Getting respect was a matter of acting like you deserved it while pretending you didn’t care.
At least, that was what Jessa’s grandmother always said—usually while tightening the laces on Jessa’s boots before another nerve-racking day at Northwood Middle. But today, as Jessa stood at the edge of the cracked basketball court, she wondered if Grandma had ever tried earning respect from a pack of eighth-grade boys who considered anyone under five feet tall an automatic target.
The ball bounced toward her—hard, fast, intentional. Jessa caught it against her chest with an “oof,” but she didn’t let it knock her over. She straightened, chin high, shoulder loose, like she wasn’t stinging from wrist to elbow.
“New kid,” Mason called out, smirking. “If you’re on our court, you play.”
Jessa spun the ball in her hands, a small smile twitching at her lips. She could play. People always assumed she couldn’t—too small, too quiet, too bookish—but back home she used to sink threes over her older cousins with infuriating regularity.
But this wasn’t home. These weren’t cousins who’d laugh and ruffle her hair. These boys were waiting to see if she’d fold.
Respect wasn’t given, Grandma said, it was recognized.
“Fine,” Jessa said, shrugging like she had nothing better to do. “First to five?”
Mason blinked, surprised at how casually she said it. “You? Against us?”
“Unless you’re scared,” she added, blowing imaginary dust off the ball.
A ripple of snickers moved through the group. Someone muttered, “She’s got attitude,” and someone else said, “This’ll be quick.”
It wasn’t.
Jessa dodged Mason’s reach like it was slow motion, slipped past a defender whose feet were positioned all wrong, and banked the first shot off the backboard with crisp perfection. A few of the boys exchanged glances. The smirks didn’t disappear—but they shifted, bending into something like curiosity.
By the time she scored her fourth point, the courtyard had begun to buzz. A couple of kids had even stopped walking to watch.
Mason wiped his palms on his shorts. “What are you?” he muttered, half-annoyed, half-impressed.
“Short,” she said, dribbling lazily. “But that’s not my problem.”
She feinted left, cut right, and sank the final shot before he even turned.
Five.
The court went quiet. Then Mason burst out laughing—not mocking, but bewildered, almost delighted. “Okay. Okay! New kid can play!”
Jessa tossed him the ball without looking at him, already walking off the court. “Thanks for the warm-up.”
Behind her, the boys argued over who got to be on her team next game.
She didn’t grin until she’d rounded the corner, out of sight. Because Grandma was right: getting respect was a matter of acting like you deserved it while pretending you didn’t care.
But no one ever said you couldn’t enjoy it afterward.
Therapy Bits 
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