Georgia on Her Mind(51)

I watch the preliminary action, hoping no one remembers I’m five-ten. Every volleyball game is the same. Stick the tall girl in the front line and tell her to spike.

Tina Farrow harangued me during this inane game in eighth-grade gym class. Awkward and geeky with my new long limbs, I fumbled over my own feet during one game and landed in the net, arms and legs everywhere. Even our P.E. teacher faced the wall to hide her laugh.

After that, I refused to play such a cruel sport. In high school I was always sick that semester.

“Anyone for volleyball?” one of the guys hollers toward the pavilion.

“Macy’s here. She can play,” Lucy shouts down to them, pointing at me.

I gape at her. “Have you gone mad?”

“Look, a whole bunch of guys are here—Greg, Kip, Tomás what’s-his-name.”

I peer over the rail. No Velcro sneakers or bad combovers. Greg, Kip and Tomás are very cool—in fact, the largest gathering of cool I’ve ever seen at one of these things.

“Go on.” She pushes me.

“No way.” I grit my teeth. “You know I hate volleyball.”

“Just stick your hands in the air and spike it.”

“Come on, girl. I’ll go with you.” Tamara jerks me by the arm.

I don’t know why, but I go. I’m an idiot.

“All right, Macy, Tamara,” Tomás says, big white grin splitting his brown face. “I got dibs on Macy.”

“I’m really awful,” I confess, loudly, as a way of warning, watching Tamara cross under the net to the other side.

“Just stand in front and spike it.” He takes my hand, walks me to the front center and gives me a thumbs-up.

This is not good….

We volley for serve, and fortunately the ball soars away from me every time. I stand there with my hands in the air looking ridiculous.

However, I am pleased to see that one or two on the opposing team are worse than I am.

Once the game starts and the first few passes fly right over my head, I relax a little. We’re up three-zip.

Tamara claps her hands, admonishing her team. “Let’s go! We can do this.”

They serve. I tip my head back to see the ball coming right at me.

“It’s yours, Macy,” Tomás coaches. “Spike it!”

In that split second I get a grrr in my gut and decide, Now is my time. Eighth grade and Tina Farrow are twenty years behind me. Spike this one for yourself, Macy.

Eye on the ball, I draw back my arm. I leap. I’m spi-i-i-king.

The ball bounces off the net and into my face.

“Oomph!” The blow knocks me on my back, arms and legs flailing, the humiliation of junior high revived. I can’t open my eyes. I can’t look.

“Macy, are you all right?” Tomás is barely able to talk because he’s stifling a big hee-haw laugh.

“I’m fine.” I grab his offered hand.

Tamara hollers, “Way to sacrifice the body, Macy.”

Tomás holds my chin and examines my face. “Let me see.” He’s highly amused by this damsel in distress.

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

“I just want to be sure. No black eyes or anything.”

“I warned you—I stink.” There’s an edge to my voice. Just because a girl is tall doesn’t mean she’s an athlete.

He grabs me by the shoulders and looks into my eyes. “Concentrate. You can do this.” He gives me a light shake and goes back.

Concentrate. I make a face. What a novel notion. Einstein attributed his genius to concentration. Okay, this is not physics and I’m not Einstein, but I can do this. Concentrate.

In the next few passes, I set to Kip once, followed by a tip over the net. We score both times. Feeling proud and full of myself, I ready for the next volley.

I point at Tamara. “I’m gunning for you, Clayton.”

“Bring it on, Moore.”

I’m having fun now, sort of. The next volley sends the ball soaring my way. It’s a little high and a little past me, but I can get it. I run back, concentrating, concentrating.

Maybe in the distance I hear, “I got it,” but I’m concentrating. Eye on the ball. I’m going for it, erasing all my fears.

I draw my arm back, hand poised, aiming to pound that ball to south Florida, when all of a sudden my elbow slams into a brick wall.

In reality, it’s Tomás’s face. We tumble to the ground, me landing on top of him, blood gushing from his nose.

“Somebody get a towel,” someone screams.

I scramble to my feet, humiliated. “Oh, Tomás, I’m so sorry,” I sob.

“It was an accident. Don’t worry.” He presses the towel to his nose. “Didn’t you hear me yell I got it?”

“No. Well, maybe.”

“I think it’s broken,” someone declares after peeking underneath the towel.

“Broken!” I broke a man’s nose? I fall to my knees, face in my hands. This is what I get for concentrating.

Tamara kneels next to me in the sand. “You okay?” she whispers.

“No. I broke a man’s nose.”

“Better go to the E.R. just in case,” Kip suggests.

“I’ll take him.” I jump up and face the pavilion. “Jack, I need your keys.”