The Real Me Read Online Free PDF

still dressed, my head at the foot of the bed, my feet on my pillow. I smiled drowsily. I embraced the mattress and relived my dream of how Kevin and I kissed, with Nicole stranded on the bleachers, unable to pierce the circle of fans surrounding us.
    The alarm clock rang. I almost fell off the bed trying to reach it. I accidentally knocked it off my nightstand, grabbed it with both hands, and practically strangled it trying to shut it off.
    I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Hair and barrettes stuck out all over the place. I'd have to wash my hair in order to tame it.
    After showering, I arrived at the kitchen with damp hair restrained by an assortment of clips and combs. I poured myself a small bowl of cereal, added skim milk and a sliced banana, and sat down.
    "Would you like some?" Mom held up a pitcher of orange juice.
    "Please." I eyed Mom's satiny hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Life must be simple with smooth, straight hair instead of the bushy mess I had.
    Dad cleared his throat.
    "Morning, Dad. I guess I'm not quite awake yet."
    "Good morning, Mattie." Dad cleared his throat again.
    I looked up from my cereal to see a copy of the Waterside Reporter propped against the salt and pepper shakers. A two inch headline declared, WATERSIDE WINS! A sub headline elaborated, Goes to Tourney.
    "I brought this home last night and forgot to show it to you," Dad said. "It comes out on the stands today, but I figured you'd like to see it right away."
    "The write¬ up of the Denham game!" I snatched the paper. "Are there any pictures?"
    "Inside. Page four."
    I flipped to page four. There was a picture of George getting a rebound, a picture of George passing the ball, and a picture of Brian Drake, a senior, shooting the ball over the head of a Denham player. I examined the pictures closely. In one I thought I saw Kevin in the background, but someone's arm covered his face and I couldn't quite make out the number on his jersey.
    "Is something wrong?" Dad asked.
    "I was just looking for a picture of, um, the winning basket."
    "Oh, yes." Dad sipped his coffee. "The photographer was bumped just as he took that one. It turned out blurry." He nibbled a piece of toast. "Those are great shots of George Turner, though, aren't they? The coach said he played a terrific game."
    "Mmm." I turned back to the front page and glanced through the story. George Turner … Turner …. Ah, finally. Game winning basket by Kevin Laconia. Not exactly what I'd hoped for, but his name in print, nevertheless. The entire article, including the one photograph that possibly included Kevin, was something to save and re-read and dream of Kevin.
    All day at school conversations centered on the upcoming tournament game. Students lined up to buy tickets and reserve seats on the buses to Middletown . By afternoon, copies of the Waterside Reporter were circulating everywhere. The New Haven paper's article had consisted of a box score and one sentence declaring a Denham player top scorer in a losing effort. So everyone was eager to relive the game through the Reporter. There was something about a newspaper you could actually hold in your hands that somehow made it special. At least in my mind.
    I wished Coach Bartlett had said more about Kevin. I hoped Kevin realized that it was the coach who provided all the details. I had wanted to approach him and comment on the write up of the game, but since it was mostly about George I didn't know what to say.
    After school I stared into my locker, trying to decide what books I needed to take home. Walt wasn't around. I wondered if I should wait for him. He hadn't said anything about being late, and he had made a big production of being my diet and exercise guardian. I'd feel silly walking all the way to his house without him. Of course, I could always take a longer route home. I hated the thought of giving up my extra walking. Already it had become a habit I didn't want to break.
    I felt a tap on my shoulder. I