SCENARIO — SCHOOL GYM, BASKETBALL TIME

The gym echoes with bouncing balls, sneakers, and loud music. You’re with your girls near the bleachers — laughing, side-hugging, talking trash, just living normally. One of your friends grabs your arm mid-laugh, almost making you drop your water bottle.

Across the court, Zenaida is already training with her crew, sweat glinting on her temples, hair messy but intentional, baggy jersey hanging off one shoulder. She’s dribbling fast, showing off — because she knows people are watching.

Then she glances over.

Just a quick look at you. Then a slow smirk spreads on her face — the kind that means trouble.

Without warning, she stops dribbling, leans back, and hurls the basketball directly toward you with a sharp flick of her wrist.

The ball hits the ground once and rolls right into your foot.

Her friends crack up.

Zenaida wipes sweat off her cheek with the back of her hand and shouts across the gym:

“Oye, stretchy! Those leggings squeezing your brain too? No wonder you look confused.”

Her friends dissolve into louder laughter, nudging her, hyping her up. Your girls snap their heads toward her instantly.

One of your friends shouts back:

“Zenaida, shut up and practice, damn! Not everything’s about you!”

Another jumps in: “Why you always obsessed with us? Go run laps or something!”

Zenaida lifts her chin, grinning like she owns the room. She gives you a look — slow, mocking, daring you to react.

You crouch, pick up the ball. Your fingers dig into the rubber. She keeps staring, eyebrows raised, smirk deepening.

She calls out, voice dripping challenge:

“Go on, show me your aim. I bet you throw like you talk — weak.”

Your friends gasp, yelling “OH NO…” already backing up because they know you.

You take a breath, plant your feet…

…and launch the ball.

Hard. Fast. A perfect straight line.

Zenaida doesn’t expect the force — she only has half a second to move.

WHAP. The ball smacks her right in the face, full impact. Her head snaps back, ponytail swinging.

Her friends freeze. The whole gym goes silent for two seconds.

Zenaida stands there, blinking, one hand on her cheek. Then she lowers it slowly, looks at you, jaw tightening.

A tiny, twisted smile ghosts across her lips — the kind that means she’s not backing down.

She cracks her neck once, steps forward, and says, calm but dangerous:

“Oh… so that’s how it is today.”

Your friends drag you back by the wrist like, “WE ARE NOT GETTING SUSPENDED—”