by Syms, Carly
I spin around in my seat, then frown.
Russ is kneeling down behind me, arms draped over the back of the chair, grinning widely at me.
His hair is sweatier up close.
"Where'd you come from? I don't recognize you without your princely attire."
Last I saw him, he was making his way backstage. I'm not sure how he noticed me sitting back here and got to me all in about thirty seconds.
He grins. "Good to see you again, too, Emma."
I plaster a big, phony smile across my face and muster the friendliest voice I can manage. "Hi, Russ. How was your day? Did you get your homework done yet? Math quiz go okay?" I immediately raise an eyebrow and return to my normal voice. "Is that better for you?"
"Perfect," he says with an even bigger smile. "Thanks, Mom."
"What do you want?"
"Me? Shouldn't I be asking you?"
"I don't want anything."
"Then why'd you come back?"
I glare at him. "I wasn't in the mood to go home early. Not that it's any of your business."
"Oh, of course not," he says, pushing himself to his feet and folding his arms across his chest. "I'm just the lead in the play here, no big deal."
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "The play that no one in the whole school even knows about. Great job. Really impressive."
He sucks in his bottom lip and I notice his knuckles whiten as he curls the fingers of his left hand into a fist.
"Yeah, that's about what I'd expect from you."
The happy-go-lucky, good-natured charm that's usually in his voice has totally disappeared.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He shakes his head and shrugs. "You don't even get it. I don't know if that makes worse or if it just makes me feel bad for you."
I smirk. I can't help it. What Russ is saying is too funny right now, like he knows me or something. Like his life at Ashland has been so much better than mine.
Yeah, right.
"You? Feel bad for me? Please."
Russ spreads his arms as wide as they'll go. "I have everything I need right here," he says. "I'm not the one who's lost."
I open my mouth to respond, then close it and open it again.
What?
I mean, what?
How does he know how I'm feeling, anyway?
And how dare he say something like this to me? Who does he think he is to judge?
"I have no idea what you're talking about." I stare at him, refusing to give an inch or to show any cracks even if I feel like my insides are starting to chip and fall away. "Everything's perfect. Just like it always has been."
He raises his eyebrows. "Okay," he says simply, his voice starting to return to normal, and I wonder what side of Russ I've just met and where he came from. "Great." He smiles as if he's really about to enjoy saying whatever's coming next. "Then you've got nothing to lose, right?"
"Um...sure. Right. Yeah."
His smile grows. "Then get up there and try out."
My eyebrows shoot up and I let out a laugh and immediately slap my hand over my mouth and glance around. I'm not trying to attract any attention here, even if it's only Russ I've been hoping to avoid from the beginning.
"Is it really that ridiculous?" he asks.
I nod and reach down for my backpack. "Yeah," I tell him. "It is. I already told you, I'm no actress."
"So what you're really saying is, you're scared."
I glare at him, suddenly wishing my superpower let me shoot firecrackers from my eyes. "I have never been scared a day in my life," I say with a heck of a lot more gusto than I actually feel.
"Then do it."
The words are simple and he says them quietly, like they don't need any extra emphasis because they already carry enough weight.
I mash my lips together. "What's the point? It's not like I'm about to join the play if I get a part."
He laughs. "Emma, you just said you have no business being on stage. You're probably not even going to get anything if you're really that bad."
"Are you trying to say you think I can't do it?"
Russ shrugs, and there's a shimmer in his eyes that makes me think he's been playing me this whole time. "Prove you can."
I drop my backpack. "You're not going to think this is so funny when I get up there and show you exactly what I can do. Game on, Prince Russ."
He tries to hide his smile, but it's not going so well. "I'd love to see that," he says with no hint of sarcasm. "Go kill it."
I start to march up to the stage when I realize I have no idea how any of this works. I stop and turn back around and catch him staring at me with an amused look on his face.
"Over there," he says, pointing at a table set up on the floor in front of the stage. "Mary will get you set up with everything you need."
I nod and sigh, the bravado I've been feeling just seconds ago already fading as I wonder what the heck I'm getting myself into.
But I do know one thing is absolutely true.
I'm not about to turn back and give Russ the satisfaction of being right.
***
Russ hasn't been kidding.
Mary gives me everything I need and then some. She'd had me choose a song to perform -- "Really, anything works, darling. Even 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,' if that's where your mind is" -- and that's why I'm currently standing backstage humming "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" under my breath.
It's not about to be the big, fun, romantic production I just watched with Russ and that other girl, but who really cares? It's not like I'm serious about this. I just need to get out there and get this over with and prove to him that I'm capable of trying out for some silly school play.
Which I am.
This is no big deal.
So why is my stomach full of raging butterflies again?
"Your first tryout?" The girl's voice startles me out of my trance and I glance over and see the same redhead who had been sitting with Russ at lunch earlier today.
Not that it means a darn thing anyway.
I offer a small nod of the head. "Yeah," I admit. I try to keep my answers short, because I'm suddenly afraid that if my mouth is open for too long, my nerves might make me accidentally throw up all over myself.
She gives me a reassuring smile. "It's no big deal," she says with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I've been doing it for years."
"It's probably easier for you, then."
She thinks about that for a second. "Yeah. You're probably right." She takes two steps towards me and holds out her hand. "I'm Lana."
"Emma."
"Yeah, I know," she says quickly. "The volleyball player."
My forehead creases. I don't expect her to who know I am, and it surprises me that she does. I mean, I know I'm popular, and I know I've been popular throughout high school, but it's starting to get kind of unsettling, realizing how many people know me and I don't know them.
It kinda makes me feel a little icky, actually, when I stop and think about it.
"Uh, right. Yeah, that's me."
Lana nods. "What are you doing here, anyway? Isn't it the middle of your season?"
I hold up the cast on my wrist and Lana's cheeks immediately turn bright red.
"Omigod!" she exclaims. "I'm so sorry! I'm so rude. Ugh, forget I said anything."
"No, no, it's fine!" I say, taken aback by her strong reaction. "It just happened the other day. Done for the year."
The blush still rages on her face as she tries to recover. "So you're doing this to fill the time?"
"Not even. Russ seems to think I don't have the nerve to tryout. I'm just gonna show him he's wrong, that's all."
Lana's eyes narrow ever so slightly when I mention his name. "Oh, you know Russ?"
I shrug noncommittally. "Depends on your definition of 'know,' I guess. I met him yesterday."
"And he's already telling you you're not good enough for the play?" She shakes her head. "Sounds about right."
"I
t's a long story," I say at last, realizing I don't want to throw Russ under the bus with people he obviously already knows. An awkward moment passes between us and I pray Mary will call my name and save me. "So, uh -- were you the girl who tried out yesterday? That song about finding someone?"
Lana returns her attention to the mirror in front of her and pulls out an earring. "You saw that? Hopefuls aren't supposed to see the other auditions."
My turn to feel my cheeks flush. "Oh! Sorry! I, uh, I had no idea."
"I kind of figured as much. But just so you know for next time. Auditions are private. Mary thinks it gives people courage." She glances around, then leans in closer to me. "Me? I think it's dumb. If you can't perform in front of your castmates, how are you supposed to put on an actual show?"
I'm not sure what to say to that and I'm trying to think of something else to talk about when Mary shouts my name from the other side of the curtain.
"That's you!" Lana says cheerily. "Good luck."
I shuffle from behind the thick red velvet curtains and out to the center of the stage. Bright, blinding lights beat down on me from the second-floor balcony and I squint out into the audience, trying to find Russ, but the lights make it impossible to see more than ten or fifteen feet in front of me.
"Okay!" Mary's voice filters into my brain even though it takes a second for my eyes to adjust and find her. She emerges into view a little to my left and claps her hands. "I've got your song queued up! Are you ready?"
I swallow hard and nod meekly. "Okay," I whisper.
"Deep breath," Mary calls out, and I watch as she walks over to a boom box and presses a button. Seconds later, the opening notes to "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" fill the auditorium.
Just breathe, just breathe. This is just about getting back at Russ. It's only for a few minutes. I try to calm myself in the few seconds I have before I need to get it together and sing.
I let out some air, tap my foot to get into the rhythm, open my mouth and let it rip.
"Take me out to the ballgame! Take me out to the crowd!" I stumble as the words croak out my dry throat and swallow before proceeding.
I don't have to be good to prove Russ wrong. I just have to do it.
But as I continue to sing, the words come out easier and easier, and I stop thinking about what's coming next and start to move around the stage. And when I get to the end of the song, the part about three strikes and you're out, I don't know what comes over me, but something possesses me to line up behind an imaginary home plate and swing an imaginary baseball bat toward the fences in time with the song.
Part of me is shocked when the song comes to end. It's been a few minutes since my audition began, but it's gone by much faster than I thought.
The other part doesn't really want to admit that I kind of enjoyed it.
"Bravo, bravo," Mary says with limited enthusiasm. "Thanks, Emma. The cast list will go up on the bulletin board outside the auditorium before the final bell tomorrow."
"Okay," I squeak out. "I'll be there. Thanks."
And with that, I dart to the safety of backstage where I can clear my head and figure out what the heck is going on with me.
CHAPTER NINE
The note waiting for me on my locker after fourth period sends chills racing up and down my spine.
I never knew how ominous six words could be until now. Is it possible for handwriting to be ominous, too? Because it feel like even the loops and swirls of Coach Morris' letters are screaming out at me to brace myself for what's coming next.
I fold the note telling me to meet my coach in her office as soon as possible and slide it into the back pocket of my jeans. My lunch hour is about to start, but something tells me I can grab a granola bar later. Whatever Coach Morris has to say probably can't wait.
The last time a note like this appeared in the vents of my locker, the school secretary needed to see me.
Grandpa Pete had died of a heart attack earlier that morning.
So maybe there's good reason for the somersaults in my stomach right now. Each step I take toward The Barn feels heavy, like my feet are weighing me down, desperate to turn around and go back into the school.
I blow out some air.
I really need to get a grip.
Coach Morris is sitting at her desk, the door to her office open a crack when I walk up. I knock and push the door open at the same time, sticking my head in.
She glances up at the intrusion and the look that passes her eyes is enough to make me want to run out of here, screaming the whole way.
"Hey, Coach," I say, trying to keep my voice light and airy and carefree. Maybe it will help. Probably nothing is wrong, and I'm just imagining the worst because everything in my life has been so off lately.
"Emma, thanks for coming down here so quickly," she says, and my guard instantly goes up again.
This is too formal, too rigid, too unlike the Coach Morris I've always known.
Plus, I can't stop thinking about how Mary might be posting the cast list for the play right now, and I'm stuck here, missing it.
Not that I'm going to accept it if I somehow manage to pull a part out of thin air or something. Unlikely, considering I chose some ridiculous baseball song to perform. I might as well have recited the Pledge of Allegiance or played Ring Around the Rosie. But it'd be really fun to find Russ and rub it in his face that I'm just as good as he is.
So like I've been doing since last night, I remind myself one more time that this is all temporary. Volleyball is still my life, and it will be again as soon as I get this damn cast off my wrist.
And it will be even better once I'm out there on the court in Michigan. I'm absolutely sure of that. The play is a fun distraction for now, but it's nothing more than white noise that'll eventually fade away once the real show begins.
"Sure," I say, and I'm immediately embarrassed at how shaky and unsteady my voice sounds. "I came as soon as I got your note."
Coach Morris nods and gets up to shut the door before she returns to her seat, turning it to face me in her swivel chair, her hands folded in her lap.
"Okay, Coach, you're scaring me. Out with it."
But she stays quiet a little bit longer, and the silence that fills her small office is loud.
"Emma," she says at last, just when I think I'm about to explode out of my chair and shake her for the information she's keeping, "There's no good way for me to say this." She shakes her head. "I never thought it's something I would have to tell you."
"Coach, I'm already out for the season. How much worse can it get?"
"Emma, I'm sorry. Michigan Tech's out."
"Hm?" I say. "Out of what? The tournament didn't start yet, did it?"
I'm pretty sure I'm not so far out of it these days that it's already time for the women's college volleyball tournament that usually takes place at the end of the year.
Last I checked, we're still moving through September.
"No, not the tournament." Coach Morris looks as if she wishes she could beam herself to Peru. She squeezes her eyebrows together then stares right at me. "You're off the team, Emma. Michigan Tech rescinded their offer."
All I hear is a rushing noise filling my head, like jet engines are suddenly taking off all around me, and then, slowly, the sound of laughter takes its place.
It takes me a few seconds to realize it's coming from me.
I'm sitting here in a chair in my volleyball coach's office laughing like a maniac because I know I'm not hearing her correctly.
"Emma? Emma? Emma!"
Coach Morris is suddenly inches away from my face and I push back in the chair to get some space.
"What? Jeez, I'm right here."
She lets out a sigh and takes a few steps back. "Phew. You weren't with us for a few seconds there."
I shake my head. "What are you talking about?"
"You must've gone into -- "
"No, no, no, not that," I say, frowning. "I don't care about that. What do you mean, Michigan Tech
took back their offer? They can't do that."
Coach Morris' eyes are sad. "I'm afraid they can," she says, returning to her chair. "It's not the first time I've seen it happen. And certainly not after a major injury."
My eyes narrow. "This?" I spit out, holding up my wrist. "This stupid cast is what cost me a full ride to UMT?"
"I'm sorry, Emma."
"No, no, no, no. No," I say, pushing myself out of the chair and springing to my feet. "That makes no sense! I'll be healed in two months! Like it never even happened! It's not like this cast is going with me to college."
"Emma." Coach Morris shakes her head sadly. "It's not me who needs convincing."
"Then why didn't you convince them? You're my coach! I thought you were supposed to be in my corner."
"That's out of line." My normally level-headed coach's voice is harsh. "Do you think I didn't fight for you?"
I'm ready to keep yelling when her words rattle around in my completely confused head for a minute or two and when it all sinks in, I do nothing but slump back into the chair in a defeated, dejected, depressed heap.
"Crap," I mutter under my breath.
"I know this isn't what you expected," Coach Morris continues, her voice returning to normal. "Believe me, it's not what I expected, either. But, Emma, it doesn't mean you're out of options. You still have other offers from wonderful schools and wonderful programs."
"They're not Michigan Tech."
She nods. "I know, but again, you have choices."
"I can't think about those right now."
"It's better not to focus on the bad."
"Easier, though."
I rub my forehead and try to take a few deep, calming breaths to stave off the tears I'm positive are going to start flowing.
"Emma." Coach Morris has known me for years, so I'm guessing she also recognizes the look on my face. "Breathe."
"I have to get out of here," I choke out, hurrying to my feet. I grab my bag and dart out of her office, running down the hall to the girls' bathroom where I can let the tears fall.
Maybe Coach Morris thinks I'm overreacting, and maybe I am.
But I'm not sure how else to react when the only dream I've ever had for my whole life is snatched away from me, and I never even saw it coming.
