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Chapter 1

’ve never been one for all the girly shit. You know, lip gloss,
extensions, jeans so tight they make your ass look like Nicki

IMinaj’s. I put my hair in a ponytail, throw on some sweats,
lace up my ball sneaks, and I’m good to go. Not to mention, all that
primping just to impress the guys— nah, I’m good.
So why did I even agree to hit up the corner store with Britt
today, knowing damn well she’s a klepto with the fashion sense
of a broke Kardashian? Because I’m an idiot and really wanted a
Kit Kat to eat after our first game. Processed sugar is the perfect

postgame snack—win or lose. Also Britt fed me some bullshit line
about wanting to meet the new owners. But what she really meant
was: “New ownership! Ooh, I know, let’s rob the place!”
Britt nudges me with her pointy-ass elbows and looks over
her shoulder to make sure no one’s watching. Two Black girls in a
corner store, one of them wearing a hoodie—oh, they’re watching.
“Here, slip this in your hoodie,” she whispers.
Told ya. She’s about that klepto life.
I look around the store. The aisles are empty, other than a

Muslim girl—this isn’t racist because (A) she’s dressed in tradi-
tional Muslim garb under her blue Super Mart apron, and (B) I’m
pretty sure she’s the owner’s daughter, who I’m certain is Muslim
because everyone on the block was talking about the Muslim family

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