Shelley bit her lip, partly from nervousness and partly from frustration. She had sworn to herself, and to Cathy, that she was going to broach the subject of the Varsity Club dance with Greg that afternoon, the first chance she got. Why wouldn't he look at her? Greg, she thought, trying to send him a telepathic message. Greg, come over and do the box step with me and quit staring at Carol.
Her reverie was suddenly interrupted when a boy she didn't know tapped her on the arm. "Uh—do you want to do this box step with me?"
Shelley stared blankly at his unfamiliar face. Surprisingly it was the same height as her own. He had green eyes and sandy hair, and he was OK-looking. Nothing special, though. He seemed very shy.
"My name's Jim Roberts. I've watched you play basketball a lot. I think you're great," he told her.
Shelley looked over at Greg, who was taking Carol's hand. She sighed deeply as she turned back to Jim. "Thanks," she said. She noticed Jim's hand was a little sweaty. He stepped hard on her foot when they tried to assume the starting position, and Shelley winced.
Patrick turned on the music, and the couples started dancing. Shelley looked around the gym, trying to see how everyone else was doing. Elizabeth Wakefield and Jeffrey French seemed like old pros. Elizabeth's sister, Jessica, on the other hand, was suffering through Winston Egbert's agonizing attempts to turn the box step into a combination of dirty dancing and disco. Amy Sutton had been paired up with Bruce Patman, but she was gazing at Patrick, who was walking back and forth, observing the class. From time to time he called out something like "Nice work!" or "Watch that position!"
Shelley wished the tape player would break. Jim seemed like a nice guy, but he was making her feel like the biggest klutz in the room. To top it all off, he apologized every time she stepped on him, as if it were his fault! After their second attempt to form a box failed miserably, Jim seemed as unhappy as Shelley felt.
"I guess I'm not very good at this, huh?" he said when the music stopped and they broke apart. Patrick announced that the class was over and would meet again the following Wednesday.
"No, you did fine," Shelley insisted. "I'm the one who—" She broke off mid-sentence and stared at Greg. Carol had grabbed her jacket from the bleachers, and she was wriggling into it. She whispered something to Greg and then headed for the exit by herself. Shelley didn't know whether to be relieved or anxious. With Carol gone, she didn't have any excuse not to discuss the dance with Greg.
Greg turned around and seemed to notice Shelley was in the gym for the first time. "Hey, Novak!" he called out, coming over to her and giving her a playful shove. "Let's walk home together, OK?"
Shelley managed a smile, but her mouth was dry with nervousness. This was it. She was going to find out how Greg felt, like it or not.
"That was fun," Shelley said as she and Greg stepped out the front door of the school.
"Yeah, I guess. I don't know how big I am on that kind of dancing, though." Greg gave an exaggerated yawn, and Shelley giggled. "Carol was really into it, and she asked me to come."
Shelley hesitated. "I thought you two—well, you know . . ."
Greg sighed. "I wish I could figure out what's going on in that girl's head." For a minute he sounded really sad. Then he said firmly, "No, we're broken up for good. I guess Carol still wants to be friends, but that's it."
Shelley was relieved. She shot a quick glance at Greg, who looked thoughtful. "Do you really miss her?" she asked, immediately wishing she could take the question back. She didn't want to know.
"Sometimes." Greg shrugged. He grinned and leaned over to jab her in the arm. "Let's talk about something more interesting: basketball. You ready for the game on Saturday? Do you think Emerson's got a chance against you?"
Shelley took a deep breath. She wasn't going to let the conversation turn into a sports newscast this time. She had psyched herself up for this conversation as if it were the championship game. Only her relationship with Greg was on the line, not the league title. "Greg," she said boldly, "weren't you surprised to see me show up at that dance class?"
Greg thought it over for a second. "No. Why should I be? I thought girls always liked stuff like that."
"Well, I just want to learn to waltz before the Varsity Club dance," she said, looking at him meaningfully.
"Oh," Greg said, apparently not getting the hint.
But Shelley wouldn't give up. "You know about that dance, right? It's going to be held at that new hotel downtown, two weeks from Friday."
"Yeah," Greg said. "I got an invitation from the Varsity Club, too. Remember," he teased her, "I got a letter in soccer and another one in tennis. I know I'm not all-state material like you are, but—"
Shelley cut him off. "So, have you thought about who you're going with? To the dance, I mean."
"Nah." He shook his head. "I don't know yet."
There was a long silence, and Shelley felt her stomach tighten into a knot. "I guess," she said slowly, "you haven't really thought about taking me."
"You?" Greg stared at her, surprised. The minute she saw the look on his face Shelley wanted desperately to take back what she had said. He looked stunned. He'd obviously never had even the slightest bit of romantic feeling for her.
"Never mind," Shelley mumbled quickly.
But Greg was so embarrassed that he made the situation worse by trying to joke about it. "We couldn't go together, Shel. I'm not tall enough for you. You need a guy like Patrick—someone who can tower over you on the dance floor." He laughed. "I mean, you're already taller than I am. And what if you wore high heels? We'd look ridiculous. I mean—"
Shelley felt her face turn bright red. "Forget it," she mumbled, her eyes filling with tears. "You're right."
She couldn't wait to get away from him. Here she had taken the biggest risk of her life and asked Greg Hilliard to the dance, and he'd made her feel like even more of a freak than she had felt before!
We'd look ridiculous. Those words kept repeating in her head as they walked the rest of the way home in awkward silence. He was right—they would, Shelley thought. But that was because she herself looked ridiculous. And she had asked him a ridiculous question.
She didn't even say hello to her mother when she got home. She ran straight upstairs and threw herself down on her bed and sobbed.
She was never going to forgive Greg. And she wasn't going back to those stupid dance lessons, either. As far as she was concerned, dancing was history. She wasn't going to go to the Varsity Club dance at all—not with Greg, not with anyone.
She wasn't going to be a laughingstock. If they wanted to give her an award, they would just have to send it to her.
Four
Gordon Tilman, the girls' basketball coach, blew his whistle and called the team over to him. It was Friday afternoon, and they had just finished their last workout before the first big playoff game.
"OK, you guys," Coach Tilman said, looking from one earnest face to the next. "I know you've heard me say this before, but we've got a tough team on our hands tomorrow. The only way we're going to beat Emerson is to play one hundred fifty percent. You with me?"
Everyone cheered. Cathy nudged Shelley, whose expression was vacant, and Shelley belatedly joined in the cheering.
Coach Tilman had apparently noticed. "Shelley, can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked after he told everyone to hit the showers and get a good night's sleep.
Hanging her head, Shelley nodded.
"Look," he said kindly, putting an arm around her shoulder, "I know you've got a lot of pressure on you. It isn't easy being an all-star player right before a big series begins. But somehow I'm getting the feeling that your heart hasn't been in the game these past few practices. Am I just imagining things, or is there something bugging you?"
Shelley blushed. "No, there's nothing wrong," she lied. "I guess I'm just a little nervous, that's all."
He gave her an affectionate pat on the back. "Well, remember, a lot of people are counting on you tomorrow. I heard through the grapevine that F
erini and some of the other college scouts are going to be at the game. If you play as well tomorrow as you have all season, I bet that scholarship to UCLA will be yours for the asking. Just play your best, and don't worry—it'll be great. Now get lost!"
When Shelley entered the locker room, Cathy was waiting for her at her locker. "What did Coach say?" she demanded.
"Nothing." Shelley wiped her face off with a towel. "I'm going to take a shower."
She brushed past her friend, knowing from the look on Cathy's face that she had hurt her feelings. But she didn't feel like going into the whole thing right then. Why tell Cathy the terrible truth—that she'd broached the subject of the dance to Greg the other day; and he had made her feel awful?
Worse than awful, in fact. Shelley had never had a lot of confidence off the basketball court. But ever since Greg's harsh reaction, it seemed her confidence on the court was disappearing as well. She felt awkward and clumsy, as if her legs were too long and she was tripping over herself. And she felt heavier, too. It seemed to take forever to run from one end of the court to the other. The drills they did in practice felt unfamiliar to her, although she had been doing them for years. "I feel like an alien," Shelley muttered to herself in the shower. "A six-foot alien."
Cathy was waiting for Shelley when she came out of the locker room fifteen minutes later. "I've decided I'm walking home with you," Cathy announced, falling into step beside her.
Shelley didn't say anything.
"So, I take it you talked to Greg and it didn't go so well," Cathy said bluntly once they were walking down the sidewalk.
Shelley had to smile; Cathy knew her so well. "Can we drop the subject? I've had enough humiliation for one week."
Cathy patted her on the arm. "I happen to be your best friend, remember? Things that hurt you hurt me." She narrowed her eyes in a menacing look. "Greg Hilliard's in big trouble if he hurt your feelings. Trust me."
Shelley couldn't help laughing. "Cut it out," she said affably. "Anyway, it isn't his fault that I'm a freak of nature."
Cathy was horrified. "He said that?"
Shelley shrugged. "Not in so many words. But, Cath . . ." Her voice trailed off. "You should've seen the look on his face when I asked him about the dance. That one look said it all. He looked like he was astonished that I'd even think of going with him."
"Greg Hilliard's a dope, then," Cathy said affectionately, linking her arm through Shelley's. "If he didn't die of joy on the spot, he's stupid. So forget him. Let's just go stag to the dance, OK?"
Shelley shook her head. "I don't think so." She knew Cathy was trying hard to make her feel better, but it wasn't working.
She couldn't erase the memory of Greg's expression when she had brought up the dance. Why couldn't she be cute and tiny and adorable like Carol? Or even just on the tall side, 5'9" like Cathy?
The past couple of days Shelley felt as if all the taunts she had heard in middle school were coming back to haunt her. Kids used to call her "towering inferno" because her hair was red. Or "the friendly giant." Or "Halfback Novak" because she was so good at sports. It was so embarrassing!
They reached the corner where Cathy had to turn right to go home and Shelley had to turn left. "Well," Cathy said, "I guess I'll see you tomorrow morning, huh?"
Shelley nodded. Cathy raised her right arm and made a fist—a secret victory sign the two girls had shared since they were little girls.
Sighing, Shelley lifted her own right arm and gave the signal back. But her heart wasn't in it. She knew she ought to be fired up about tomorrow morning's game, but instead, she was dreading it.
It was Saturday morning, and the first playoff game of the series between Sweet Valley High and Emerson was in the final quarter. It had been a tough game so far. Emerson had been leading at the half, 48–38, but in the third quarter Sweet Valley had come back, thanks to some incredible passing. Now, with only two minutes to go in the final quarter, the score was 78–76, Emerson leading.
Cathy had the ball and was racing down the court to Sweet Valley's basket, dribbling beautifully. "Shel!" Cathy cried, passing her the ball.
Shelley's heart was pounding. This was the sort of shot she had become famous for. She was far from the basket, but with her height and her precision. . . . She aimed carefully, trying to block out the sound of cheering coming from the bleachers. The ball sailed through the air and grazed the rim of the basket, bouncing backward right into the open arms of Nancy Roy, Emerson's best player. Shelley's eyes closed for an agonizing second as the Emerson fans all rose from the bleachers, screaming with joy. Nancy raced straight back to her own basket and dropped the ball in effortlessly. The score was 80–76, Emerson's lead widening with only fifty-eight seconds to go. Shelley felt sick. Her error would cost them the game.
Coach Tilman blew his whistle, calling a time-out. As Shelley jogged over to the huddle on the far side of the court, she noticed a boy in a green sweatshirt snapping photos of her. Instinctively she covered her face. She hated having her picture taken. And right now, after she had just missed a shot she should have made easily, the last thing she wanted was to have her picture taken. The guy lowered the camera, and she saw that it was the boy from dance class, Jim Roberts.
Coach Tilman gave them a short pep talk, not mentioning Shelley's missed shot. "You can do it, girls," he said. "We've still got time. Cathy, I want you to watch your blocking. Shel, be ready to catch passes and shoot for all you're worth." He passed around a water bottle and gave them all reassuring pats. "Don't let your energy slack off. We've got fifty-eight seconds, and we can still turn this game around!"
Shelley felt heartsick as she ran back out onto the court. She wished he had criticized her for messing up that shot instead of letting it go. She had disappointed the whole crowd. The thought of her parents and friends watching from up in the stands made her stomach churn. And Ferini and the other talent scouts. . . . She knew she looked terrible today. She just wanted the game to be over!
"Hey, relax," Cathy hissed. "This is a game, not a battle!"
But to Shelley it felt like a war, one she was going to lose.
The last fifty-eight seconds flew by. Emerson got control of the ball right away, and Sweet Valley couldn't get it away from them. Nancy scored two more baskets before the whistle blew: 84–76, Emerson.
Coach Tilman tried to console the team by focusing on the next game in the playoff series. "We'll get them back next Thursday," he said reassuringly. "I know it."
Shelley couldn't wait to get showered and changed and out of the locker room.
To her surprise and annoyance Jim Roberts was hanging around outside the locker room when she came out half an hour later. "Hi," he said shyly. "I just wanted to tell you—"
But Shelley was in no mood to be polite. "Look," she said, her voice sounding more rude than she had intended. "I just have one thing to say: I don't like having my picture taken. Do me a favor and dump that roll of film."
Jim looked embarrassed. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said.
Shelley nervously ruffled her short, wet hair with her fingers. "Well," she said, "you did." She didn't know what else to say.
"Why don't you like having your picture taken?" Jim went on.
Shelley stared at him. What am I supposed to say to that? Because I have a bad self-image, Jim? Because I'm a klutz? Because I just missed the shot that could have turned the game around for us?
"I was wondering," Jim blurted out, "if I could take you out to get a soda or something. Or take a walk. You know."
Shelley was about to tell him she was tired and wanted to be alone when she saw Greg and Carol walk past, very much together, shoulders touching, staring into each other's eyes. "Jim, that sounds nice," she said loudly, so that Greg could hear her. "That's so sweet of you!"
Jim looked astonished. "You mean you'll come?"
Greg and Carol had passed by, and Shelley sighed heavily. She looked at Jim—really looked at him—and something in his earnest expressio
n made her feel a little less rotten. He seemed like a sweet guy. And she didn't feel like going home to her parents, who would want to talk endlessly about the game and her strategy for the next one. Why not go out with Jim for a few hours? It wouldn't be the end of the world, and it might even be fun.
"Sure," she said, forcing a smile.
"I've got my car here," Jim said, fumbling to get his camera back into its case. "Let's go."
Shelley followed him out to the parking lot. "So," she said, "are you serious about photography? Most people don't lug expensive cameras around with them just for fun."
"No, I'm just a hack," Jim said, shrugging. "You know, I like snapping pictures. I like trying to figure out how something's going to look on film and trying to capture things, places." He reddened a little. "I don't usually find people I want to take pictures of, though. But your face, the way you move—"
What was he trying to say? Shelley wondered.
"You're an amazingly graceful girl," he finished, avoiding her gaze. There was an awkward pause before he pointed out an old Camaro in the parking lot. "That's mine," he said with a self-effacing laugh.
Shelley didn't know what to say. She just followed him to the car, a million different thoughts colliding in her head.
Why hadn't she noticed him before? And was he serious, saying that stuff about her being graceful? Or was he just saying that so he could take more pictures of her?
Five
"These are fantastic," Elizabeth said, looking at a series of pictures Jeffrey had taken at the beach one rainy morning when it was deserted. They were in the darkroom, printing some of the photographs he had taken over the weekend. "I like the way the sand looks so grainy."
"Yeah, but I can't help thinking that these aren't really right," he said thoughtfully. "Do you know what I mean? I want to do something special for the competition, but I just haven't had a great idea yet."
Elizabeth nodded. Just then there was a knock on the door. "Come in, the coast is clear!" Jeffrey called out.
Jim Roberts tentatively stuck his head into the darkroom. "Hi. Mr. Collins told me I might be able to use the darkroom for a while to print some of my pictures." He looked shyly at Jeffrey and Elizabeth. "Can I print some stuff now, or are you two busy?"
Perfect Shot (Sweet Valley High Book 55) Page 3
