Brackets

By Scott Shoemaker

Katie Graham's taken abuse from Sherri White, the most popular girl at Bridgedale High School, for years. Gossip, teasing, bullying, pranks. Katie put up with it all because there was no way to fight back.
Until the brackets.
Katie and three friends set up tournament-style brackets to fight the people who have tormented them and decide who really should be at the top of the high school food chain.
Getting even with the bullies is a thrill at first as Katie and her friends advance through the brackets, turning the social structure of their school upside down. But doubts begin to creep in. Is this the best way to stop the bullies? Are they becoming bullies themselves? Or are they doing something everyone has dreamed about?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Shoemaker
• Release date: May 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476240527

Scott Shoemaker

Scott Shoemaker lives in Minnesota.

Book preview

Brackets

Scott Shoemaker

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Scott Shoemaker

To Mary, for her love and inspiration.

Table of Contents

Round One

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Semi-Finals

1

2

3

4

The Final

1

2

3

4

Round One

1

People think the first thing they feel when they get hit in the face is pain, but they’re totally wrong.

The first thing I feel is impact, two objects colliding, followed by a flash of red hot orange and the question: what the hell just happened to me?

Then the pain comes.

My brain winces at the damage, and my entire body recoils. The pain is so overwhelming that I lose my balance and collapse to the floor. I literally cannot stand it.

At least, that’s how it goes when the volleyball smashes into my nose.

Then the blood starts to flow. Before I can even react, it rivers down to my lip where it drips onto my shirt and the floor.

I lie on my side for a moment and regain my bearings. Name, Katie Graham. Grade, high school junior. Mother, father, brother named Owen. School, Bridgedale High. Go Skyhawks. No apparent brain damage. Or at least no more than what high school has already inflicted.

Twheeeeeeee!

Coach Daugherty’s whistle knifes through the air and restarts time. Laura is the first one to my side. Katie, are you okay? she asks in little more than a whisper.

I push off the floor and get to my knees. Except for the head trauma and minor blood loss, yeah.

Tilt your head back and pinch your nose. Laura helps me lean back. With the glow of fluorescent lights haloing her long blonde hair, she looks like an angel straight off a stained glass window.

What the hell is wrong with you?!

Except an angel wouldn’t jump at the voice of Coach Daugherty. Once the quarterback of Bridgedale’s lone state champion football team, he now carries a spare tire around his midsection that no amount of sit ups or wind sprints will get rid of.

Tilt the head forward! he yells as he leans down to survey the damage. Titling back is how you choke to death!

I do what he says, and a tiny drop of blood splatters against the chestnut floor. It’s the last of the flood to leave my nose-

Sorry about that, a voice on the other side of the net sneers.

Sherri White is the reason I’m breathing like I have a January cold, the reason I hate volleyball. She’s tall, tan, and blonde, the trifecta of high school feminine beauty, none of which I am. She’s also junior class president, chair of the spirit committee, and the most popular girl in Bridgedale High.

I hate her.

Yeah, thanks, I reply, sniffling the rest of the blood back into my nose.

You’ll live. Wipe it off and get back in the game, Coach Daugherty barks, throwing a white towel at me. I catch it before there’s a second impact and dab away the remaining blood.

The volleyball that smacked me in the face sits under the net, and I give it a kick after getting to my feet. I hate volleyball. I hate all sports, but right now, I hate volleyball the most.

I toss down the towel and smear more than clean the stain on the floor before taking up my position in front of the net. I should go out, but that would be a win for Sherri, and I can’t let her have it.

Hey, Laura offers, if you see the ball coming at you again, put your hands together like this- She interlaces her fingers in a double fist. And punch.

Okay. I interlock my fingers as the other team serves. Back and forth the ball goes in a nice, easy rhythm. Our team nearly loses the point, but Laura dives to the floor and sends the ball back to the other side.

Please, please, please, don’t come to me, I think. One dose of humiliation is-

The other team taps the ball lightly in the air, setting it up to be spiked. I don’t even need to watch to know who’s hitting it and where it’s going.

Almost hurdling the net, Sherri White jumps up for the second time and drives the ball at me.

My hands still clasped together, I raise them to block my face. I turn away just as I did before, but this time the impact is on my knuckles. I barely feel it when the ball bounces off my hands and-

Flies right into the net.

The white sphere that I’ve come to loathe causes the elastic netting to bend but not break. Physics – every action has an equal and opposite reaction – once again take over. The ball bounces straight back at me and doinks off the side of my head.

There’s no pain this time, but there is lots of Hahahaha! from the other side of the net. Sherri and her fellow harpies shriek with delight and trade high fives as I keep my eyes on the floor and shift with the rest of the team for the next point. I’m in the back row now, safe.

Easy point, easy point! Heidi Perkins, one of Sherri’s clones, calls out before arcing the ball over the net.

I luck out for a couple minutes. Players on both sides miss the ball, and it looks like Sherri won’t get near it again for the rest of class. I even begin to relax, getting into the game as our team tightens the score with a chance to win.

Until match point.

Focused on the game, I catch Sherri out of the corner of my eye. There’s a reason she hasn’t been in on the action. She’s been waiting, a predator holding back for just the right moment to attack.

Sherri, it’s yours!

Heidi says the words, but they aren’t acknowledged in any obvious way. Instead, as the washed out lights glint off the volleyball at its highest point, Sherri runs up to the net, every muscle straining.

I try to brace myself, but she’s moving too fast. The predator pounces. Sherri slaps the ball, hammering it at me. There’s nothing I can do, no time to protect myself or dive out of the way.

It hits me in the stomach, and I double over. Breathing, which has been until this point an essential part of my existence, becomes impossible. I’m back on my knees. My eyes roll around, unable to lock on anything in the gym.

They pass over Sherri White on the other side of the net. The corners of her mouth curl up, unlike the rest of her face which makes a lame attempt at being concerned and contrite. It might fool the teachers, but I know better.

Sorry, coach, she says, batting her eyelashes. I didn’t think I hit it that hard.

What’s your problem, Graham? Daugherty thunders. Can’t you handle hitting a little ball over the net?

I give serious consideration to telling him my problem but decide against it.

Off the floor, he orders. No pain, no gain.

I don’t need him to tell me to get up. And I don’t need clichés from some fat, over the hill high school-

I stop myself. What’s the point of being mad at him? It’s not like it’ll change anything. Rubbing my stomach and gasping for air, I get back on my feet.

I’m… I’m fine, I wheeze. Let’s play.

But I don’t mean it. I’m just now catching tiny breaths, barely enough to keep me conscious. I take a couple steps facing away from the class, refusing to let them see me in pain.

Sherri White has already done enough damage today.

She’s fine, we’re all fine, replay the point! The coach stabs the whistle for one more mercifully short tweet.

Sherri serves. During the remaining fifteen minutes of class, she hits the ball at me four times. Two miss, one hits me in the arm, and the fourth shot glances off the side of my head.

I’ve known Sherri White for twelve years, and it’s always been like this.

###

People knock lunchroom food, but the Bridgedale High School cafeteria provides for all the carb, sugar, and caloric needs of a growing teenager. The pizza, in particular, is outstanding. People have actually fought over it. More than a cheap energy boost at inflated prices, however, the lunchroom is also the center of the school day social world.

At any given time under the gray fluorescent lights and cloud of deafening sound, there are couples splitting, lips kissing, rumors spreading, and last minute homework being finished.

The seating chart here is as rigid as any classroom. Jocks with jocks, emo with emo, computer geeks with computer geeks, the same cliques we’ve been in since kindergarten. A few have left and a few have come in, but no one ever really changes places.

I sit at a table next to Laura whose nose is deep in a book of Japanese comics. On the other side of her is Alex. Angular and thin with a bramble of frizzy brown hair, Alex leans forward when she talks.

All I’m saying is if I’m going to show up to class, she should teach the class. I signed up for American Lit, not Mrs. Golden Rambles Endlessly About How Texting is Ruining the World.

I don’t mind it, I shrug.

Alex looks at me like I’ve grown a third boob. On my forehead. You gotta be kidding me! She’s the worst!

I don’t mind, I explain, because it gives me plenty of time to finish my Calc homework, read the Bio assignment or whatever. If she did start covering the material, I’d be totally screwed.

What do you think? Alex fires at Laura who looks up from her book like a sleepy eyed kid fresh from a nap.

Huh?

Mrs. Golden. Total crank or partial crank?

Laura’s voice lilts so it’s barely audible over the lunchroom din. I like her class.

Alex throws up her hands in frustration. I feel like the last sane person on Earth!

Sane? You think a lot of yourself, I fire back.

Touche! Alex tips an imaginary hat to me before turning back to Laura. You seriously like her class?

Laura rubs her chin on her collar. I guess… I don’t know… kind of…

One man’s trash and all that, Alex sighs, shaking her head.

A bright pink backpack covered with unicorn stickers clumps to the table, jangling with loose change and half-used makeup bottles.

Hello! Regan says before sitting down. By all rights, Regan should sit at the Table of Tan. Her dad’s a doctor. She looks like Beyonce or a model. But there are unicorn stickers on her backpack! And her wrists are encased in jangling silver bracelets that no one wears after the eighth grade.

Then there’s her name. Regan McNeil. It’s also the name of the little girl in The Exorcist. Regan’s parents are really nice, but I’ve never been able to figure out why they named their daughter after a stair-peeing, soup-spewing demon child. They don’t have to hear idiots growl Fuck me! every Halloween.

Nice of you to join us, Alex says before taking a bite out of her pizza slice.

I got lost.

Alex almost chokes on her pizza, and I step in. How did you get lost in a building you’ve spent every day in for the last three years?

Regan begins peeling an orange, cocking her head to the left as she speaks. I was by Freshman Row, and there’s the two doors at the end. One is for the art studio, and the other one goes to the basement. I took the wrong one.

She slumps in her chair like an abandoned doll.

I look at Alex, and she looks at me, both our mouths open in wonder. And then? I push.

Regan cocks her head to the right. I thought I’d have to go forward to go back.

Amazing, is all Alex can say.

And then you got out and found safe passage to the lunchroom? I guess.

I got out eventually. There’s a lot of pipes, and it’s easy to get confused.

It is pretty spooky down there, Laura confirms before going back to her comic.

Tracey! Tracey!

I look up to see Tracey Vance walking at us. Regan minus the backpack and bright pink nails, Tracey is what I call mean pretty. The boys think she’s hot, but her mouth is always twisted in a disdainful snarl. Not coincidentally, she’s besties with Sherri White.

As she strides through the tables, she doesn’t even carry her own tray. That’s Valerie Amstell’s job. Anything to sit at the Table of Tan, I guess.

Tracey! Tracey!

Regan’s voice stops Tracey so fast, the food on her tray slides forward, and only a last second forearm from Valerie keeps a fruit cup from splattering on Tracey’s high fashion clothes.

What are you doing? Laura whispers.

Tracey purses her lips and struts over to our table, Valerie right behind her. What do you want, Pee-Pee?

Ignoring the nickname she despises, Regan pulls a small green and red envelope from her backpack. I’m having a birthday party and you’re invited!

Tracey looks at the invitation like it’s covered in radioactive anthrax. Thanks…

She plucks it from Regan’s hand and holds it like a stinking diaper.

Hope you can-

But Tracey and Valerie are already off to the Table of Tan.

What the hell was that about? Alex spits.

My mom said I had to invite her. She and Tracey’s mom are best friends.

She won’t come, I say.

Regan shrugs. You never know.

You know how they are, Laura joins in.

Maybe if we’re nice to them, they’ll be nice to us.

I turn around to the Table of Tan where Sherri White and Heidi Perkins lean in to see the invitation. Even though the rabble of the cafeteria drowns out their laughter, their gaping mouths and tossed heads leave little doubt to their reaction.

The four of us watching doesn’t go unnoticed. Sherri sees us and elbows Tracey who holds up the invitation and tears it to shreds before tossing the pieces of green and red paper into the air like New Year’s Eve confetti. The three giggle with delight, and a quiet moment in the lunchroom allows us to hear their braying.

Or not, Regan sighs and goes back to her orange.

You’re too nice, Regan, Alex says.

Helloooo, ladies.

I forgive the mock sleazy tone in the greeting and smile up at Aaron as he grabs a chair from a nearby table and sits with us.

Hello! I reply with a kiss.

Ick! Get a room! Alex orders while Laura and Regan make smoochie-smoochie noises.

Jealousy is such an ugly emotion, I reply.

Laura clears her throat and tilts her head slightly at Alex, making me feel like I should be pictured next to the dictionary definition of Jerk.

Sorry, is all I can say. Alex and her ex, James, were together for three years before he went off to college. Two weeks after starting at Emerson, he called her up for The Talk.

No worries, Alex says after a long pause. Aaron knows how to treat a woman. He won’t dump you at the first sight of college skank.

The rest of us exhale with relief at the low wattage of Alex’s bile.

Hey, Aaron says, puffing out his chest and trying to save us further awkwardness, I got plenty of love to give. Who’s first?

Laura and Regan giggle and push each other toward Aaron. You first.

No, you first.

You-

Okay, okay, I cut in, unable to take it - or what it’s doing to Aaron’s ego - anymore. He’s mine.

Sorry, Aaron apologizes. Maybe some other time. But for Alex though-

Aaron suddenly lurches across the table, his tongue wagging like a frothing dog’s. C’mere, foxy! Alex immediately slides backwards, rightfully repulsed.

Gross! she cries out, drawing the attention of the nearby tables.

Don’t fight your feelings, baby, Aaron pleads before I yank him back into his chair.

You really know how to woo a gal, I say, trying to counteract the laughter that will only encourage him.

That’s your boyfriend, Katie, Alex says, pulling her chair back to the table. You must be so proud.

I look at Aaron, his shaggy brown hair framing his black rimmed glasses and goofy grin. Yes, he is, I say, and yes, I am.

We going to a movie tomorrow night? Aaron asks.

Can’t. It’s girl’s night.

Aaron pouts like a little boy, sticking out his lower lip. But… but…

I’ll make it up to you, I promise, I assure him.

Excellent. I gotta go. Matt has new pics of his sister’s roommate! Hubba hubba! Just kidding! He gives me a kiss and disappears into the cafeteria swamp.

I still must be smiling because Laura pretends to stick her finger down her throat while Alex simply shakes her head.

The youth of today, Laura admonishes.

Sex, sex, sex, that’s all they think about, Alex nods.

That’s all I think about, Regan chimes in, and we all burst into laughter.

A cackling, mocking guffaw from nearby cuts us off. We turn as one to see Sherri White at the Table of Tan snorting like a hyena, clearly making fun of us.

What time do you want us to be there? Alex says, pulling her gaze back to our table.

Depends. Do we want to watch a movie early or not?

Regan turns back around. Yeah, but nothing too scary.

Yeah, but something really scary, Laura counters.

Got it. About seven?

Everyone nods in agreement as the bell rings to signal the end of lunch. A conveyor