Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(72)
I looked over at Tuba. I had never seen her height as an obstacle. I saw it as something that made her stand out, something unique and strong. It was her defining characteristic.
“Remember last week, Mac asked out a guy in one of her classes, and he told her he didn’t want to date a girl who had bigger muscles than he did? How do you think that made her feel when she looked in the mirror?”
I swallowed and felt terrible, but also, surprisingly, I felt relieved to hear that other people had insecurities. That I wasn’t alone.
“Remember VanBree, and that hot soccer player she liked freshman year who was in love with her?” Tuba asked.
I nodded. Richie Stocker. He was beautiful. Green eyes, freckles, strawberry blonde hair. A lazy California accent.
“She was crazy about him. But he was shorter than her. So she didn’t pursue it. And another girl swooped right in and grabbed him. VanBree’s been jealous ever since because the only damn reason she didn’t go out with him is she was worried what other people would say. She was worried they didn’t match. But that’s such bullshit. If you go through life caring what everybody else thinks, you’re just going to be miserable. All that matters is what you think. And what Emmett thinks. That’s it.”
I felt myself nodding along. Our own eyes were our worst critics. Our own thoughts were the world’s harshest judges.
“Your scar doesn’t define you, CeCe. Unless you let it,” Tuba said. “So don’t.”
She was right. That had been my problem all along.
“So, Emmett understands right?” Tuba asked.
I lifted my shoulder. “He was a little too pissed off to reason with,” I said.
“You mean you didn’t tell him? You didn’t tell him how you really feel?”
I looked away, toward the tree lights.
“Damn it, CeCe, he deserves to know. Hell, you deserve it. You have to tell him. Remember all that talk about a grand gesture? Well, I think it’s your move.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CeCe
Playoffs were the peak of our season and demanded nearly 100 percent of our time. My head was clogged with game plays and my time was claimed by two-a-day practices. I managed to squeeze in a few hours to study. Sleep was negotiable. I appreciated the distraction, which left zero time to dwell on all the mistakes I had racked up in the course of the semester. As athletes, we live off of statistics: wins, losses, digs, serves, assists. We are carefully viewed, judged, and analyzed based on a series of numbers. From that perspective, I was on the top. I had always been comfortable with this type of criticism because it came from a logical source.
If our emotional lives could be categorized the same way, I would be barreling along the bottom of the human chain. Statistics for heartache, disguises, betrayal, hurt, loneliness, denial. Regret. I was racking up huge points in the I SUCK category.
Watford was right. Shakespeare was alive. His characters were real. I was living proof of that.
Our first game of the playoffs was up against a top seed, Milwaukee Central. They were armed with a middle hitter, Audrey McFrey, ranked number three in the nation. We spent the weekend studying game tapes and planning our defense around Audrey.
Her agile body was nearly impossible to predict; she could twist her shoulders and rotate her hips in mid-swing to change her shot. I looked for different ways to read her—her approach, her knees, or her eyes. After eight hours of watching game tape, and three hours of meetings and defensive strategizing with coaches, we had a game plan.
In the final game of the match, Central was up by two. It was rally scoring, and the first team to twenty-one points continued to the semifinals.
The fans in the stadium were on their feet. From my vantage point, they looked like a patchwork quilt of waving colors. The UW Field House was packed, and I knew recruiting coaches from around the country were in the stands. The coach of the UW-Madison volleyball team stood out in a red Adidas jacket. He sat behind our bench, and even though I could usually block out the attention of the fans, I couldn’t help feeling the pressure of his stare.
Music flooded out of the speakers during our time out. We were huddled by the sideline, trying to ice the server. I had requested the DJ to play “Valhalla” by K-Os for this exact moment. I rallied the girls in a circle and we shook our fists to the beat. It was like a war cry gearing up for the final stage of battle.
A referee blew his whistle, and the fans screamed as we took the court. Practically every high school student from Edgelake sat in the stands, decked out in maroon and white Tshirts. I recognized friends from the soccer team, basketball team, and the football team. One football player in particular stood out from the rest. I wouldn’t let my eyes wander over the stands for too long. This was not the place to let my emotions take control.
The time out worked—Central’s server buckled and hit the ball into the net. The room erupted into a violent cheer. We got the point, and the ball back.
It was my serve. I stood behind the red line. My body felt battered and bruised. My wrists and my serving shoulder were taped to give my muscles more support. Two of my fingers were taped together that I had jammed in the last match. But in the heat of battle, you never show weakness. I eyed the court for my victim. I found my target—a sophomore outside hitter whose passing game was average. She was the weakest point on the court.