As Sammy steps back up to the free throw line, the resounding pound of my pulse alerts me that I am about to say something to this giant girl.
"Quit fouling my sister." I shudder.
"It's called playing basketball!" She shouts back, her face flushed, her tone resentful.
Then the ball bounces off the rim and she boxes me out with her wide hard ass. We finish the game. I don't remember who wins or if we even keep track, but as my team of scrawny sweat-drenched girls packs up water bottles and leaves for afternoons of cartoon reruns and summer reading, I hear my little sister's bully bawling by the bleachers. It is a deep wail of sopping shamelessness. Her mother consoles her. I have caused her to cry, I realize, cowering away, escaping the dark gymnasium for the bright sunlight of the parking lot.