And then Garrett bends my ear with the news that Shelly Stalls is breaking up with Mitch Michaelson, and that she, Miranda Humes, and Jenny Atkinson are starting some bidding war over me. “Dude!” he tells me. “The two hottest chicks on campus. And I swear to god, man, Shelly’s dumped Mitch because of you. I heard it direct from Shagreer, and dude, Shagreer the Ear knows all.” He throws me this nasty grin and says, “Me, I’m rooting for Jumbo Jenny. It would serve you right for being such a basket boy.”

I told him to shut up, but he was right. With the way my luck was running, I’d probably get stuck with Jumbo Jenny. I could just see it — six feet of beefy babe downing both halves of my lunch and then coming after me. Jenny’s the only girl or guy on campus who can dunk a basketball. The whole gym shakes when she lands. And since she’s got no, you know… female parabolas, the girl could shave her head and make it in the NBA. Seriously. No one would ever suspect.

Her parents give her anything she wants, too. Rumor has it they converted their garage into a full-on basketball court just for her.

Which meant that in the game of the basket boys, I was as good as slam-dunked.

Unless, unless Shelly or Miranda was high bidder. But how could I make sure that happened? My brain went into overdrive, constructing a plan, and in the end I decided that there was only one sensible course of action.

Kiss up to both of them.

Halfway through my first day of doing this, I felt like a skunk. Not that I was being gross about it or anything. I was just, you know, friendly. And even though Shelly and Miranda didn’t seem to smell a thing, Garrett did.

“Dude!” he says to me on Thursday. “I can see your game, man.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t deny it, dude. You’re working them both.” He comes up and whispers in my ear, “Basket boy or not, I’m in awe.”

“Shut up, man.”

“Seriously! The Ear says they were, like, clawing each other in P.E. today.”

I had to know. “What about… Jumbo Jenny?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t heard. But we’ll find out tomorrow, won’t we, dude?”

My mother dropped me off at school on Friday with my stupid oversized picnic basket, and since all basket boys have to dress up, I was choking in a tie and feeling completely dweeblike in slacks and dress shoes.

Kids whistled and shouted, “Oooh, baby!” as I headed up the walkway, and then Jumbo Jenny passed me, taking the front steps three at a time. “Wow, Bryce,” she said over her shoulder. “You look… delicious.”

Oh, man! I practically ran to the classroom where all the basket boys were supposed to meet, and the minute I walked in, I felt better. I was surrounded by other dweebs, who seemed genuinely happy to see me. “Hey, Loski”; “Yo, dude”; “Doesn’t this suck eggs?”; “Why didn’t you take the bus, man?”

Misery loves company.

Then Mrs. McClure, the president of the Boosters, the lady who lassoed us all, hoofs it through the door. “Oh, my!” she says. “You all look so handsome!”

Not one word about our baskets. Not one little sneak peek inside. No, for all she cared, those puppies were empty.

Meat market?

You better believe it!

“Don’t be so nervous, boys,” Mrs. McClure was saying. “You’re going to have a wonderful day!” She pulls out a list of names and starts ordering us into line. We get numbers; our baskets get numbers; we fill out three-by-five cards to her insane specifications; and by the time she’s got us all organized and is sure we know what to do and what not to do, we’ve missed all of first and most of second period. “Okay, gentlemen,” she says. “Leave your baskets where they are and go to… where are we now? Still in second?” She looks at the clock. “Right. Second.”

“What about passes?” some sensible basket boy asked.

“Your teachers have a list. But if they say anything, tell them I say your neckties are your passes. I’ll meet you back here when everyone’s dismissed for the auction. Got it? Don’t dawdle!”

We grumbled, Yeah, yeah, and headed to class. And I can tell you this, not one of the twenty of us listened to a word any of our teachers said that morning. How can you listen with a noose around your neck, pinched toes, and a room full of idiots thinking it’s open season on basket boys? Whoever started this stupid tradition ought to be crammed into a basket and tossed downstream without a serving spoon.

I was basket boy number nine. Which meant I had to stand there on the stage in the gym while nearly half the guys got auctioned off. Minimum bid, ten bucks. And if nobody bid, the secret was a teacher was assigned to bid on you.

Yes, my friend, the possibilities for mortification were infinite.

Some of the moms showed up and stood off to the side with their camcorders and zoom lenses, fidgeting and waving and basically acting as dweeby as their sons looked. I should know. My mom took an hour off work to be one of them.

Tim Pello was basket boy number five, and his mom actually bid on him. No kidding. She jumped up and down, yelling, “Twenty! I’ll give you twenty!” Man, that’ll brand you for life. Lucky for Tim, Kelly Trott came up with twenty-two fifty and saved his sorry self from everlasting torture as a mama’s boy — one of the few fates worse than basket boy.

Caleb Hughes was up next, and he fetched the Boosters all of eleven fifty. Then came Chad Ormonde, who I swear was ready to pee his pants when Mrs. McClure made him step forward. She read his card, pinched his cheeks, and raked in fifteen even.

At this point what stood between me and the auction block was Jon Trulock. And I wasn’t exactly interested in what he had in his basket or what his hobbies and favorite sports were. I was too busy scanning the crowd for Jumbo Jenny, sweating my pits off.

Mrs. McClure calls into the microphone, “Do I hear ten?” and it took me a minute to tune in to the fact that no one said “Ten!” No one said anything. “Come on, out there! The lunch is delicious. Strawberry tarts, um… ” And Mrs. McClure goes back to reading off the three-by-five about Jon Trulock’s lunch.

Talk about embarrassing! This was worse than being a mama’s boy. Worse than lunch with Jumbo Jenny! How’d he get voted basket boy if nobody wanted to have lunch with him?

Then off to the right of the crowd I hear, “Ten!”

“Ten? Did I hear ten?” Mrs. McClure says with a fluttery smile.

“Twelve!” came a different voice from the same area.

The first voice came back with “Fifteen!” and all of a sudden I recognized whose voice it was.

Juli Baker’s.

I searched through the crowd and found her, hand waving in the air, that look all over her face.

“Sixteen!” came the other voice.

There was a pause, but then Juli shoots back with “Eighteen!”

“Eighteen!” cries Mrs. McClure, who looks like she’s about to collapse from relief. She pauses, then says, “Eighteen going once… Eighteen going twice… Sold! for eighteen dollars.”

To Juli? She was the last person I expected to bid on a lunch. Anybody’s lunch.

Jon staggered back into line. And I knew I was supposed to step forward, but I couldn’t budge. I felt like I’d been slugged in the stomach. Did Juli like Jon? Is that why she’d been so… so… nice lately? Because she didn’t care about me anymore? All my life she’d been there, waiting to be avoided, and now it was like I didn’t even exist.

“Step up, Bryce. Come on, don’t be shy!”

Mike Abenido shoved me a little and said, “Your turn for torture. Get up there!”

It felt like walking the plank. I just stood up front sweating bullets while the Booster queen dissected my lunch and started running through my list of favorites. Before she’s even finished, though, Shelly Stalls calls out, “Ten!”