WORK IN PROGRESS!
Please head over to this link to read the finished chapter.
Being born with long legs certainly comes with its perks… And quirks. Although the comments from people asking if I play basketball or “how’s the weather up there?” get dull pretty quickly, there is one specific issue I’ve been dealing with. It’s sometimes hard to overcome, too. Well, not overcome, in a sense. I can’t control my height, obviously. But when you’re in a family that has the tradition of giving hand-me-downs instead of going to a store once or twice to buy your son a new pair of pants, jeans, or whatever trousers–they can get small on them pretty quickly. And there’s nothing that I hate more than short pants.
I jump, pulling up and adjusting the waistband of the jersey shorts Peter lent me as I catch sight of my own reflection in the mirror. The owner of said pants sits on my bed, slouching, and his tired eyes do not seem impressed.
Peter signed. “Don’t pull it up, you’re just making it even shorter on you-”
“Why is this so short?” I blurt out.
“‘Cause it’s shorts, dumbass. It’s supposed to be short.”
My eyes took one last careful look at the jersey shorts on my legs. The way the fabric hugged my thighs above the knee makes my leg unbreathable, in a way. If I take no more than one step, it will ride up until it reaches my crotch, and I’ve had enough of that embarrassing moment.
“But this is too short,” I said, quickly removing it again. “If I knew your shorts were this short, I wouldn’t even ask to borrow yours from the start.”
“Will you just-” Peter groaned, standing up from my bed jerkily. “Can you just put it on for now and like, what, wrap a jacket around or something? We’re getting late.” He starts to march around the room, perhaps looking for the jacket he mentioned.
“Or can we just skip this one game? Just for once?” I whined, throwing the shorts in his direction before I swiftly changed into my sweatpants.
Peter caught his own shorts with one hand. “Mason, come on, we never skip one game.”
When do I tell him that I’m not as interested in Basketball as he is? But I didn’t have the heart to tell him just yet. Peter was getting antsy as the time passed without us heading into the town’s field. So we run; him in his jersey attire, and me in my “activewear”. We jumped out of my window (even though the front door was open), ran over to the backyard, and jumped over the fence. Thump. As a tall individual, I even have to use my hands and struggle to hop over the wooden fence, but it’s all muscle memory now. I never get to think it over now that the time has come for the match, and Peter is beating me far, even though this isn’t a race.
The crowd soars. Every seat in the bleachers was littered with people shouting and jumping. It’s weird to see such a small field filled with townspeople I would come across any other day. There’s Todd in the far corner, but he’s not driving his daughter to school. There’s McKenzie in the bottom seat, but she’s not doing random cartwheels in the street while her nanny watches (and worries). There’s also Suzie in the middle, but she’s surprisingly not knitting her half-finished sweater now. Then there’s… An empty seat. Two empty seats.
“Let’s go, buddy-o.” Peter clawed my arm, pulling my feet off my glued position as he took me to our now designated seats.