Beyond the Point(22)
“Attention all cadets . . . there are four minutes . . .”
“Today’s uniform . . . is battle dress uniform . . .”
As the weeks passed, Avery’s life fell into a rhythm that, if not enjoyable, was at least predictable. At practice, Dani McNalley barely spoke to Avery. Instead, that girl spoke exclusively to upperclassmen—as though if she separated herself from the plebes, she would no longer be one. Sarah Goodrich and her friends adopted Dani into their fold, and had even invited Dani to some Bible study they attended, an invitation Avery would never receive, but would have liked to turn down.
She tried her best to ignore her growing jealousy by taking long runs around campus whenever she had a spare thirty minutes. The only reprieve from the madness had become her twice-daily meals with Collins and his imaginary radio. West Point explicitly prohibited plebes from dating upperclassmen, but somehow, the fact that he was off-limits made Collins that much more attractive. By mid-November, she’d moved to the seat directly next to his, letting her leg brush up against his under the table. That went on for a few days, until he responded, clutching his hand around her upper thigh. She felt her eyes roll back in her head at the warmth of his touch.
It was innocent, she told herself. A game she knew she could win.
ON THE SECOND Tuesday in November, the day before they left for Thanksgiving break, Avery sat on a cold metal chair outside of Coach Jankovich’s office, waiting her turn. The coach had scheduled one-on-one meetings with her players, called “MSTEs,” short for “midseason team evaluations,” which made Avery roll her eyes so hard, she thought they might disconnect from her brain. It was clear that Jankovich had worked hard to create an acronym of her own, as if West Point hadn’t already filled their lives with an alphabet soup of abbreviations.
Fifteen minutes after Avery’s scheduled MSTE, Coach Jankovich’s office door opened, and out came Dani McNalley, holding a folded piece of paper. She made eye contact with Avery, her eyes full and intense—like two headlights on the front of a car, barreling through the night. Avery couldn’t quite decipher whether Dani was angry or sad. It didn’t matter.
“Adams,” Coach Jankovich barked from inside her office. “You’re up.”
Inside, the office felt cold and lifeless. Empty plastic water bottles and stacks of paperwork covered her desk, unattended and unorganized. No way this place would pass inspection, Avery thought. It was a wonder Coach Jankovich still had a job at a place like West Point. Her players had to keep their beds made with hospital corners, their mirrors devoid of a single speck of dust, and yet, her office looked like a tornado had just passed through.
“Take a seat,” the coach said. Her dark brown hair, streaked with white, gave her the appearance of a skunk, and for some reason, Avery suddenly felt on edge, like Coach Jankovich had caught her doing something illegal and couldn’t wait to show off all of her evidence. Shifting in her seat, Avery opened her mouth, but was cut off before she could say a word.
“This is your midseason report. You can see here, you’re fifty-two percent at the line. Not great. You’ve outpaced Hannah Speer and Lisa Johnson with your defensive rebounds, which isn’t bad. But I think we both know you’re not where you need to be. You had great stats in high school, but here, you’ve haven’t exactly reached the right level of play.”
Avery’s body filled with heat, and she struggled to breathe, like a heavy cloud had formed in her chest.
“When I compare your stats with varsity, I mean . . . it’s just impossible to compare.” Coach Jankovich focused on the page in front of her, avoiding the eyes of her player. “For example, Dani McNalley hit seventy percent of her free throws.”
Avery cleared her throat, trying to regain her confidence. “That’s actually what I wanted to ask you about. Dani. I’d like a chance to play against her. I mean, she’s great. I know that. But I’ve improved a lot since September. And I think if you gave me a shot, you’d be—”
“We don’t reward players for being the most improved,” Coach Jankovich replied. “We reward players for being the best.”
“Okay,” Avery said, swallowing the hurt. She’d never not been the best. The words that came next sounded foreign coming out of her mouth. “So what do I need to do?”
“Well, Avery, you just don’t have the edge. And unfortunately, that’s not something I can teach.”
The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Staring at this woman—this person who had convinced her that West Point was the best option available—Avery felt something deflate inside of her. “So that’s it?”
Avery couldn’t fight the tears any longer. “I’m sorry, but, if you’re not going to give me a chance to play, why am I even here?”
Coach Jankovich crossed her arms over her chest and sighed. “To be frank, Avery, we assumed one of you would quit during basic training.” She held out a tissue box, but Avery refused to take it from her. “I’m just being honest with you. With McNalley here I doubt you’ll see much of the court. That’s just the way it is. So you can come, participate in practice, and be part of the JV team. Or you can quit now, take a red shirt, and transfer to some other school, where you can play in a year or two. It’s your choice.”
The coach handed Avery the paper printout, then turned to look at her computer.