Simulation

Chapter 3: Green and Gold

It took me two hours to get to Jamie's school.

In case you were wondering, here are a few things you should know about Arizona winters.

1. They don't exist. Seriously, even today it must have gotten up to at least 70 degrees as I picked my way along the roadside.
2. Yeah, that's pretty much all you need to know.

By the time I reach Berkshire High, I'm dirty, sweaty, and altogether in a terrible mood. I had tried calling my mom again after the first half-hour, but there isn't much to say for cell service on the side of the highway.

At one point on my travels, I tripped over some loose weeds and went sprawling forward into the dust. The weight of my bag propelled me forward and I scratched up my knee pretty badly. As if that wasn't bad enough, the zipper on my backpack gave out on impact and most of its contents were flung out into the street. I managed to gather them all up again, but let's just say, scraping my mutilated history paper off the road was not an experience I'd like to repeat.

Jamie's school looks like something out of a teen drama. It's at least twice the size of my school with at least ten times the number of windows. It's beautifully landscaped lawn and clean cobblestone parking lot (yes, they put cobblestones on a whole parking lot) are deserving of many an architecture award.

I nearly collapse onto the grass, ignoring the awkward stares shot at me by the few remaining kids lingering around campus. It's Wednesday, so Jamie should be in the gym for after-school basketball practice. Please be there, I think as I make my way closer.

I know how weird it's going to seem if I randomly stroll into Jamie's practice looking like I've just crawled out of my grave, but the alluring thought of water fountains draws me ever nearer. Besides, it will be far less boring than sitting here for the next half-hour.

I've been to Jamie's school before, but always after dark for events and games. In the daylight, it looks grander, and I can almost imagine the building frowning at me disapprovingly. I scowl back. It's an eye for an eye, Berkshire, I think.

As I enter the building, I see it looks just as nice inside as it did outside. Clean white lockers line the clean white halls. Everything looks... well, clean. I follow the metallic sound of balls hitting the court and eventually find myself outside the gym. It's a familiar sight, the rows of bleachers, the colorful lines on the floor. I pick out Jamie, his thin frame and confident stance visible among a large group of boys.

The boys stand clustered around a tall balding man with a ball and whistle. He looks in his mid-fifties, and is clearly some kind of coach. I recognize some of the boys from earlier years, when I came by to watch Jamie's games more often.

I sit down on one of the front row bleachers, heaving my bag off my shoulder and onto the row below me. I watch as four or five of the boys take off their jerseys and flip them inside out, providing a rather even split of green and gold, the Berkshire school colors.

I avert my eyes, feeling a little like I've walked into the wrong locker room, but then the coach shouts something and the boys order themselves into two horizontal lines by color. I see Jamie, (who kept his first jersey color) stand in front of a tall red-haired boy. The coach moves a few of the boys around, making sure they're at least semi-even in height and build. He then blows his whistle, throws the ball into the air, and they're off.

I watch the movement up and down the court with mild interest. I've been to plenty of Jamie's games, and this practice scrimmage is clearly just for fun. Jamie's team is up one, and I cheer when they score. He's good. Maybe not the best, but better than I remember. It's strange. I see him all the time, yet somehow I didn't know he'd been practicing.