by Syms, Carly
I shrug and finally take my eyes off Blaine. "It's Andrea Harris' place. What did you expect?"
"Maybe we should go home."
I'm about to ask why she doesn't want to practice my tricks on Richie when two girls walk up to us.
"Emma, right?" the blonde from a few minutes earlier asks, and I nod, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, my God, I can't believe you're here!" Her voice shoots up several octaves with each word. "I mean, you're, like, the best volleyball player in the whole town!"
I smile. I can't help it. It never sucks to hear someone compliment you, even if you find them irritating. Praise doesn't lose its appeal, even when it comes from a place you don't like.
"Thanks," I say. "That's so sweet of you."
"I'm just a freshman," she babbles on like I haven't said anything. "And I really want to be as good as you so I can go to college for volleyball, too! How did you do it? Like, can you teach me? I'm free all the time!"
"Are you on the team?" I ask, and her face immediately falls.
"Yes," she says, her pale cheeks coloring. "We practice together everyday. But I'm JV."
I feel bad for a few seconds even though I know I've never seen this girl before in my life. "Oh, yeah, well, that's probably why," I reply diplomatically.
"Do you coach?" she blurts out. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a small smile start to form on Blaine's face, like he's really enjoying watching me squirm.
Not that I'm actually squirming over here. I don't lose my composure. Ever. But it's not like I'm particularly enjoying the direction this conversation has started to take, either.
"No," I say nicely but firmly. "I've never done that."
"Maybe you could try it with me," she nudges. "I'm Jasmine, by the way!"
"I don't think so." I walk down three steps until I'm on the floor. "It's so flattering that you want me to coach you, though. Good luck. I'll look for you at practice. Nice meeting you, Jasmine."
I turn and walk toward the kitchen before this girl and her friend have a chance to hound me about something else. Stella, I know, will follow me. Blaine appears a minute later with a bottle of Jose Cuervo in his hand.
"Found the Houston's liquor cabinet," he says triumphantly.
"It's Harris," I say, but he doesn't hear me.
He walks over to the fridge and opens it like he's standing in his own kitchen about to make himself a sandwich. I watch as he roots around in the vegetable drawer and pulls something out.
"What are you doing?"
"Limes," he says with a grin, holding up a bag of them. "Come on, Em, can't do tequila shots without a lime."
"They're not yours," I point out, but he waves me off with an eye roll.
"So? This is what happens when you have a party," he replies, and I can't really argue with that.
Richie walks into the kitchen alone, and I feel Stella stiffen -- and let out a small squeak -- at my side. I lightly step down on her toes, reminding her of what we've just discussed. She elbows me in the side.
"Yo, found the goods," Blaine says, unscrewing the top of the tequila bottle and pouring it into four shot glasses.
Richie yanks a knife from the wooden block resting on the countertop and slices up the lime.
"Got salt?" he asks.
Blaine shrugs and starts opening up cabinets and moving around cups and boxes of mashed potatoes and cereal until he finds the Harris' spice rack. Something about watching him root through this family's belongings like he has absolutely no respect for their space kinda bugs me, but I try to push it out of my head.
Besides, he's right. We're at a party. This is what happens when you open up your home to a bunch of people looking for a good time, isn't it?
We gather around the giant island and each pick up a shot and a wedge of lime.
The four of us clink our glasses, then down the smooth tequila. I quickly bite into my lime and suck on it; I'm happy if you pass me a margarita, but I've never been great with straight shooting alcohol.
"Ah," Blaine says, slamming his glass down on the counter and wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. "One down, this bottle to go."
"You're not serious," I tell him.
He laughs. "Together all these years and you can't tell when I'm joking," he says, and I smile.
Blaine pours out four more shots, and even though I want to say no, Stella picks hers up and I know I'll hear about it for the next two weeks if I chicken out now.
So I do the only thing I think I can: I toss it back.
"Okay," Stella says, a giggle escaping her lips. "I'm good now. Y'all know me. Two drinks and I hit the floor. I think this -- " She lets out a hiccup in the middle of her sentence and slaps her hand over her mouth. " -- Oops! This is, like, six."
"You just need a good scare," Richie tells her, and I watch as the color rushes instantly to her cheeks.
She looks right at me and I raise an eyebrow as if to say I-told-you-so.
"Help me?" she asks him. Hiccup.
Richie's about to do whatever it is he thinks will scare Stella out of her hiccups when Blaine pushes another full shot glass toward him. He grins and picks it up, letting the alcohol flow down his throat, helping make Stella forgotten as the two guys work to polish off the entire bottle of tequila.
I glare at my boyfriend, wondering how he could be so stupid as to interrupt this potential moment between Stella and Richie, but he either ignores me or doesn't know why I'm looking at him like I want to strangle him.
I sigh as I catch sight of Stella's face; she looks like she could start crying at any second.
"Boom!" Blaine shouts as his glass makes contact with the counter. "Dude, that's awesome."
The empty bottle of tequila rests in between the shot glasses, and I shake my head. I've been to enough parties with my boyfriend to know the next few hours are going to be something else.
But this time, it doesn't take nearly that long.
The four of us wander back out into the living room to join the rest of the party. Andrea Harris is dancing on top of the coffee table while a crowd hangs out around her, cheering her on.
It's probably the most attention she's ever gotten in her entire life.
Her spotlight doesn't last long.
A giant crash fills the living room, loud enough to be heard over the pounding bass of the music. Whoever's closest to the iPod hits pause as every head in the room swings in our direction.
I look around, too.
That's when I see Blaine, flat on his back on top of a six-foot-tall fake palm tree.
"Dude!" he yells. "Where'd that tree come from?"
And then he dissolves into a fit of giggles as the rest of the party shrugs and returns to the music.
Except for Andrea Harris.
She comes running over, horror written all over her face.
"My mom's tree," she moans. "Oh, God, please let it be okay! That thing is, like, hundreds of dollars. Get off it!"
Blaine tries to get up but stumbles and falls back down, causing Richie and Stella to giggle harder next to me. Even I'm struggling not to laugh as Andrea's look of terror grows and Blaine laughs.
"Bro, you turtled yourself," Richie says, and Stella lets out a high-pitched cackle.
Blaine finally gets to his feet, the big fake tree never to be the same again. Andrea tries to pick it up, but it's too heavy for her and she gets it a few inches off the ground before it crashes back down to the floor.
And even I can't contain my laughter anymore.
Another Friday night, another party, another evening with my friends and my crazy, hot drunk boyfriend.
As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to complain about. Life is good, and most days, it feels like it's only going to get better.
CHAPTER THREE
My uniform is on, kneepads pulled up and my long hair tied back into a ponytail. It's just another Monday afternoon with another game for the volleyball team.
It's all routine at this point in the season. We're a good t
eam and we just have to make it through the regular season before the conference playoffs. Should be a total breeze.
I'm leaving the locker room by myself, tightening my ponytail holder, when Coach Morris pokes her head out of her neighboring office and asks me to come in for a minute.
"Sure," I say, plopping down in my favorite blue leather chair next to her metal desk. "What's up, Coach?" I frown slightly when she closes the door behind her.
"Everything okay?" I ask, trying to keep the worry out of my voice, but it's hard. Coach Morris is notorious for her open-door policy, and in the four years I've been playing for her, she's never shut the door on us before. Not even when she wanted my opinion as captain on how cutting Marcie Lucas might affect the team's chemistry.
"Emma," she says, sitting in her desk chair and pushing her glasses to the top of her head. "I know how long and hard you've worked at volleyball for your whole life."
Already, I'm not liking the ominous words coming out of Coach Morris' mouth. I search her face for any sign of what's coming next -- because, let's face it, this sounds like the perfect start to my volleyball career's eulogy -- but I can't read her.
Which is also totally weird.
"Okayyy," I say slowly, drawing out the word, and she holds up her hand to stop me.
"We both know you have great offers from some wonderful volleyball schools," she continues. "Ones that most athletes would do anything for."
I bite down on my lip, trying to keep myself from impatiently telling her to get to the freakin' point already. It's not like our game starts in twenty minutes or anything.
"Emma, what's the one thing that's been missing for you?"
"A scholarship from UMT."
"Exactly. Not anymore."
I'm about to ask her what she's getting at when her words hit me.
"W-wait."
Coach Morris nods. "Yes."
"But when? How? Why?"
She smiles like she's been waiting for this flood of questions to pour out of me. "Take a deep breath. It happened this morning."
"And you're just telling me now?"
"Tech's coach wanted to wait until after the game tonight to offer you," she says. "But I couldn't keep it from you. Promise me you'll act surprised."
"Coach! Omigod! Yes, of course, I promise!" I squeal, jumping out of the chair. "Michigan Tech? You mean it? Michigan Tech? This is really happening?" I look around the small office in a panic. "This isn't some kind of cruel senior prank thing, is it? 'Cause that would really suck."
She laughs. "No, Emma, it's not. You earned this."
I start laughing, too, probably because I have no idea how to react, no idea what to feel. Shock, joy, overwhelming excitement, fear, maybe even some nausea -- it's all running through me now.
This is everything I've always wanted and now it's happening.
Michigan Tech.
I'm going to play volleyball at Michigan Tech.
Me. Emma Thompson.
I'm a Hornet!
It's hard not to start jumping up and down like a six-year-old who's just gotten a brand-new Barbie doll.
"Smile, Emma!" Coach Morris exclaims. "Enjoy it."
I let out one big shriek and then clap my hand over my mouth as she chuckles. "Okay, I'm good," I say. "We've got a game in ten. I'm gonna head out to the court."
Coach gets to her feet and wraps me up in a hug, one of several she's given me over the years as she's become more like a good friend than a coach.
"Go play your game," she says as I walk out of her office.
***
We're flying.
Or at least, I am.
The match is well into the second set now after we won the first, 25-18, and we're up 13-7 now. All in all, things are looking pretty damn good for the Ashland Eagles this afternoon.
The ball is back on our side and it's my turn in the rotation to serve. I grab it from the official and head back behind the service line.
It took years for me to be able to do a jump serve -- where you start several feet from the line, run up, toss the ball and smack it over the net all while you're in the air, but it's the only way for me to go, and I do it now. There's something so magical about those few precious seconds from launch to landing while I'm in the air, practically floating, as I track the ball.
It's one of the best parts about volleyball.
My hand connects with the ball and propels it over the net with so much force and so much topspin that it fools the girl waiting to pass it and it falls harmlessly to the court.
Ace.
And a point for us.
"Nice serve, Em!" Stella grins at me from the setter's position closer to the net.
The ball comes back to me and I get ready for the next serve. I run forward and again, whack the ball right over the net, but this time, the other team is ready for it, and one of their girls manages to hit it for their setter, who pushes it up in the air.
I'm watching their hitters as both girls go up from the left, and I'm certain the one on the outside is going to take the spike.
She does, slamming the ball down toward the court. I charge after it but don't see Marybeth hurrying toward it with the same idea.
"Em, no!" Stella's warning reaches me too late.
Wham.
Marybeth and I collide on the court -- and that's when I hear it.
The noise buzzes through my head like someone's holding a chainsaw up to my ear, like a car crash is happening right in front of me.
I know it's real and I know it's bad, but it doesn't feel like it's happening to me, but more like it's happening around me.
Except you don't forget the sound your bones make when they crack.
It doesn't hurt, not at first, anyway.
The sound of the splitting bone fades and gives way to -- to nothing. Silence. The entire gym is hushed until someone breaks the peace with bloodcurdling screams.
I look around to see who's making these godawful sounds so I can ask them to shut up and let me think.
Oh.
They're coming from me.
"Emma, oh my God, oh my God." Marybeth crawls over to me. "Are you okay? Oh my God."
I shake my head like that will help me figure out what the heck is going on. "I -- uh -- am I?"
"Coach!" Marybeth's screams join mine as my teammates drop onto the court next to me.
Only Stella stays standing a few feet behind the group. Her eyes meet mine and she doesn't look away, but she doesn't have to.
The look on her face says it all.
This is most definitely real.
And it's most definitely happening to me.
The numbness is starting to give way to splitting, unimaginable pain.
And I'm pretty sure wrists aren't supposed to dangle the way mine is right now.
Stella's shocked, saddened face is the last thing I see before everything starts to blur and the gym around me goes dark.
***
Honk! Honk, honk, honk!
The sound of a horn blaring is the first thing I hear when the world comes back to me. I don't know if it's been five seconds, twenty minutes, six hours or twelve days since I was spread out on the volleyball court, but my head pounds like I've just chugged six straight shots of tequila without any help.
"What the -- " I mutter as I struggle to sit up and look around.
Mom and Dad are in the front of her SUV and I'm staring up at the ceiling across the backseat. Mom immediately turns around and leans toward me, her face just inches from mine, blurry for a few seconds then eventually giving way to something more normal.
I let out a small sigh. Whatever's going on, it's nice to know I can still see, at least.
"Mom, back up," I tell her as I finally make my way to a sitting position. I turn and put my feet on the floor, and I'm about to reach for my bag when Mom's high-pitched shriek fills my head like a warning shot.
"Emma, doesn't it hurt?" she asks, looking at me like she can't believe I'd even think
to move around.
"What? Doesn't what hurt?"
Mom exchanges some kind of look with my dad, which isn't that easy considering he's behind the wheel.
"Honey, your wrist. Doesn't it hurt?"
I glance down at my arms for the first time and I'm surprised to see my right wrist -- my serving wrist -- is bright red and looks as though someone's blown up a helium balloon underneath the skin.
"That can't be good," I mutter.
"Don't you remember what happened?" she asks, and I think back before shaking my head.
"Last thing I know is Coach was telling me about my scholarship to UMT." I already feel the smile forming on my face just thinking about it. "Hey, did she tell you that? They offered me. I'm gonna be a Hornet."
Mom swallows and tries to smile, but it isn't really working. "Emma," she says, turning in her seat so she's totally facing me. "Honey, we think it's broken."
"Mom, jeez, you're talking like I wrecked the Mustang." Dad makes a huffing noise at the thought of his baby getting into a wreck. He only lets me drive it when I come home with straight A's -- so really not all that often.
Freakin' chemistry.
We pull up outside the emergency room at the hospital, which cuts the conversation short and leaves me with more questions than answers.
Dad gets out of the car and is back in minutes with a wheelchair.
"What's that for?" I ask as I slide across the backseat toward the door.
He stares at me. "You can't be serious."
"You want me to get in that thing?"
"I'm not going to carry you," he points out.
"Dad, are you crazy? I hurt my wrist, not my legs. I can walk fine."
"Emma, you passed out from the pain," he shoots back. "Get in the chair." Dad reaches into the car and scoops me out of the SUV, dropping me in the wheelchair before I even know what's happening or have a chance to protest further. Mom grabs the back handles and starts pushing me inside.
