Zapped by Sherwood Smith Page B

well-adjusted, successfully fitting in. At school, it means you’re boring. The only way to popularity, if you aren’t pretty or rich, is being good at sports, or having some kind of other talent.
    All the P.E. classes had begun a basketball unit while the coaches tried to scout players for school sports. Like most of the girls who weren’t athletic, basketball for me meant trying to remember all the rules and staying out of the way of the knees and elbows of the bigger, more aggressive girls.
    The second day, near the end of the period, the score was tied, and the swarm of girls somehow surrounded me. A fierce red-haired junior yelled, “Hey, you, wake up ! ”
    â€œIbberts!” bellowed the teacher, who was also the referee.
    My hands came up defensively in front of me and I found myself holding the ball.
    â€œShoot!” everybody screamed.
    I didn’t think, I just tossed the ball up and then zapped it straight to the basket to get it away from me.
    My teammates shrieked, the bell rang, and we headed for the locker room, everyone yelling “Great shot!” and “That was awesome!” at me. The fierce girl said, “Whoa, how did you get that spin on it? That was amazing.”
    I felt good. I felt as good as I had when I zapped that spitwad back at Kyle Whoever—who, I noticed, hadn’t thrown another spitwad in that class.
    The next day, the ball got passed to me twice, and both times I zapped it. Again the praise, which really felt great. Especially since they didn’t seem to see that little flare of light, or maybe they thought it was a reflection.
    After that, when the ball got passed to me, I zapped it every time. I never tried to go after it. I didn’t like being knocked into and shoved, but if the ball got to my hands, I made sure it went straight to the basket.
    â€œYou’re a natural, kid,” Coach Albert said, giving me a hearty thump on the back. Like most P.E. teachers, Ms. Albert was terrifyingly athletic. She looked at me like I’d sprouted feathers, then said, “I want you to start coming to after-school practice. You might go straight into varsity.”
    I didn’t know what to say. When I told the parents, they all looked as surprised as the coach had, but Mom Tate said, “Awesome! I used to love volleyball,” Mom Gwen said, “Of course you can stay after school, just make sure you have your phone with you for the bus ride home,” and Dad said, “Why not give it a try?” Like why not give boiled turnips a try? He definitely did not have the sports gene.
    I showed up after school the next day, nervous and scared, and Coach Albert put me into a one on one with that fierce redhead, who everyone called Ginger. I already knew she was the star player of the varsity team.
    At first it was self defense to use my zap power to pull the ball to me, and then to send it to the basket, in spite of the fact that she could run circles around me. Ginger turned into a kind of human machine, bouncing, bobbing, weaving, trying even harder, but as soon as that ball was in the air, I yanked it and zap!
    When the teacher blew the whistle, Ginger hadn’t scored once. She came up to me, breathing hard, and stuck out her hand. “You’re really good, Laurel,” she said, wheezing from her efforts. I looked into her face, and saw a kind of hurt in the way her eyebrows puckered. There was even a little sheen in her eyes, like tears that weren’t going to fall. You’ve seen people trying hard not to cry, right? “Will you practice with me, and show me some stuff?” she asked.
    That look whomped me right in the guts. I knew I wasn’t any good moving on the court. I scored because I cheated.
    â€œI think I was just lucky,” I said, edging away.
    â€œLucky? You’re hot ,” Ginger said. “Hotter than both my brothers in college. Would you come over to my place on Saturday? We turned