Select (Select #1)(23)
The court was scorching, and it was my serve. I was good enough after years of playing sporadically that I had already kicked ass—too much ass—so now I had to start missing shots and throwing matches, which was exhausting. The black outfit of the day had been exchanged for white tennis clothes. Needless to say, I didn’t feel like myself.
The tennis-team girls weren’t friendly. They were a close-knit clique who resented my displacing people at the top of the ladder. They didn’t speak to me but they did watch me closely, trying to catch me doing something odd they could gossip about. The freshmen on the JV team seemed to be ostracized too.
My second week at the new school was coming to a close. I had my feet under me and was beginning to trust that I could handle most situations being thrown at me. I could self-regulate a whole lot better than I’d been able to the first couple of days.
My life was almost unrecognizable now. It was as if I’d been in this routine for ages: wake up early, run for an hour, and then get out of the house to avoid watching Liv live her same life while not quite meeting my eyes. I’d barely seen Victoria, and nothing of my dad, for two weeks now. I’d spend the early morning at the same coffee shop, filling up on food I could never get at home, finishing my homework in minutes and still getting to school early.
English class was my favorite because of John. Trying to figure him out was the only thing that was interesting in the least. I finally admitted it to myself. Covertly, I watched his every move, attempting to reconcile two different people I had seen—the one from Barton Springs who had some depth, and the one who appeared to be a distant, popular, one-dimensional jock, however smart. But I couldn’t glimpse the John I’d seen at Barton Springs or even at the police station—the one who was curious, intent on me. Whenever he did look in my general direction, his eyes revealed nothing—not any sign that he found me attractive or even interesting.
Our only interaction had been when I struggled with my assigned locker one day outside the English classroom. I hadn’t used it yet and was fumbling with the completely foreign mechanics of the handle. Passing by, he reached out, opened it, and kept right on walking before I could say a word.
Every day, I kept my head down while progressing from one period to another, skipping lunch to read in the library, sitting through two more classes, then going to tennis practice. After tennis I’d find dinner somewhere, linger, and then go home. When I arrived, people in the house made themselves scarce.
I could go a full day without having one conversation. After spending hours in my room, waiting in vain for Liv to come apologize or at least check on me, I’d fall asleep, sometimes before dark, the exhaustion a result of the sheer amount of effort it took to manage the sensory overload of the day. And then I’d wake up and hit repeat.
If I had felt alone a year ago when the separation into groups had happened, that didn’t come close to this. I still had friends then, and I had maintained a close relationship with my sister.
Not one of my friends tried to contact me. Why did they all hate me? I was playing into it by steering clear, acting like I wasn’t one of them, as if I had done something very, very wrong. I was being a good girl and doing everything Novak asked.
I bounced the ball a couple of times and served to my teammate, who hit it into the net. I had to be careful not to laugh. Grace Ellen was one of the bitchiest players—and also a senior and one of the captains. I had to hand it to her: she didn’t act as if she was in awe of me at all. Grace Ellen wanted to bring me down.
“Okay, ladies. Five minutes for a water break,” said Coach Kim, a youngish woman who had played for UT. She was easily steamrollered by the girls, and there was a general sense that the inmates ran the asylum.
Like a spoiled brat, my opponent walked away without a word and didn’t bother returning the shot I’d just fired off. Reluctantly I left the court, not wanting to deal with the inevitably social water break, which was always more like ten minutes.
“What is he doing here?” one of the girls asked in surprise, and gestured with her chin. Everyone was grabbing their water bottles from the bleachers, crowding into the small slice of shade. I stood alone, twenty feet away from the group, but I could hear them clearly.
“No way,” someone said dramatically. “He’s not playing on the boys’ tennis team?” Toweling off, I couldn’t help but look in the direction the girls were staring.
“His brother said he has an injury, so maybe he can’t play at his level anymore or whatever.”
“Alex told me that’s why John left that Florida academy. Something’s wrong with his shoulder.”
“Who is he?” A freshman girl on the JV team dared to speak and then instantly looked like she regretted it.
One of the seniors filled her in. “John Ford. He’s a senior. He was at a tennis academy in Florida, and I think he was maybe hoping to go pro? But he wasn’t good enough or he got injured. So he’s back this year.” I noticed an unusual silence in the group as everyone watched him serve. You could barely see the ball, he slammed it so hard.
“He’s got a cannon,” someone said in awe. “I heard he hit one thirty-five.” That meant nothing to me, but, watching, I couldn’t help but be impressed.
“Damn. How do you get two kids from the same family who are that hot and that good at tennis?” someone wondered aloud. Funny—they were words I’d heard people say about my family forever. How do you get people who are so wealthy and smart and athletic and attractive? I definitely did not consider myself included when I’d heard that last speculation.