ONE

MIKE PATTERSON sat on the beach next to Miss Yates, the Westbrook coach. She hunched over, her hands dangling in front of her, her eyes restlessly watching the clock and scoreboard.

The game was in the bag. It was just a matter of sitting it out until the buzzer sounded. The scoreboard told the story: Brighthaven, 12; Visitors, 36. The visitors were Westbrook. Mike smiled broadly as she watched the play, Miss Yates had sent in her second team, giving the greenhorns a chance to get the feel of a varsity game. Even with Westbrook's second team in there, Brighthaven was having a hard time.

It was a bad year for Brighthaven. They had lost most of their good players with the June graduation. Sometimes a brand-new team was an improvement, if the new team consisted of girls who were natural basketball players. But these new Brighthaven players were real greenhorns, much worse than Westbrook's second team.

Most of them had not even learned how to pass. Mike doubted if they had ever heard of a hook shot, a con trolled tap, a dummy play, a follow-in, a stride stop. She looked them over, shaking her head. It wasn't the Brighthaven coach's fault either. Mrs. Crawford knew her stuff. These young kids just didn't have what it takes.

It's going to be a tough year for Brighthaven, Mike thought. And that makes us Westbrookers feel real bad.

Sarcasm was not her forte, because by nature she liked people. She didn't enjoy watching anyone have a hard time. But feeling sorry for Brighthaven would be treason to Westbrook since the schools were traditional enemies. When they faced each other, no matter what the sport they played for blood. If the tables had been turned Brighthaven would have been gloating over Westbrook__with a show of sportsmanship, but gloating just the same.

Her eyes following the play, Mike saw one of Westbrook's substitute forwards come down too hard and turned her ankle. Mike saw it quickly, with her athlete's six sense, even before the referee blow the whistle.There were excited exclamations back of her as she jumps from the bench and ran over to where they were helping the injured girl off the floor. It was Lynn Craig, freshman to whom Mike had taken a liking. Lynn played good basketball. As they led her over to a bench and both coaches bent over her, she smiled gamely.

Miss Yates turned to Mike who had followed them "Ready to go in again?" she asked. Mike had come out of the game only a minute or so before,

Mike nodded and running over to the scorer's table said crisply. "Patterson going in for Craig." As she joined the other forwards, she called her instructions. "Feed them to me as fast as you can."

The referee's whistle blew, Mike got the ball and tapped it into Westbrook territory. The two substitute forwards kept the ball and passed it to Mike. She played way out in center court, hurling a hook shot clean into the basket. It was grandstand playing and she knew it. but she figured she was entitled to it. This was her moment. She did not get many of them off the basketball court. This was the only place she could shine. So the took that moment, hooking them in for all she was worth.

Westbrook's score zoomed up. Thirty-eight. Forty Forty-one on a free throw, Forty-three. Forty-five. Forty six on another free throw. Brighthaven was tossing off fouls right and left. Forty-eight. Fifty.

The final buzzer rasped into the game. There was a flurry of activity from the stands as coats were hastily shrugged on, overshoes and boots yanked into place. scarves tied over beads. The small crowd milled out climbing over each other, jumping down to the floor and racing for the exits.

The game was over. The cheering had already faded into oblivion and Mike Patterson, the great Mike Patter son who could hurl a hook shot from center floor clean into the basket, was tucked away in mothballs until the next game.

She linked arms with the other girls on her team as they cheered Brighthaven. At its side of the court, the Bright haven team was cheering Westbrook. This final cheer al ways tickled Mike. It was such an empty gesture where these two schools were concerned.

The cheer over, a few of her teammates called, "Nice going, Mike. You played a terrific game." She waved off the compliments in good-natured appreciation.

Mike noticed that Emma Gaudet did not join in the congratulations. To say that Emma worried Mike would be putting it mildly. Emma who was Westbrook's best guard was also Mike's gadfly. Last year she had been difficult enough, with her cocky manner and sharp tongue, but now that they were seniors Emma spelled real trouble for Mike. Especially since Mike had been elected acting captain of the Westbrook team while the real captain was hospitalized for two months.

For the life of her, Mike could not put her finger on the cause of the strife between Emma and her. Emma never brought their conflict into the open. Most of her attacks on 'Mike were addressed to others rather than to Mike. She was past master at the art of subtle, squelching re marks that cut across Mike's ego as if she had been struck with a lash.

This cattiness of Emma's overwhelmed Mike. She just didn't know how to handle it. Brought up in a family where the straightforward approach was used in every situation, she felt paralyzed and numbed by Emma's in direct accusations.

One of Emma's favorite tricks was to be sure Mike was within carshot, then comment sotto voce to a friend, "Two-four-six-eight. Who don't we appreciate? P-a-t-t-er s-o-n." It was Emma who had given Mike the inglorious nickname of "My Sister Mike," alluding to the fact tha Mike was the less popular sister of one of the school's reigning beauties, Pat Patterson. And it was Emma who had first uttered the snide remark, "There's an awful lot of Patterson in this school. Mike Patterson runs the basket ball team and Pat Patterson runs the cheerleaders. Pretty soon the whole Patterson family will be running the town."

Perhaps the most devastating and effective of Emma's thrusts were against Mike's appearance. Emma Gaudet had a repertory of insults directed toward Mike's lanky frame, her plain features, her drab hair, her lack of glamour.

"My Sister Mike," she would say in summary, "is a plain Jane. If she ever gets a steady boy friend, we'll declare a school holiday." All in all, Emma was quite a problem. So Mike considered herself fortunate that Emma had only refrained from joining in the congratulations this afternoon.

On the way out of the gym, Mike found Lynn Craig waiting near the door that opened to the parking lot. She was leaning back against a radiator to take the weight off her right foot.

"How's it going?" Mike asked.

"It's all right," Lynn replied.

Miko examined the ankle. "When I saw you come down on it, I was afraid you'd sprained it for sure." She smiled up at Lynn. "You played a good game, but you don't have to try so hard." She nodded toward the ankle. "Things like this happen when we get too eager. Got a lift home, Lynn?"

"My mother's coming for me." Mike nodded. "I was going to say I'd drive you myself."

Mike walked on. The locker rooms were noisy and steamy from a dozen showers. She took hers in a leisurely way. There was no reason to hurry. She had to pick up her sister Pat at Westbrook High where Pat was rehearsing for a play. Pat wouldn't be ready until six o'clock and it was just a little after five.

The girls of the team who were going back to nearby Westbrook on the special bus were in a hurry, shouting to each other to get a move on. Snatches of the talk reached Mike's cars aboye the noise of the showers.

"Where's my algebra book...? I've lost Clint's fra temity pin. He'll crown me. Oh, here it is.... Hey, that's my coat. Here's yours. Wish you wouldn't buy your clothes in Carlson's Department Store too." A wave of laughter. Then, "Mike sure played a wonderful game to day.... That's nothing, she always does.... She's tops. Plays with her head. Nobody can land a hook shot the way Mike can. Well, we all have to be good at something. I guess.... Yeah, that's right. We all have to be good at something."

Mike let the last words roll through her mind, slowly. She repeated them painstakingly. We all have to be good at something. Without intending it, the unidentified speak er had summed up Mike's character in a nutshell. She had, in fact, summed up Mike's entire life.

We all have to be good at something.

The words tossed off so casually in the shower room stayed with her while she was getting dressed. They neither irritated nor pleased her, but they did amuse her. They amused her because of the accuracy with which they had struck their mark, like a well-aimed open shot hurling the ball straight through the basket.

She pulled on her cardigan, a dark brown with imitation pearl buttons and slipped on her single piece of jewelry, a bangle bracelet given her on her last birthday by her twin brothers who were juniors at Yale. She would have liked to own a charm bracelet, one of those noisy baubles with such things as hearts, miniature elephants, four-leaf clovers, telescopes, bells, and pixies dangling from a heavy gold chain. She would have liked to be presented with one of these charms on each "occasion," Christmas, Easter. her birthday, St. Valentine's Day, by some attractive boy.

Pat had such a bracelet. The original chain and first charm had been given her by one boy and the nine other charms which hung from it had been presented by nine different boys.

Mike did not envy her sister. She did not want a bracelet which represented the concerted adoration of ten boys. She wanted one boy, one intense and admiring boy. who preferred her above all other girls. One would be enough, providing that one was right.

She knew the boy she wanted. She was not sophisticated, as Pat was sophisticated. She had no background of experience with boys to bolster her in her selection, but with the same remarkable accuracy with which she had been able to toss her first basketball straight at its goal she made her choice of boy.

He belonged right here in Brighthaven. She had seen him several times when she had come over to boys' bas ketball He was captain of the team this year. Mike had seen him other places too, in the Greasy Spoon where crowds of students from Brighthaven and Westbrook gathered after games and skating parties. On last winter when her brothers had taken her skiing on Rolling Giant, she had seen her boy there, taking the hardest slopes with ease. People said he was a champion skier, taught by some of the finest teachers in Europe. She had watched him from a distance, admiring him,wishing she could know him.

He was all that a man, in her limited knowledge u men, should be. He was tall, but not too tall, two inches above Mike's five-feet-eight. He was not handsome according to the standards set by girls like Pat who would not consider a boy unless he was good-looking enough to be eligible for movie stardom. He had a nice face, more gentle than arrogant, more patient than aggressive. Yet there was nothing weak about him. He was all man. Mike did not know how she knew this, but she did know it. He was the kind who would stand up to anything. No one would ever succeed in pushing him around.

Mike had been garnering information about her boy. He spoke four languages, Italian, French, German, English. He had traveled everywhere with his parents. His father was a professor and his mother played the piano, Not for her own amusement, the way Mike's twin brothers did, but for money. Ronnie, one of the twins, considered her the finest woman concert pianist in the East.

Mike thought about all this as she put on her coat and hat. She picked up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. Every time she came to Brighthaven, she dreamed what she would ever do or say if she accidentally ran into Jeff Parker.

Now she chuckled to herself as she walked toward the door of the locker room. The place was empty so she was safe in talking aloud to herself.

"Know what you'd do?" she said. "You'd bounce away from Jeff Parker like a 'hope shot' off the rim of a basket, that's what you'd do!"

She put her shoulder against the door and swung it open. There, confronting her, with two worry lines furrowing his brow was the boy of her choice.