“Well, I have. But thanks for, you know, caring.”

All through first period I was still feeling strong and right and certain, but then Mrs. Simmons ended the lesson a full fifteen minutes early and said, “Clear your desks of everything but a pen or pencil.”

“What?” everyone cried, and believe me—I was right along with them. I was not prepared for a quiz!

“Everything!” she said. “Come on, you’re wasting valuable time.”

The room filled with grumbles and the sound of shuffling binders, and when we’d all pretty much complied with her request, she picked a stack of bright yellow papers off her desk, fanned them with an evil grin, and said, “It’s time to vote for basket boys!”

A wave of relief swept across the room. “Basket boys? You mean it’s not a quiz?”

She ticked through the stack, counting ballots as she spoke. “It is like a quiz in that I don’t want you conferring with one another. It’s also like a quiz in that you have a limited amount of time.” She slapped a set of ballots down on the first desk of row one, then went on to the second row. “I will collect them from you individually when the bell rings, and I will inspect to see that you have complied with the following instructions.” She scooted over to row three. “Choose five, and only five, of the boys on the list. Do not put your name on it, and do not discuss your choices with your neighbors.” She was on to row four now, talking faster and faster. “When you’ve made your selections, simply turn your sheet over.” She slapped the remainder down on the last desk. “Do not, I repeat, do not fold your ballot!”

Robbie Castinon raised his hand and blurted out, “Why do guys have to vote. It’s lame to have guys vote.”

“Robbie…,” Mrs. Simmons warned.

“Seriously! What are we supposed to do? Vote for our friends or our enemies?”

A lot of people snickered, and Mrs. Simmons scowled, but he had a point. Twenty of the school’s eighth-grade boys would be made to pack a picnic lunch for two and be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

“Being a basket boy is an honor—” Mrs. Simmons began, but she was interrupted by Robbie.

“It’s a joke!” he said. “It’s embarrassing! Who wants to be a basket boy?”

All the guys around him muttered, “Not me,” but Mrs. Simmons cleared her throat and said, “You should want to be one! It’s a tradition that has helped support the school since it was founded. There have been generation after generation of basket boys helping make this campus what it is today. It’s why we have flower beds. It’s why we have shade trees and a grove of apple trees. Visit another junior high sometime and you’ll begin to realize what a little oasis our campus really is.”

“All this from the sweat and blood of basket boys,” Robbie grumbled.

Mrs. Simmons sighed. “Robbie, someday when your children go to school here, you’ll understand. For now, please just vote for whoever you think will earn a high bid. And class,” she added, “we’re down to nine minutes.”

The room fell quiet. And as I read down the list of over one hundred and fifty eighth-grade boys, I realized that to me, there had only ever been one boy. To me, there had only been Bryce.

I didn’t let myself get sentimental. I had liked him for all the wrong reasons, and I certainly wasn’t going to vote for him now. But I didn’t know who else to vote for. I looked at Mrs. Simmons, who was eagle-eyeing the class between glances at the clock. What if I didn’t choose anybody? What if I just turned it in blank?

She’d give me detention, that’s what. So with two minutes left to go, I put dots next to the boys I knew who weren’t jerks or clowns, but were just nice. When I was through, there were all of ten names with dots, and of those I circled five: Ryan Noll, Vince Olson, Adrian Iglesias, Ian Lai, and Jon Trulock. They wouldn’t make basket boy, but then I wouldn’t be bidding, so it didn’t really matter. At the bell I handed over my ballot and forgot all about the auction.

Until lunchtime the next day, that is. Darla cut me off on my way to the library and dragged me over to her table instead. “Have you seen the list?” she asked.

“What list?”

“The list of basket boys!” She shoved a scrawled copy of twenty names in front of me and looked around. “Your main dish is on it!”

Five from the top, there it was—Bryce Loski.

I should have expected it, but still, this awful surge of possessiveness shot through me. Who had voted for him? Out of one hundred fifty names he must have gotten a lot of votes! Suddenly I was picturing a swarm of girls waving stacks of cash in the Booster ladies’ faces as they begged to have lunch with him.

I threw the list back at Darla and said, “He’s not my main dish! As a matter of fact, I didn’t even vote for him.”

“Oooo, girl! You are stickin’ to your diet!”

“It’s not a diet, Darla. I’m… I’m over him, okay?”

“I’m glad to hear it, ’cause rumor is, that bimbette Shelly is already stakin’ her claim on him.”

“Shelly? Shelly Stalls?” I could feel my cheeks flush.

“That’s right.” Darla waved her list in the air, calling, “Liz! Macy! Over here! I’ve got the list!”

Darla’s friends fell all over themselves getting to her, then pored over the paper like it was a treasure map. Macy cried, “Chad Ormonde’s on it! He is so cute. I’d go ten bucks on him, easy!”

“And Denny’s on it, too!” Liz squealed. “That boy is”— she shivered and giggled—“fi-yi-yine!”

Macy’s top lip curled a little and she said, “Jon Trulock? Jon Tru lock? How did he get on this list?”

For a moment I couldn’t believe my ears. I snatched the paper out of Macy’s hand. “Are you sure?”

“Right there,” she said, pointing to his name. “Who do you suppose voted for him?”

“The quiet girls, I guess,” Darla said. “Me, I’m more interested in Mike Abenido. Have I got any competition?”

Macy laughed, “If you’re in, I’m out!”

“Me too,” said Liz.

“How about you, Jules?” Darla asked me. “Bringin’ spare change on Friday?”

“No!”

“You get to miss the second half of school….”

“No! I’m not bidding. Not on anyone!”

She laughed. “Good for you.”

That afternoon I rode home from school brooding about Bryce and the whole basket boy auction. I could feel myself backsliding about Bryce. But why should I care if Shelly liked him? I shouldn’t even be thinking about him!

When I wasn’t thinking about Bryce, I was worrying about poor Jon Trulock. He was quiet, and I felt sorry for him, having to clutch a basket and be auctioned off in front of the whole student body. What had I done to him?

But as I bounced up our drive, basket boys bounced right out of my mind. Was that green I saw poking out of the dirt? Yes! Yes, it was! I dropped the bike and got down on my hands and knees. They were so thin, so small, so far apart! They barely made a difference in the vastness of the black dirt, and yet there they were. Pushing their way through to the afternoon sun.

I ran in the house, calling, “Mom! Mom, there’s grass!”

“Really?” She emerged from the bathroom with her cleaning gloves and a pail. “I was wondering if it was ever going to spring up.”

“Well, it has! Come! Come and see!”

She wasn’t too impressed at first. But after I made her get down on her hands and knees and really look, she smiled and said, “They’re so delicate….”

“They look like they’re yawning, don’t they?”

She cocked her head a bit and looked a little closer. “Yawning?”

“Well, more stretching, I guess. Like they’re sitting up in their little bed of dirt with their arms stretched way high, saying, Good morning, world!”

She laughed and said, “Yes, they do!”

I got up and uncoiled the hose. “I think they need a wakeup shower, don’t you?”

My mom agreed and left me to my singing and sprinkling. And I was completely lost in the joy of my little green blades of new life when I heard the school bus rumble to a stop up on Collier Street.

Bryce. His name shot through my brain, and with it came a panic I didn’t seem able to control. Before I could stop myself, I dropped the hose and dashed inside.

I locked myself in my room and tried to do my homework. Where was my peace? Where was my resolve? Where was my sanity? Had they left me because Shelly Stalls was after him? Was it just some old rivalry making me feel this way? I had to get past Bryce and Shelly. They deserved each other—let them have each other!

But in my heart I knew that just like the new grass, I wasn’t strong enough yet to be walked on. And until I was, there was only one solution: I had to stay away from him. I needed to rope him out of my life.

So I closed my ears to the news of basket boys and steered clear of Bryce at school. And when I did happen to run into him, I simply said hello like he was someone I barely even knew.

It was working, too! I was growing stronger by the day. Who cared about auctions and basket boys? I didn’t!

Friday morning I got up early, collected what few eggs there were in the coop, watered the front yard, which was by now definitely green, ate breakfast, and got ready for school.

But as I was running a brush through my hair, I couldn’t help thinking about Shelly Stalls. It was auction day. She’d probably been up since five, making her hair into some impossibly pouffy do.

So what? I told myself. So what? But as I was throwing on my windbreaker, I eyed my money tin and hesitated. What if…