What you think One girl lives in a house where no one knocks.
Warm. Loud. No space.
The other lives in a house with a door to every room,
but no one bothers to knock either.
Cold. Quiet. Too much space.
Neither says what she means.
Neither knows how.
They’ve decided the other wouldn’t get it anyway.
They live in the same town.
Different sides.
Different buses.
Different routes.
Same school.
One pys two sports.
Town league. AAU.
They call her Ms. Basketball.
Always running, always booked.
Always tense like she’s carrying something heavy.
The other?
They call her MC Jammer—
like MC Hammer, but messier.
She’s loud, she’s fast,
She’s always jamming—in css, in the halls.
Pretending to scratch CDs, tilt her head like a DJ,
one ear to her imaginary headphones,
spinning sound that only she can hear
One thinks Ms. Basketball has it made:
Her own room. Nice shoes. Two parents.
A dad who’s always home—
but only in body.
She doesn’t know he’s up at five
for HVAC and construction,
comes home worn thin,
and parks himself in front of the TV
with a beer and a gre.
He doesn’t ask how her game went.
He doesn’t ask anything.
And some nights,
she wishes he just wouldn’t come back.
Her mom records every game on her camcorder,
and her father watches back on the VHS.
Her dad criticizes every move.
He doesn’t give praise, just orders.
Her cries don’t soften his delivery.
“You can’t take criticism,” he says.
But she’s only 13.
She can’t hold it in anymore.
Her tears are a sign of what they don’t see—
that she’s more than just a game.
Her “tough love” doesn’t feel like love at all.
The other thinks MC Jammer has it easy.
All that noise, all that freedom.
No bedtime. No curfews.
She doesn’t know about the twins.
The chores that never end.
The corner of the room she calls hers
and the sheet she wants to hang for privacy.
She doesn’t know
her dad’s been gone for years—
a ghost she stopped asking about.
On Fridays, both families order out.
Too tired to cook.
Too tired to fight.
Saturdays, they pass each other on the courts.
One in a jersey.
The other in a cheer uniform.
Sunday, Ms. Basketball cleans like a checklist:
Up at nine.
Dust. Mop. Wipe.
Only one cereal box open at a time.
MC Jammer cleans on her time—
if the house isn’t already wrecked again
by two wild brothers with no pause button.
They don’t talk.
Not really.
But they hear things.
Rumors. Slip-ups.
Gossip floating between lockers and lunch tables.
They fill in the bnks themselves.
They don’t speak after school.
But they always notice
when the other isn’t there.
Every afternoon, they watch each other
step onto their separate buses—
opposite directions, opposite ends of town.
And in that quiet moment,
as doors fold shut and engines start,
each of them wonders
what it might be like
to ride the other’s route home.
To swap shoes, rooms, rules.
Even just for a day.
Ms. Basketball didn't want to have to
do homework the second she’s home,
crossing out answers faster than her brain can keep up,
wired too tight to breathe,
too scared to get it wrong.
Ms. Basketball’s grandma—
stuck in Virginia, hooked to dialysis—
collects her newspaper clippingslike trophies.
'Proud of you, kid,' she says over the phone.
She’s the only one who dares tell her dad to shut it.
And then, one Monday,
someone says something—
low voice, loaded tone,
just loud enough to hear.
And suddenly,
they’re crashing into each other’s orbits.
No turning back.
Whether they want to be or not.
—
The bell rings te.
Kids spill into the hallway like Skittles—loud, scattered, buzzing with freedom. Lockers sm. Binder rings snap. The floor vibrates under stomping sneakers. Someone shrieks about forgotten gym clothes.
Jess leans into her locker mirror, swiping on Berry Shimmer Lip Smacker. She puckers—
And freezes.
Nico’s reflection grins at her.
“Shon likes you,” he says. “She’s gay.”
Like it’s nothing. Like it’s a joke. Like he’s handing her gossip candy.
Jess’s soul flinches.
Gay.
The word sms into her ribs, dragging hell, AIDS, dying alone in its wake. She doesn’t want that for Shon. She doesn’t even know if she believes it—
She can’t.
Crystal materializes behind Nico, eyes narrowing. Guilty by association.
Across the hall, Mattie sms her dented red locker. Her face says what the fuck without words. She strides over, steps heavy with warning.
“Where’d you hear that?” Voice like a bde.
Nico shrugs. “Around.”
Smug. Like rumors are toys he gets to break.
Mattie’s fists curl, nails biting palms. She remembers:
- Shon’s dad banning sleepovers. No bed sharing.
- Yelling at her for pying tag with cousins. “Don’t act like that.”
Crystal smirks. “You’re both dykes now?”
“EW, NASTY!” Jess blurts—then chokes on her own voice.
Mattie’s gre could’ve vaporized Nico on the spot. “So it’s not true?”
A dare. A trap.
“It’s not true,” Jess whispers, covering her mouth like she cursed.
Scared it’s true.
Scared someone might think it’s true.
Shon walks by then. Hoodie straps dangling.
She clocks Mattie’s face—third-grade best friend telepathy—and doesn’t stop.
Nico’s smirk faltered as Shon passed—like he expected her to care.
Doesn’t even flinch.
She doesn’t look back.
But in her hoodie pocket: two pennies—one shiny, one dented.
She already tried once.
Friday, a paper football fell out of Jess’s locker.
Inside:
> “Sorry. Sort of – SW.”
>
> Two pennies.
>
> “This the closest I could get to bronze.
> You could hit me with it.
> Might not have the same effect.
> But that’s my two cents.”
Shon had folded that thing over and over, practicing those stupid S’s in the mirror until her hand cramped.
It was an apology. A joke. A confession.
All the things she couldn’t say out loud.
But Jess didn’t say anything back.
Just balled up the note like trash.” (So Shon knows Jess read it.)
Didn’t look at her.
Didn’t even flinch when Nico ran his mouth.
So Shon thought—maybe something else.
She remembered a field trip in fifth grade,
a smashed penny she kept in a jewelry box even though it wasn’t worth anything.
Back when holding onto small things felt like protection.
Back when she still believed people meant what they said.
Over the weekend, the memory came back like a spark.
So she took five cents from her dad’s change jar,
She looked for the shiniest with year 2000.
She couldn't find so she just looked for 1987 the year they were born.
walked to the shop after school Monday,
and asked her art teacher how to make a penny neckce.
He said it was easy—
burn a hole through the coin, or weld a fastener.
All she’d need was a step stool and some nerve.
She thought about giving it to Jess.
Not as a joke. Not even to apologize.
A second try.
A maybe.
But she could feel it now, the way the air changed.
The way Crystal looked smug. The way Mattie looked pissed.
The way Jess didn’t say anything at all.
So Shon kept walking.
Didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.
The pennies stayed in her pocket.
Jess never got them.
Not today.
This moment isn’t about Jess. Or Nico. Or Crystal.
Not even Mattie.
It’s about Shon.
Quiet, careful, kind Shon.
Who folds her feelings into paper footballs.
Who doesn’t get sleepovers.
Who still remembers being yelled at for pying tag the wrong way.
Who doesn’t say anything— just tucks her hands in her pockets.
But she knows the way people look
when they think they’ve figured you out.
And it stings anyway.
Who still tries. Even now—even when she knows better
