fort?” he asks without looking at you.

  “Sure, it’s still in Grandma and Papa’s backyard. Why?”

  “That was cool,” he says.

  You and Jesse used to do a lot of cool things together. You built forts, captured salamanders; you even used to play hoops together.

  “Yeah,” you agree, and then ask, “So, what were you thinking trying to steal liquor?”

  “I dunno,” he says and kicks the door frame. “Justin dared me and I figured I could get away with it. Nobody’s ever paying attention.”

  You realize he’s right and want to do something about it. Part of you wants to take him and go play some ball right now, but you’d have to sneak out. Then again, you could just invite him to your next practice.

  GO TO PAGE 38. You suggest that the two of you sneak out to play some hoops. As long as you don’t get caught, this could be a great bonding experience.

  GO TO PAGE 10. You don’t want to risk getting Jesse in more trouble, so you invite him to your basketball practice.

  You’re a little freaked out about seeing a counselor, but you agree to go. Everything with your family is just too much to handle on your own.

  “Good choice, Phil.” Coach slaps you on the back. “Now let’s go practice, and get ready to fry some Lions.”

  The next day, you go with Coach to the counselor during your free period. You’re surprised how easy it is to talk once you start, and you feel a surge of openness every time Coach nods. The counselor talks about taking care of yourself, but you’re not sure what that means yet. Still, something heavy has been lifted off you – you can breathe again.

  Your focus is back on the game and it’s not a minute too soon. As the starting center, you get the tip-off. You’re a good leaper anyway, but today you feel like you might just touch the sky. Tommy’s a strong post player, so he lines up on the offensive end of the circle. He’s your mark. Matt and Ashton line up on opposite sides of the circle at the half-court line.

  The ref blows his whistle and the ball is up. You leap, tip it to Tommy. He pivots, redirects to Ashton. Matty blocks out the Lions’ defense, and Ashton goes in for the breakaway lay-up. It’s in and you’re off to a great start.

  Tonight, their offense doesn’t stand a chance against the Dragons and Fixer Halverson. The Lions’ Ricky Jensen goes for a shot. You’re right behind him. You leap when he does and slam the ball away from the net. You guys are on fire, and you roast the Lions: 30 to 19.

  After the game, you see your mom and Jesse, and your dad is with them. They’re all smiling, and your mom gives you a double thumbs-up.

  Outside, your dad’s leaning against his car, waiting for you.

  “You played a great game tonight,” he says.

  “I didn’t think you’d make it,” you say.

  “Yeah,” he says. “I didn’t know if I would, but your coach called me.” He pauses and takes a deep breath, and you wonder what Coach told him. “You’re a really strong defender,” he finally says.

  He puts a hand on your shoulder.

  “On the court, you’re the last line of defense,” he says, “but you should just get to be a kid at home.” He looks sad and happy at the same time, and you’re not sure what to say. That’s when he hugs you.

  You don’t know what’s going to happen next, but you know things are finally changing.

  THE END

  Why did it have to come down to you and a free throw? You can’t knock down an overhand free throw. You’ve tried. As you jog to the top of the paint, it occurs to you that there is a way out of this altogether. You could play up your injury.

  You grab your shoulder and head toward Coach. Your stomach feels hollowed out, like someone reached in and grabbed all your guts. You really don’t want to fake an injury, but you also don’t want to be the reason your team loses.

  Coach looks at you hard, like he’s X-raying you.

  “Whadda ya think, Halverson, can you make the shot?”

  You’re thinking, C’mon, you know I can’t, but, “I don’t think so,” is all you say.

  “Is it the shoulder?” he asks. “It’s really giving you some trouble, huh?”

  His words are meant to be supportive, but they sting instead. Each word pokes at you like a bully when he’s calling you names: wimp, liar, fake.

  “Yeah, it hurts,” you say through clenched teeth. You look down in frustration, filled with anger and confusion about what to do.

  “I don’t want you to push it, Halverson,” Coach says. “It’s up to you.”

  GO TO PAGE 42. You give up the free throw by exaggerating your injury.

&n
bsp; GO TO PAGE 35. You’ve never done it successfully before, but Coach believes in you, and he just wants you to try. You attempt an overhand free throw.

  You don’t want Jesse to feel like nobody’s paying attention to him. When you were 10, your dad taught you how to shoot, pass, and block. You realize Jesse hasn’t had that same kind of time with him, and you want to help make up for it. Even though you’d really like to head out to the court right now, and play some one-on-one to get your minds off things, you think it would probably be better to avoid getting Jesse in more trouble, so you’re trying to figure out how to invite him to hang with you.

  “You know,” you say, with a little hesitation. “If you wanted to do something fun after school, you could come to practice with me.”

  “And do what?” he wants to know. “Sit there like an idiot, watching you guys?”

  “No, no. Of course not,” you assure him. “You could do stuff with us. Practice, I mean.”

  “Why do you, all of a sudden, want me to hang out with you?”

  “I dunno,” you say. “I guess you kind of reminded me that we used to have a lot of fun together.”

  He’s skeptical at first but, somehow, you talk him into it, and you’re feeling pretty proud of yourself too. The next day, instead of hanging out with his kleptomaniac friends, he’s going to come to the gym and it’s all because of you.

  After school, you look for Jesse outside the gym, but he’s not there. You make a few laps around the gym, in case he went to the wrong door, but he’s nowhere to be found. You can’t believe it. You totally thought you’d talked him into it, but maybe he was only saying what he thought you wanted to hear.

  Just when you’re about to give up, you hear some boys talking behind the football bleachers and you recognize Jesse’s voice. It sounds like he’s trying to leave, but the other boys keep talking to him.

  “Yeah, but that was so messed up,” one boy says. You think it’s Cal from the way he lisps.

  “Totally,” another boy chimes in – probably Justin. “I can’t believe that guy called your mom.”