OCDaniel by Wesley King

and anything but fear, but it is hard.
    Finally I manage to flick it, turn away, and get into bed. My mind goes to Sara.
    Am I a Star Child? Is that why I am suffering? I liked that thought. It was better than crazy.
    I was deep in the Great Space, but I could sleep now.
    I rolled over, and the pillow was immediately soaked.
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    On Monday I watched as Max laid up another basket at first recess, and I jogged back into position. I was supposedly playing today, but really I was just skillfully avoiding actually touching the ball. It was my best bet to keep playing.
    The weekend had been pretty uneventful: Max had dragged me out twice to the football field to practice kicking, and he hadn’t let me leave until I hit from the thirty-five. I tried to tell him that my nerves were the problem, but he didn’t listen. He thought everything could be solved by practice. It sounded right, but it didn’t seem to be working.
    Other than that it had just been homework and reading with Emma. Oh, and three terrible Routines. I think the stress of investigating a possible murder and an impending football game were getting to me. I wrote five chapters of my book trying to calm down on Sunday afternoon, so that was something. Fake Daniel was already on his adventure. Real Daniel was still busy counting his steps and crying himself to sleep. Sometimes I really wish I was fake Daniel . . . I like him more.
    Taj dribbled it up the court, heading right for me. I was supposed to be covering Scott Fields, who was the portly right guard on our football team. He was obviously capable of crushing me, but he was also really bad at basketball and usually missed his shots anyway. It was the perfect pairing. But obviously Taj was hoping to target the weak point of our defense today, which was me.
    â€œHelp!” Tom Dernt called, unable to get back in time to block Taj. It was up to me.
    I left Scott and went for Taj, crouching low and putting my hands out like Max had taught me. Taj pulled up, clearly surprised that I had even bothered to try to stop him. He grinned and started to dribble. I was now in a one-on-one situation. The other players stood back, cheering us on.
    Taj went left, and I followed, stepping in front of him. He pulled up again, dribbling in between his legs and meeting my eyes. He had this sneer that twisted half of his face, scrunching up his right eye.
    â€œTrying to cover me, Leigh? Bad move.”
    â€œTechnically it’s the right move,” I said. “Seeing as how the point is to stop you from scoring.”
    â€œYou’re not much of a smack talker, Leigh.”
    I reached out to steal the ball, and he stepped back, dribbling behind his back. “I just play.”
    That sort of seemed like smack talk. I was proud. From the corner of my eye I saw Raya and the other girls watching from their usual hangout along the wall. Raya was focused on the showdown. This was one of those moments Steve had been talking about. Be a hero. Stop Taj, and win Raya’s heart.
    Or something like that.
    I refocused, trying to keep my eyes on Taj’s chest. My dad always said to keep your eyes on the player, because the ball couldn’t go very far without him. Taj finally made his move. He dribbled behind his back and went hard right, cutting for the basket. Normally I would have followed the ball and been totally deked out, but I stayed with him, and he was forced to step back and post up—turning away from the basket and backing in. I stayed with him again, reaching for the ball, and kept him at bay.
    That was when he swung his elbow around and clocked me right in the chin.
    I toppled backward, stunned, and he dribbled once and laid the ball up. As the ball fell through the hoop, he looked down at me and smiled. “Nice try, Leigh.”
    I felt my mouth. It was dripping blood. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t a hero.
    Max pulled me up, giving Taj a