Number 17 (Part One)

Story that I wrote for a friend’s Christmas present. I sort of like it. It’s meant to be satirical, just in case you think that I’m being serious or something. It comes in four parts, so I’ll upload it in those parts. HAHA you’ll have cliff hangers. Anyway. Enjoy or don’t, I don’t mind. And sorry about the swearing. J (So much for not writing for the next few weeks because of trials. OH WELL. I wrote this ages ago, so it’s actually just copying and pasting.)

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Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

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The first most surprising thing that happened to me was that I fell in love on a Saturday, which annoyed the hell out of me at the time because I couldn’t walk home singing Friday I’m in Love without feeling like a liar. I had sat in the stands at a basketball game that Saturday night, falling in love with Number 17 and thinking – stay at home on Saturday night, you idiot, and go to the basketball game on Friday, okay? Relationships, I had thought, are always healthier if begun at the end of the week. Saturday, wait, was not a good sign for anyone. The Cure knows best.

Number 17 was dazzlingly average in height for a basketball player – he later told me he was the shortest player on the team to have done a slam dunk – but I didn’t mind because it meant he had superior jumping skills. That Saturday night he did no slam dunking, but did score a couple of three-pointers and dribbled quite a lot. This beast from the other team had pushed him over, which made me stand up quickly in rage and also promptly sit back down in slight embarrassment. Number 17, luckily, hadn’t seen me. He stood up, dusted himself off, and jogged to the key to help defend. What a team player.

My best friend, Caroline, however, hadn’t been thrilled with my choice of First Love.

“Basketball?” She shrieked. “Pick a more un-Australian sport, will you. Australia only plays basketball because America does; it’s like the Vietnam War.”

“Basketball isn’t that much like the Vietnam War …” I defended, but Caroline cut me off furiously.

“It’s exactly like the Vietnam War. Your Number 17 is probably a fucking capitalist too. Trust you to fall in love with a fucking capitalist.”

“What would you prefer, then?”

“I’d go for an AFL player,” Caroline pondered. “Nothing more fundamentally Aussie than an AFL player.” 

But Caroline hates AFL. She thinks all AFL players are fucking misogynists. All rugby players are fucking rapists. All netball players are fucking sluts. All tennis players are fucking fashion disasters. So I covertly ignored her fucking opinion.

To be continued ...