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CHAPTER 1

KITTY LITTER BL UES

y partner’s arm clocks me in the cheekbone as he
M frantically tries to pull me to the mat, but all I can think

about is how Coach Gary’s breath smells like my cat’s litter box.
Seriously.
Did he munch on kitty turds before practice? I picture him
driving, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching into

a big box on the passenger seat. The box has a picture of a cat,
all hunched over, perched on a tray of litter, its little kitty face
all scrunched up in obstructed concentration. Coach throws the
turd up into the air—it looks like a brown cheese puff—where,

of course, it spins dramatically in slow motion a few times. He
catches it in his mouth with a satisfied grin.
I snort-laugh, then reflexively clap my hand over my mouth
hard enough to cut the inside of my lip with my front tooth.

From one of the benches that lines the perimeter of the blue mat,
Mom looks over her book at me. You know—the look. The Mom
Stare Down: direct eye contact held for a beat too long, no smile.
Yeah, that’s the one.

My partner, Devaansh, tightens his arms around my neck,
causing me to retch. I hit the mat hard with my hand twice,

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