Excerpt from The Falconer by Dana Czapnik, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Yeah? Me too. But a different kind of action, friend. Sigh. Silly girl—he's not interested.

I'll play him, of course. I'll play him even though the last time we got into it, he dropped his bony shoulder and nailed me in the chin and chipped my front tooth. I can still feel the crack when I run my tongue over it. I'll play him even though he's nearly a half foot taller than me and he's got all the goods—a solid post player who can play the perimeter with as much finesse as a true two-spot. I'll play him even though I'll lose. Because if I play him, I get to touch him. And post him up and feel the weight of his chest on my back.

I grab the ball I brought to the court, which has been sitting by the rusted metal fence this whole time, waiting for its chance. It's a little older than the last one we played with, no longer has goose bumps on its flesh. It's not a star or a planet or a face. It feels heavier, less ethereal. I've lost games with this ball. The ball I played with earlier will always be perfect to me. I know this one's cruelty too well.

"I'm down," I go. "You get the usual handicap."

"Fine, I won't go in the paint. Imagine how fast I'd kill you if I did."

There was a time when I could beat Percy on the regular. All through middle school I was taller than him, and he hadn't yet figured out how to defend a crossover. I racked up enough Ws in those years that it took him a while to finally get to the other side of the lifetime win-loss record. But times have been tough for me throughout most of high school. Beating me has never been routine, but it's rare I can get in a win now without a forced impediment.

He checks me the ball.

I take my time. Stalk the perimeter like a wolf. He doesn't know how hard I've worked on my outside shot all summer, so he hangs off me, waiting to defend a drive. I dribble slow to the left side of the basket, just inside the arc, my newly discovered sweet spot.

Thwip. Perfection. The chain-link net jangles just quietly enough to sound like someone counting rosary beads.

"Luck," Percy says as he catches the ball dropping from the basket.

"Skill."

If there is some profession, some thing I can do in life as a job, as a way to earn a paycheck, that feels as good as swishing a long-range jumper, I want to do that. I want to get paid to do just that. I've tried to explain this to my college counselor, but she just laughs and says, "That's cute," and tells me to focus on AP physics. Listen, if I shoot a ball from ten feet from the basket and I've got about a six-inch vertical on my shot, I can calculate the delta on the parabolic arc, no problem. What does that mean exactly? Nothing. That's what. All I'm interested in right now is feeling. Feeling heat. Feeling touch. Feeling thoughts. Feeling body. And nothing feels as good as swishing a basketball in the face of your one-on-one opponent. Nada.

Because Percy is a pure Darwinist, he plays by strict playground rules, which means it's winner's ball: my ball. In the gym at school it's always loser's ball, because your opponent should have a chance to get back in the game. You might learn all you need to know about a person when you find out whether they believe pickup basketball should be winner's or loser's ball.

This time I switch it up. Use my speed. Percy stops me middrive with his ungodly wingspan. His feet quick, mirroring my every move. I turn and push all my weight into his chest, pounding the ball and pushing him backward toward the basket dribble by dribble. He pushes back, but not as hard as he would against an opponent closer to his size. Fuck him for taking it easy on me. I punish him for it. Duck under his arm and lay it up.

"You wanna throw down? Let's throw down," he goes.

I'm in full possession of my powers right now. Like lightning is shooting out of my fingertips. Like I'm channeling the soul of a Lucy Adler in an alternate dimension. One where beauty and sex drip off me all smooth and careless.

Excerpted from The Falconer by Dana Czapnik . Copyright © 2019 by Dana Czapnik . Excerpted by permission of Atria Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.