by Syms, Carly
But the other part? Well, that part can't get the girl's singing out of her head.
Not because I have any plans to start up a singing and acting career because let's be real here. Stella hates it when my favorite song comes on in the car because I'll belt it out at the top of my lungs and she says it's always the most painful three minutes of her life. But...I don't know. I can't stop thinking about yesterday.
And then there's another part that's wondering what's gonna happen if I run into Russ in the halls. I don't know if I've passed him before, if I have classes with him, nothing. He's a total mystery to me, one that I think I might want to solve.
It kinda feels like I'm tiptoeing around a bunch of land mines and waiting for the one I can't see to go off and explode.
Even now, walking through the familiar lanes of the cafeteria toward the table I always sit at with Stella, Blaine and some other guys from the team, there's an uneasiness that's settling into my stomach, making me lose my appetite.
It's like when your gut is warning you that something bad's going to happen, but you don't want to pay attention and you hope it's just the second cheeseburger you knew you shouldn't have eaten instead.
Stella is alone at the table when I sit down with my tray.
"Eating light today?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at the side salad and apple I picked up.
I shrug. "Not feeling great."
"What's up?"
"Just a bug, I bet."
"Well, stay away," she says, scooting her chair a few inches away from mine.
"Ha, ha."
A tray loaded with a turkey sandwich, potato chips, a salad, and four pickles drops onto the table next to me, and I don't have to look up to know my boyfriend's arrived. He's eaten the same lunch at school everyday for the last three years.
Even on days where seniors are allowed to go off campus for lunch and we grab pizza or hit up Saloon Sal's, it doesn't matter to Blaine. It's always turkey and pickles.
"Doing better today?" he asks, sliding into the seat next to me and giving me a quick kiss on the lips.
"Yeah. I think so." I don't look up from my salad because I don't want to see the quizzical look on Stella's face after I just told her I think I have the stomach flu.
"Good!" Blaine's voice is cheerful, like he's happy to put it all behind us and move on without probing too deep.
Maybe that's part of the problem. I'm not really sure if his indifference bothers me yet.
A small, barely audible sigh squeaks out between my lips as I dig my fork through the wilting iceberg lettuce and shredded carrots on the plate in front of me. I'm about to shovel it into my mouth when I happen to look up and immediately drop the fork. It hits the table with a clang, and Stella and Blaine both jump, then look over at me.
"Oops!" I say, absently reaching for the fork.
I don't look away in time to miss the small smirk that masks Russ' face as he walks by our table.
"Emma! You okay?" Blaine looks at me like I have all the brainpower and motor skills of a six-month-old. "What the hell?"
I shake my head back and forth, trying to snap back to reality and to the life I have; a life without the stupid theater and obnoxious guys with old beaters who go roaming through school hallways dressed up as princes.
To a comfortable, familiar place, a place I like.
"Why are you looking at me like that? I just dropped my fork. Jeez."
Blaine eyes me like he's not quite sure what to make of me right now, and, truthfully, I can't blame him all that much. I think this might be what it feels like when you lose your mind.
I fight the urge to look over my shoulder to see where Russ has ended up. I'm not sure why I care, except I kinda want to know more about these theater people he hangs out with.
Have I ever mentioned that I'm not so great with willpower?
With a yawn, I casually -- at least, I think it's casual -- glance behind me. No sign of Russ. I put my hands on the back of my chair like I'm trying to stretch and crack my back and scan the entire cafeteria.
Nothing.
I'm still looking when I finally catch sight of him near the door at a large round table tucked in the corner. He's sitting with a bunch of other people, and for whatever reason, this surprises me.
Russ doesn't seem like the kind of guy to enjoy a lot of company. He's struck me as the strong, silent, sarcastic type -- not the popular guy. That's Blaine and Richie and sometimes the guys on the basketball team, but only if they're having a good season.
I guess I'm wrong. I watch as he engages the redhead next to him in conversation. From the smile on his face and the way she's angled her body to face his even though they're sitting beside each other makes me think she's his girlfriend.
So there's something else I wouldn't have expected.
I'm not thinking about much as I watch their table, and I wonder if she's the girl I heard singing yesterday. She's got a great voice if it is, and I realize my eyes are narrowing as I study her.
"Earth to Emma. Come in, Emma. Paging Emma."
I snap my attention back to the table and turn around. Blaine and Stella are both staring at me like I've gone totally cuckoo.
"What's got you so flustered?" Stella asks at last. I don't miss the worried look she exchanges with Blaine.
"What? Nothing, I'm not flustered," I say quickly, and I hope they don't notice the squeakiness in my voice that sounds so obvious to me.
Another glance passes between them and I dig into my salad, trying to escape more prying, unwanted questions.
Obviously this whole thing is a mistake. I've got to get the theater out of my head. It's stupid, it's silly, and it's definitely not for me. I think that's clear now, since I have absolutely no desire to tell either Stella or Blaine about it.
Because if it doesn't feel right to share it with the two people closest to me, then it clearly isn't right for me.
Good. Exactly as I always thought.
I'm definitely not a theater person.
I'm glad that's settled.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I'm bored.
School's only been out for about twenty minutes and I've got no idea what to do. There's no football game this afternoon, which might be a good thing considering how I felt at the last one and Stella is skipping practice for a dentist appointment, and I really don't feel like heading home so early.
The way I see it, I only have one real option right now, especially because there's no way I'm letting myself wander back near the auditorium. That would be reckless and stupid, considering I'm still having to battle my brain to stop thinking about it. Clearly, I can't be trusted within a hundred feet of the auditorium.
So I'm staying away, that much I know.
Problem is, I can only think of one other way to kill the next two hours or so before it's time to head home for dinner...and it's not exactly the way I want to spend my time.
But I suck it up and walk over to The Barn without a bag filled with gym clothes for the first time in as long as I can remember. I'm still in my coral sundress and black-and-white striped ballet flats when I wander into the gym.
Coach Morris doesn't notice when I first walk in. She's standing with her back to the door, obviously having just blown the whistle to gather the team around her. All the girls -- now just nineteen instead of twenty -- stare intently at her as she explains something I can't hear.
Veronica sees me first. Her eyes get really wide when she realizes I'm here and she nudges Lynn like I've gone blind in addition to busting my wrist and won't notice. It spreads through the team like a stack of dominos falling, a ripple effect, until it feels like everyone is staring at me except for Coach Morris.
She's still talking, but it doesn't take long for her to realize she's lost everyone's attention and she turns around to look at me just as I'm about to duck out and pretend this whole thing never happened.
It's a mistake to come here. I know that now. Any idea that my teammates could treat me normally is
just that: an idea.
"Well!" My old coach's face lights up when she sees me. "If it isn't my shining star. Ladies, work on your jump serve drill."
With curious looks, the rest of the team reluctantly goes over to the hopper to grab balls for one of Coach's favorite drills as she walks right over to me.
"How are you holding up? Surprised to see you here," Coach Morris says, her voice low and her back to the team so they can't overhear.
I shrug and force myself to stop watching the drill. I want to grab a ball and slam it over the net so badly, it's making my teeth ache.
"I'm fine."
"Emma."
I refuse to meet my coach's eyes. "What do you want me to say? It sucks not being able to play? It sucks not being able to play. But it's not like I can do a whole lot about it."
"I expected to see you at practice the other day."
"What? The day after she ran into me?" I ask, and Coach Morris nods. "Yeah, that wasn't gonna happen."
"You're just as big a part of the team today as you were a few days ago, you know. Getting hurt doesn't change that."
"Maybe not for you."
She shakes her head. "Not for any of us."
"I saw their faces just now," I tell her, and it's further confirmed when we both glance over at the drills and nineteen heads quickly swing away from us as my old teammates pretend they're not trying their hardest to overhear our conversation. "See?"
"They're confused. You were their leader and now they don't know how to react."
"It doesn't feel right being here."
"Emma, this has been your home for years. That hasn't changed because you had an accident."
"I don't know."
"It's what you love."
I mash my lips together. She's right, of course. I love volleyball. I always have, and I'm sure I always will, but there's nothing about it right now that makes me happy. Not being in the gym, not watching the team go through practice without me, not listening to Coach Morris' words of wisdom.
It all just makes my stomach feel like it's trying to claw its way out of my body.
"No," I say. "No. Not anymore."
"My job as your coach is to guide you, right?" she asks, looking me right in the eyes. Returning her gaze is kind of a struggle, but I manage and nod. "I'm telling you, don't walk away from this. You'll regret it."
"It's what I have to do," I say, and my voice is strong when the words come out and I know I mean it.
I know it's right for me.
"And there's nothing I can say to convince you?"
"Look, it's going to take six weeks for me to even see if I can get this paperweight off me," I say, holding up the cast. "Maybe I'll just use that as a break and figure out what to do next. I'm not done with volleyball. That's stupid. And I still want to play for the Hornets. It just hurts too much being around the game when I lost my senior year. I'll never be a three-time Arizona state champion. I'm not going in the record books."
Coach Morris studies me for a long time, and I'm just standing here, praying she's not going to plead with me more. I don't have it in me to keep saying no to her, not when she's been so amazing to me for so many years. I need her to let this go.
"It's your choice," she says with a sigh. "You're welcome back here anytime. You've always got a home in The Barn."
A smile flickers across my face then fades.
I hadn't walked into the gym today knowing for sure that I want to walk away from volleyball, but I do now.
The only problem with this?
I'm not sure where to go next.
And I'm pretty sure the odds are good that I might steer myself right off the edge of a cliff.
***
I make my way back to the main school building after walking out on Coach Morris and the rest of the team. I'm feeling sicker than I have since the whole stupid accident because up until now, it hasn't quite felt real that I can't play volleyball. But after going into the gym and watching the drill and seeing how my teammates look at me now that I'm no longer useful to them -- it all just makes my stomach churn.
Have I ever even belonged there the way I always thought I did?
And as I stand in front of my locker, dumping the books I'll need to maybe do my homework later into my backpack, it hits me. I have nowhere to go now other than home. Killing time after school has never been a problem before, but now I'm totally alone.
Like I'm lost in a place that's always felt familiar and safe.
That's not really a good feeling.
It's just after four; still too early for me to want to go home, but I don't see any other choice unless I want to plop down in an empty classroom and start my homework.
Not exactly my idea of a good time.
So with a resigned sigh, I pick up my backpack, sling it over my shoulder and slam my locker shut before trudging down the hall toward the parking lot where I can catch the bus since my oh-so-sexy cast is keeping my car parked safely -- and uselessly -- in our driveway back home.
I promise I'm not thinking about Russ or singing or theaters when I end up wandering past the auditorium on my way to the bus stop.
Okay, maybe I don't have to take this exact path through the school halls to get outside, but I've ended up standing right outside the same stupid heavy oak doors that made me so obvious to Russ the other day.
You want to know the crazy part?
I'm actually thinking about going in.
I stand outside the oak doors, bouncing my weight from foot to foot, absently gnawing on the skin of my bottom lip.
Should I do it?
Yeah, I probably should. It'll be so easy to take the three steps forward and pull open the door and walk right inside, down one of the aisles and straight up to the stage, announcing that I'm here and ready to tryout.
I swallow hard, beads of sweat prickling along my palms, and I back up against the wall for extra support. The idea of going for it doesn't exactly get a great reaction out of me.
Okay, maybe it's not so easy.
That doesn't mean I can't just go in anyway, right? I mean, what's the harm in creeping inside and snagging a seat in the back row just to watch? It'll be like checking it out in some kind of covert undercover operation or something, I don't know.
But at least I can keep my balance when I think about doing it, so something tells me it's probably not the worst idea I've ever had.
I slowly walk toward the doors, but make sure to use the ones off to the side that hopefully won't make as much noise as the giant center ones did the other day. I don't need to go announcing my presence to anyone -- and especially not to Russ -- right away.
I really wish I could borrow Harry Potter's cloak of invisibility right about now.
With a deep breath that I hope will give me some confidence, I shut my eyes and feel my hands circle around the heavy metal doorknob. I count to three -- I don't know why, but Mom always told me to count when I'm not sure of my next move -- and give it a yank.
I shoot a quick mental thank-you note to my lucky stars -- the door opens quietly and I'm able to slip through unnoticed. I ease it shut behind me until it closes without a sound, and I finally feel like I can let out the breath I've been holding in.
That's when the singing starts up again, and I realize I haven't even noticed it's practically silent in the auditorium when I walk in. I glance over at the stage. There's a girl standing under the harsh, bright lights who I don't think I've seen before.
She's definitely not Russ.
Phew.
I creep over to the back row of seats and drop down into the one on the aisle, as far away from the stage as I can possibly get without being outside the auditorium.
One of the girls auditioning bursts into song. It's a familiar-sounding tune but I can't figure out where I've heard it before and I watch as she moves around the platform, flinging her arms every which way, twirling across the stage. She's really into it, clearly holding nothing back. And as she runs around singi
ng about a lost love, she really makes me believe it, you know? Everything about this girl screams that she really does have a broken heart.
I can't look away.
I lean forward, chin against my good palm, elbow digging into my knee, as I stare at the stage, totally caught up in what's happening in front of me.
Out of nowhere, a guy jogs onto the stage from one of the wings and starts circling the singing girl while she pays him no attention.
I watch intently for a second until I suck in my breath, my eyes grow wide.
There he is.
It's Russ.
My eyes are glued to him as he sweeps across the stage. He's still dressed in the same blue jeans and white button down shirt he was wearing earlier today at lunch, but his cheeks are pinker and his hair's a sweaty mess, like he's just finished running a marathon.
She stops singing and then the most surprising thing happens: Russ starts.
Even though I'm watching him closely and I see his mouth open in time with the words, I'm still not convinced the music is actually coming from him.
'Cause here's the thing: he's kind of really good.
"And there will never come a day / when you're not on my mind / and that's just the way / it'll be for all of time," he croons, and I realize my heart's starting to pound with every word, every lyric that comes out of his mouth.
What the hell?
The girl joins him in a duet and they hold hands, arms extended, as they finish out the song. I'm completely captivated, staring at them, breathing heavily, and I have no idea what's happening to me or why. I don't snap out of it until the song ends and the two of them disappear out of sight off stage.
I shake my head and reach down to pick up my backpack. This is too weird. I clearly can't handle it and it's doing screwy things to my brain.
It's better if I stick with my original gut instinct and get the heck out of town now.
"Hey."
The voice comes out of nowhere and it's so close to my ear that I have to fight the urge to reach back and swat the source of the noise like it's an annoying fly buzzing too close to my head.
