Sarah Prineas

THE STORY

FRANNY'S CHALLENGE

Along with every other junior high and senior high student in the school, I am sitting on the bleachers in the gym. That’s almost three hundred people, plus all the teachers. We’ve been sitting here for an hour, and the gym has been getting hotter and stuffier, and everybody is getting more and more bored.

Mr. Bazinet, standing in the middle of the shiny basketball court with a clipboard, is running the show. Next to him stands my friend DaShae, who is reading her summer project report about volunteering for ten days at a soup kitchen in Chicago. Her voice is a monotone. Around me, students are whispering and slouching and generally not paying any attention.

I’m up next.

My best friend, Pip, sits beside me. “Are you nervous?” he whispers.

I nod. My butt is sore from sitting on the bleachers for so long, and I have a feeling like—you know when you have a balloon filled with helium and you let it go and it flies around the room squealing as all the air comes out?

Pip reaches over and takes my hand in his.

It keeps me from flying around the room squealing, at least.

Finally DaShae finishes reading her boring report and hands the microphone back to Mr. Bazinet. Rolling her eyes with relief, she finds her place again among the students in the bleachers.

Mr. Bazinet checks his clipboard. When he speaks, his voice booms out of the microphone. “And now for the last seventh-grade summer project report . . .” He flips a page. “Franny Prendergast presents the Girl Project.”

Pip gives my hand a squeeze and lets me go.

I get to my feet and climb over him and a couple of other kids to get to the aisle, and then I go down to the basketball court. My sneakers squeak on the shiny floor as I cross to the center, where Mr. Bazinet hands me the microphone.

I look around. The bleachers are packed. Teachers are leaning against the walls. I see Pip, and a clump of football boys, and DaShae and my other friends, and then they blur together into one big, bored group that isn’t going to listen to me.

My heart is pounding so hard it’s almost making my whole body shake.

“The Girl Project,” I say, and my voice, high and nervous-sounding, echoes in the gym. “This summer I learned ten things about being a girl, and I’m going to tell them to you now.”

I take a deep breath.

I have my ten things, but they seem like a boring list with hard words like gender stereotypes, and equality, and sexism, and nobody’s going to pay any attention. I shake my head.

Okay.

“Here is what I know,” I say.

Girls are supposed to be skinny, I tell them. Girls are supposed to be curvy. Girls are supposed to wear makeup and nail polish and bikinis. Girls are supposed to like things that are pink and sparkly. Real girls are girly-girls. Every girl wants to date the quarterback of the football team. Girls are cheerleaders. But girls can grow up to be doctors or firefighters or plumbers or anything they want to be. The greatest athlete of all time, Babe Didrikson, was a girl.

“Don’t be bossy,” I tell them.

“Don’t be loud.” And my voice echoes off the gym walls.

“Be ladylike.

“Be quiet.

“Be a good girl.

“What a mess,” I say.

Mess . . . mess . . . mess echoes in the gym.

“We have to do something about this,” I tell the entire school, “because it’s not fair.”

Everybody, to my surprise, is paying attention. Sitting up, leaning forward. They may not be interested; they may just be waiting to see if I get in trouble. But they are listening.

“We can do the Girl Project all the time,” I go on. “We can notice when things aren’t fair, and we can do something about it.”

I look into the crowd and catch Pip’s eye. He is staring at me with laser intensity. He gives me a little nod that means, Do it.

Before, I wasn’t sure I was going to do this, but now I am.

I think of something that once happened to the great athlete Babe Didrikson, who won Olympic medals for track and was an amazing basketball player and golfer. This boy named Red Reynolds, who was the star of the football team at her high school, challenged Babe to a boxing match. He told Babe to hit him as hard as she could, and he boasted, “You can’t hurt me.” He figured she wasn’t tough enough.

Because she was a girl.

“I have a challenge,” I tell everybody in the entire school. “Because there’s something that’s not fair right here in this gym, and we can do something about it.”

“All right, that’s enough,” Mr. Bazinet interrupts, and reaches over to take the microphone from my hand. “You need to go sit down now.”

I step away. “No,” I say into the microphone. “It is my turn to talk. I am talking now, and you have to listen.”

“Go get him, Franny!” shouts a voice from the crowd.

I feel a surge of strength. This is the basketball court. This is my place.

“We can do the Girl Project right now,” I tell them.

I point to the huge painting of a blue-and-gold horse on one wall of the gym, over a basketball hoop. “Our team name is the Stallions,” I say. I point to my own shirt. “The girls’ teams are the Lady Stallions, right?”

“I assume you have a point, Miss Prendergast,” Mr. Bazinet interrupts, and makes another grab for the microphone.

I step away from him again. “Lady Stallions,” I repeat. “Lady Stallions? What does that even mean?”

A couple of people in the crowd laugh, and there are some mutters.

“A stallion is a boy horse. I mean, by definition it is,” I say. “So how can you have a lady boy horse? It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

“No!” somebody shouts from the crowd, and a couple of other people join her. There’s more muttering and shifting. They’re not convinced, I can tell.

“So here’s my challenge,” I say, turning to face Mr. Bazinet, who is standing with his big arms folded, his face going red. “We change our team name to something more fair.”

Mr. Baz shakes his head. He holds out his hand for the microphone, but I shake my head and keep my distance, because I know that once he has it, he won’t give it back.

He speaks loudly so everybody in the gym can hear him. “Our team has been the Stallions for as long as we’ve had a school here. The name stays the same.”

“The name stays the same,” a boy shouts. The voice sounds like this kid on the football team named Kent.

“The name stays the same,” a couple more people chant, and not just boys, either.

“Okay,” I tell Mr. Bazinet. “Then I challenge you. I will shoot foul shots against any boy you choose, and if he wins, the name stays the same, and if I win, we get a new team name.” I grip the microphone. He could so easily say no, and it’ll be all over. “Deal?” I push.

I see Mr. Baz thinking it over. He narrows his eyes, looking me up and down, and I know what he sees—a twelve-year-old girl with short hair, wearing a skirt and basketball sneakers. I blink, trying to look harmless and sweet and . . . girly.

“The name stays the same,” a group continues to chant, and I hear others telling them to shut up, and arguments and cheers.

Mr. Bazinet holds up a big hand, and slowly the gym falls silent.

I can see what he’s thinking. He’s going to put me in my place. I’m sure to lose, and that will show me. Slowly, he nods.

“Kent,” he says with a nod toward the bleachers. “Get up here.” He points at a teacher. “Get a ball.”

• • •

The gym is silent. The air is hot and stuffy. Kent and I are at the foul line. He’s a foot taller than I am and twice as heavy. He’s wearing a Stallions football jersey and a ball cap covering his red hair, and slouchy jeans and sneakers. He’s the center on the boys’ varsity basketball team, and he’s good.

I am good, too, but he might be better.

“The first to make five baskets wins,” Mr. Bazinet’s voice booms from behind us. He hands the basketball to Kent and then steps aside.

Kent turns and gives me a fake bow. “Ladies first,” he says with a sneer, holding out the ball.

“No, thank you,” I say sweetly. “You go ahead.” I give him a big smile.

“Fine, since you’re not a real lady, anyway,” Kent says, and, shouldering me aside, he steps up to the foul line. “And,” he adds, “you’re going to lose.”

He has a half grin on his face as he toes the line, bounces the ball once, and in a smooth, practiced move, takes his first foul shot.

Swish.

A bunch of people in the gym cheer loudly. Mr. Bazinet gives a smug-looking nod.

Kent retrieves the ball and passes it to me, throwing it just a little too hard. My hands sting as I catch it.

And I remember that Kent won a state tournament basketball game last year by making two foul shots in the last few seconds. He can handle the pressure. I’m not sure that I can.

My hands shaky, I start my foul-shot routine. Every basketball player has one. Carefully I line up my toes with the edge of the foul line. I bounce the ball three times without looking at the hoop, and bend my knees. I bounce again and look up at the hoop. Then a deep breath to settle myself, and I shoot.

My nervousness has made me tight, and as the ball leaves my fingertips it feels wrong.

The ball bounces on the rim and falls away.

Miss.

I hear Kent’s triumphant shout, and some laughs from the crowd. One of the football players shouts, “Nice shot, Franny.”

“One for Kent, zero for Franny,” Mr. Bazinet says into the microphone.

Trying to shut out the noise, I fetch the ball and pass it to Kent.

He lines up, and, making it look easy, makes his second basket.

Smiling as if he’s already won, he passes me the ball.

I do my routine, trying to stay loose, relaxed. I shoot.

Swish.

“Two for Kent, one for Franny,” Mr. Baz says.

Then Kent lines up, does his one-bounce routine, and . . .

. . . he misses.

There’s a loud groan from one section of the bleachers; a few people cheer or clap, almost all girls.

Kent shrugs and passes me the ball, and I step up to the line. I do my routine.

Swish.

Kent steps up to the foul line. He oh-so-carefully lines up his toes. He bounces the ball three times without looking at the hoop. Then he gives me a sly look and bends his knees.

It takes me a second, but then I see what Kent’s doing. He’s making fun of my foul-shot routine.

He bounces the ball again and looks at the hoop, and then he gives a little butt-waggle.

I don’t do that.

He gives an exaggerated sigh—imitating my deep breath, I guess—and shoots the ball.

Swish.

Grrr.

But it’s first one to make five baskets. It won’t be long now.

And it’s time to reveal the next part of my plan. Like Mr. Baz, I hold up my hand for silence. The crowd stills. “If I win, we’re changing our team name to something more fair. I think this would be a good one.” Carefully, I strip off my Lady Stallions T-shirt to reveal the shirt I’m wearing underneath.

Pip came up with the name, and he made the shirt. In big letters, the blue-and-gold T-shirt says Mighty Dragons, and there’s a picture of a fire-breathing dragon in the center. There are some cheers, and some groans, and some clapping. Catching sight of Pip in the bleachers, I give him a grin, and he grins back.

I pick up the ball and do my routine, adding a little butt-waggle just for Kent, which makes a couple of people in the crowd laugh, and then I shoot.

The ball bounces on the rim and then drops through the net.

Kent three, Franny three.

The gym erupts in cheers. “You go, girl!” somebody shouts.

Kent steps up to the line. He’s not half-smiling anymore; he looks mad. He does his one-bounce routine, he eyes the hoop, he shoots . . .

. . . and he misses.

Somebody in the crowd screams, and there’s yelling and jeers.

“Settle down, settle down,” booms Mr. Baz.

Kent passes me the ball. I line up to take my shot. I’m just about to shoot, when he gives a loud, fake sneeze, trying to distract me.

I hold on to the ball.

“Knock it off, Kent,” comes a voice from the bleachers. I look over and can’t believe it; it’s a football player named Max, a good friend of Kent’s. He’s standing tall, and he nods at me and smiles.

Looking sullen, Kent scowls at the floor.

I do my routine again and make my basket.

“Kent three, Franny four,” Mr. Bazinet says into the microphone.

Time for the last round.

The gym feels like it is full of crackling electricity. The kids are standing in the bleachers. “Kent, Kent, Kent,” a few boys chant as Kent steps up to the line. His big hands take the ball; he bounces it once; he shoots.

Swish.

The crowd cheers, but their cheering grows even louder as I step up to the line.

With a scowl, Kent passes me the ball and then steps back. It’s four to four. All I have to do is make this basket, and I win.

I bounce the ball three times, not looking at the hoop. I can feel sweat prickling on the back of my neck.

I bend my knees, and the crowd falls absolutely silent, waiting . . .

I bounce the ball again and look at the hoop.

The round, orange hoop, framed by the white backboard. The rest of the stuffy, crowded gym fades away.

I take a deep breath.

I shoot.

The ball leaves my hands and makes a smooth arc toward the basket.

As the ball soars through the air, I think of Babe Didrikson. When Babe was challenged to punch Red Reynolds, he thought she couldn’t hit him because she was a girl. Well, Babe wound up and hit Ray so hard that she knocked him out.

The ball completes its arc.

Swish.

It goes through the hoop.

I win.

• • •

Everybody in the gym goes completely crazy, of course, whooping and stomping on the metal bleachers, and clapping and cheering.

Mr. Bazinet looks as if he’s swallowed a frog.

A bunch of kids surge out of the stands to give me a high five or a hug, or pat me on the back—or on the top of my head—and Pip stands nearby, grinning his face off.

Holding the ball, Kent comes up to me with Max at his shoulder. “Good job, Franny,” he admits.

I hold out my fist.

Max nudges him, and with his old half smile in place, Kent gives me a fistbump.

And then the final bell rings, and the Girl Project is over.

Or maybe it’s not.

I know that I’m one person, and I can’t change the world. But I can change a little piece of it. I can make a lot of noise when I see something that isn’t fair. Maybe I’ll be doing the Girl Project for my entire life.