Girl Against the Universe (7 page)

The next day, I go from being invisible to being that girl who everyone whispers about and sneaks glances at when they think she's not looking.

I first notice it at lunch. I'm outside again, with my PBJ and my spy girl novel, in the same spot that was completely deserted yesterday. Today it seems like everyone needs to pop out of school and go for a short stroll, just far enough to pass me and then double back to the front doors. I tell myself I'm being paranoid—it happens—but after the third or fourth burst of unexplained giggles I pull my phone out of my purse. I check my hair, my teeth, and my outfit. There's no obvious reason that people should be spontaneously exploding with laughter at the mere sight of me. It has to be because of what happened at tennis tryouts.

As I slip my phone back into my purse, my eyes fall on my luck notebook. I realize I forgot to write down what happened with Jordy. I turn to the section where I record all
of the unlucky happenings and their outcomes and jot down a basic description.

Sept 9th. Tennis courts. While playing a practice point, I hit Jordy Wheeler with a tennis ball.

No need to be overly descriptive. It's not like I'll ever forget that moment.

“Hey,” a familiar voice says.

I look up to find Jordy standing over me. He's wearing track pants and a T-shirt and his hair is damp like he just got out of the shower. Quickly, I shut the notebook.

“Luck notebook,” he reads from the cover.

I silently curse at my twelve-year-old self for being so literal. Did I really have to write that on the outside?

“Did I see my name in that?” His lips twitch.

“No.”

He kicks at the toe of my flip-flop with one of his giant feet. He's wearing the latest Nike court shoes. They probably cost more than my racquet. “I think I did.”

“Well, you think wrong. It's a project for math class.” I slip the notebook back into my purse. “Question. Are random people laughing at you today?”

“I don't know. I just got here.” Jordy sits down next to me. “I do school online. I only have to come to get my tests and quizzes proctored. Otherwise they think I'll cheat.”

“Would you?”

He chuckles. “Possibly. I'm not really big on school.”

I watch a group of three girls exit the lobby and turn the
opposite direction from me. “I'm probably just being paranoid.”

“Well, someone from the team uploaded a video of my awkward moment,” Jordy says. “They caught you standing at the net looking all cute and apologetic. It might be that.”

“Wonderful.” I barely register the fact he called me cute. “I thought all of those girls were your friends.”

“They are, but everyone loves embarrassing video footage, don't they?” He looks down at his phone. “I'd better get going. See you later.”

I sit through the rest of my classes doing my best not to call attention to myself or make eye contact with anyone. If I don't
see
them laughing at me then it's not really happening, right? Except, of course, it is, and I can totally
hear
them.

Psych class is the worst. I'm one of the first people to arrive, as usual. I pull out my textbook and open to the section on Solomon Asch's conformity experiments. It's pretty interesting stuff, really—Asch and his team got people to give clearly wrong answers to basic matching puzzles by setting them up in a group of other people who worked for the experimenters and gave the wrong answer on purpose. The results bothered Asch—evidence of humanity's willingness to go against what we believe is right in order not to look foolish.

But as more and more people saunter into the room and I hear whispers and giggles, I sort of understand how Asch's
participants must have felt. Confused. Embarrassed. Ganged up on. I sink farther and farther down in my chair.

Jade takes the seat next to me, seemingly oblivious. “How are things?”

“Crappy as usual,” I mumble.

Kimber and Colleen stride up the row between us. Kimber stops to give me a long look. I resist the urge to slide even closer to the ground.

“Coming back to tryouts?” She smoothes invisible wrinkles from a reddish-orange T-shirt dress that looks amazing on her lean frame and dark skin.

I try not to stare. I would look like a tomato if I wore that outfit. Next to her, Colleen is dressed more like me—jeans and a T-shirt. She shifts her book from one arm to the other as she waits for Kimber, who is still waiting for me to respond.

I keep my voice level. “Why wouldn't I?”

From the other side of me Jade adds, “Yeah. Why wouldn't she?”

Kimber's eyes flick to Jade and then back to me. “Just asking,” she says. “Things are only going to get harder, and it looked like you were struggling with some of the warm-up exercises.”

I decide not to point out that
everyone
was struggling with her insane Navy SEAL calisthenics. “I can handle it,” I say coolly.

“That's good to know.” She flips a couple pieces of
colored paper onto my desk. “Here's some free passes to my gym, in case you ever want to do a little extra conditioning.”

Before I can even form a response, the bell rings and the girls hurry toward their desks at the front of the class. The cotton fabric of Kimber's dress snags on the edge of an empty chair. With a sharp ripping sound, a hole opens next to the seam, exposing part of her muscular thigh.

“Son of a . . .” Kimber mutters, gathering the torn fabric around her.

There's a chorus of sympathetic cooing from the girls by her. One girl fumbles in her purse for a safety pin and hands it across the aisle.

“Please tell me you did that with your mind,” Jade whispers with a grin.

I force a weak smile in return, but all I can do is wonder. Coincidence or bad luck?

Today at practice it's Colleen's turn to lead the calisthenics. As we go through a series of one-legged squats and side-to-side sprints, yesterday's overworked muscles start to scream in protest.

Next to me, Jade groans. “I feel as stiff as a board.”

“Me too,” I say as we drop to the grass for some stretching. “I thought those squats were going to kill me.”

“Good thing you got those free gym passes so you can enjoy more of this torture outside of school.” Jade rolls her eyes. “Some people are so rude.”

Someone taps me on the shoulder from behind. I glance back.

“Hey,” Jordy says, his brownish-blond hair blowing forward into his eyes. “Ready to tune up your serve?”

“Sure,” I say. “Hope you like a challenge.”

We all head down to the courts. Colleen and her doubles partner, a girl named Luisa, pass us on either side. Both of them seem to be smothering giggles.

I grit my teeth. “I am so tired of people laughing at me.”

“Everyone's calling you the Ballbuster,” Jade pipes up. “You slayed the dragon. You're famous.” She cackles. “Or infamous, depending on who you ask.”

From my other side, Jordy coughs. “Dragon seems appropriate, but I wouldn't say
slayed
.”

My face goes hot. “I keep thinking things can't get any worse, and then they do.” I exhale a deep breath of air and concentrate on the ground in front of me.

Jordy nudges me in the ribs. “What are you so upset about? I'm the one whose public castration has six thousand hits on YouTube. You're the girl known for her wicked pinpoint accuracy.”

I lift my eyes. He's smiling like the whole thing is just a big joke.

“Don't sell yourself
short
, Jordy,” Jade says, a slow grin spreading across her face. “I'm sure it's bigger than a pinpoint.”

He laughs. He reaches across me toward Jade like he's
going to grab her. “You wish you knew.”

She dances out of his way. “No I don't.” She flips back into her fake British accent. “I've no interest in becoming one of your conquests.”

Jordy snorts. “Conquests? I think you're giving me too much credit.”

“Perhaps.” Jade cocks her head to the side. “Perhaps not.”

One of the girls on Court Three hollers at her. She ducks through the gate and breaks into a slow jog, leaving Jordy and me standing awkwardly outside the fence.

He turns to me. “I don't have conquests.”

I fiddle with the zipper of my racquet bag. “It's none of my business.”

“Yeah it is. If we're going to practice together, I don't want you thinking I'm some predator.”

“Fine,” I say. “Noted.” I don't really care if he has conquests or not. The whole school might be in love with him, but to me he's just a guy helping me with my serve.

We end up practicing on Court Two, between Kimber and Colleen on Court One and Jade and a girl named Penn on Court Three. Penn looks like a catalog model—tall and tanned, with shoulder-length cornsilk-blonde hair secured in a braid and a thin headband taming her flyaways. She's really good, though, chasing down every ball Jade hits and directing them at the far corners of the court.

“Nice shot,” Jordy says after she rockets a ball cross-court out of Jade's reach.

“Thanks.” She flashes him a smile. Sliding a ball out from a pocket sewn into her tennis trunks, she goes to the baseline and prepares to serve.

I trace the movement of her long, lean form as she tosses the ball high, brings her racquet back, coils her body, and launches herself upward into the serve. The ball goes over the net and lands on the outside line of the service box. It's perfect, just like she is. Jordy is still watching her, and I wonder for a second if she got a lecture from Kimber too.

“That's how you want your serve to look,” Jordy yells from across the net. He pulls a ball out of his pocket and tosses it to me.

I do a five-second check and then attempt to imitate Penn's service motion. My ball slams into the tape and ricochets off at an angle, spiraling its way through the middle of Court One just as Kimber is approaching the net.

She stops short as my ball rolls right in front of her. “You're going to have to do better than that, New Girl.” She scoops up the ball with her racquet and hits it in my direction.

Jordy jogs around to my side of the court. “You want your toss high and out in front of you.” He sets his racquet on the ground, the handle almost perpendicular to my front foot. He puts a ball in my hand and then wraps his hand around
mine. “Don't let go yet.” He demonstrates the movement my arm should make. “Smooth. Relaxed,” he says. “Use your shoulder. Don't bend your elbow or wrist. You want the ball to fall close to where the face of my racquet is right now.”

I feel anything but relaxed.
Focus, Maguire.
I try not to notice Kimber and Colleen stopping to watch us. I try not to focus on the sensation of Jordy's hand still wrapped around mine, the tickle of his arm hair brushing against my wrist.

“Ignore them. There's no one here but you and me,” he says. “Now just toss a few balls up to get a feel for it. Use your backswing, but don't hit them.”

Trying my best to pretend the rest of the tennis team doesn't exist, I toss a ball up in the air. It lands behind me.

Jordy bounces me another ball. “Try again. Use your fingertips instead of your whole hand. That'll make you less likely to wrist it.”

The next three balls land too far in front of me or too far off to the side. But eventually I toss one up that lands on the face of Jordy's racquet.

“Better.” He grins at me. “Okay, now we're going to add in the whole service motion.” He positions himself behind me and rests his hands lightly on my arms. He walks me through an imaginary serve.

His touch makes me blush. He smells like a mix of sweat and Christmas trees, a blend that's strangely appealing.

“Remember, you want your arm to be fully extended when you make contact with the ball. For right now don't
worry too much about your aim. Just work on a proper toss.”

He backs up, and I get to work. I try about twenty practice serves but only get four of them over the net. Discouraged, I swing my racquet in a vicious arc. “I'm hopeless, aren't I?”

“Nobody's hopeless,” Jordy says. “Using your shoulder is going to throw you off until muscle memory takes over. But once it does you'll be fine. Keep working. I'm going to go check on everyone else.”

I scan the area to make sure there's no one nearby that I might accidentally hit, no one in danger of tripping on cracks or slipping on runaway balls. Some of the girls are serving, and some are playing practice points. Everyone seems safe.

I turn back to the ball hopper. I focus on my toss and on hitting the ball with my arm completely extended. Gradually, the noise from surrounding courts fades into the background. Gradually, my serves start going over the net. They still suck, but they suck less than they did yesterday.

When Coach announces that practice is over, it hits me that for the past hour I haven't done any five-second checks.

All I've been thinking about is tennis. And it feels good.

I take a quick shower and stuff my towel and sweaty clothes into my backpack. I slip out of the locker room, relieved to see the hallway empty. My flip-flops squeak on the linoleum and my thick black bun drips water down the back of my neck.

“Hey.” Jordy appears behind me, also fresh from the shower.

“Hey.” I smile and keep walking.

“The activity buses are already gone. Do you need a ride home?”

I think of the words “Ride in a car with someone besides Mom” written on the last page of my luck notebook. I'm not ready. I shake my head quickly. “It's cool. I usually walk.”

“Oh yeah? Where do you live?”

I pause. If I tell him the truth, he'll insist on driving me, since it's over a mile away. Then I'll have to come up with an explanation for why I don't take rides from people. But who
lies about where they
live
? That seems like plunging headfirst down the slipperiest of slopes.

Jordy whistles under his breath. “It's not a trick question.”

“Yeah. I know. I just—” I just nothing. There is no logical reason for me not to answer. I sigh. Life was easier when I didn't talk to anyone.

“Wow. Yesterday I get your whole life story without even asking, and today everything's a secret?” Jordy shakes his head in dismay. “Your erratic behavior is making it difficult for me to form snap judgments.”

I laugh under my breath. “Well, we can't have that, can we?” I turn and head down the long hallway that runs from the locker rooms to the gym.

“Seriously,” he continues. “Do you think I'm some crazed stalker who's going to come watch you sleep?”

“No, it's just . . .”

I trail off at the sound of tennis shoes squeaking behind us. Three guys from the basketball team are heading down the hallway, still wearing their mesh practice jerseys. One of them is bouncing a blue-and-gray basketball.

“Jordo!” The guy with the ball palms it and gives Jordy a high five. “I don't know why you don't come manage us instead of hanging out with the girls' tennis team.” He pauses, his lips curling into a sly smile. “Or maybe I do.” He and his friends look appraisingly at me, like I'm a new phone or video game console they've never seen before.

“Is this her?” The guy tosses the basketball against the nearest locker and catches it. “The Ballbuster?”

“Shut up,” I say, the words coming out harsher than I expected.

“Yeah. Shut it, Chris,” Jordy says. “Don't you have anything more interesting to talk about?”

Chris passes the ball to a guy wearing a number five jersey and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Damn, Jordo. Your girlfriend is hot, but she's kind of mouthy. You might want to do something about that.”

“Whatever, dude.” Jordy swipes the ball from Number 5 and flings it the length of the hallway. “You guys might want to do something about your turnover percentage.”

Number 5 swears under his breath and takes off after the ball.

“And I'm
not
his girlfriend,” I add.

“Good to know,” Chris drawls. He gives me another long look before he and his friend stroll leisurely after their teammate.

I turn to Jordy as they disappear. “Nice move. Friends of yours?”

“Yeah. They're harmless.” He pauses. “You sure didn't waste any time setting them straight.”

I nibble on one of my pinkie nails. “What do you mean?”

“And I'm
not
his girlfriend,” he mimics. “Wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea, eh?” His voice is joking, but
his jaw is tense. “You know, there are girls at this school who would love to be my girlfriend.”

I snort. “So I've heard.”

“But not you, obviously.” He's looking forward, watching Chris and his friends disappear around the next corner.

Keeping my voice light, I say, “I barely know you. Plus, maybe I just didn't feel like giving people another reason to talk about me.” I plaster a smile on my face. “Besides, I heard you were . . . unavailable.”

“Who told you that? One of my conquests?” Jordy's voice drips with sarcasm.

“Multiple people. You don't date. All you do is play tennis. You are . . . singularly focused.” We pass the cafeteria and head toward the lobby.

He sighs. “It's true. My whole life is tennis right now. Well, tennis and studying. My parents are always cracking the whip about one or the other.”

“I think I'm going to go for a little singular focus myself. Maybe then I won't get cut from the team.”

Jordy steps in front of me to hold the door. “You're not going to get cut,” he says. “Coach is peeing his pants about you. All you need is a decent serve.”

“I guess I know what I'll be doing all weekend.”

“I won't be at tryouts tomorrow, but I have some time on Saturday if you want to practice. Just you and me. No Kimber rolling her eyes or Coach giving you a hard time.”

I blink rapidly as I step out into the sun. “You just said you're too busy to have a life. How could you have time to practice with me?”

“Even I get a few hours of free time occasionally,” Jordy says. “And it'll qualify for this week's shrink homework too, so win-win.”

I want to ask him what the assignment is, but then he might ask me about mine, and I don't feel like trying to explain my curse. “Okay, if you're sure. That would be cool.”

Jordy pauses at the bottom of the steps. “My parents are members at the Pacific Point Tennis Club, so I can usually get a court. What time should I pick you up?”

I've never been inside the tennis club, but I've driven by there, and the parking lot is always packed. “Is there any place less crowded we could go?” My fingers reach out to grip the wooden handrail of the stairs. I tap it three times with one finger, hoping Jordy doesn't notice.

He looks up at me, a teasing grin on his face. “Are you saying you want to be alone with me?”

I blush. “No, I just thought it might be easier to learn with fewer people watching.”

“Sorry. There I go again with the slick asshole jokes,” he says. “I know a place. How about if I pick you up around eleven?”

“I can meet you there,” I say quickly, descending the rest of the steps so we're back on even ground.

“Oooookay.” Jordy pulls a plain black key ring from the
pocket of his warm-up pants as we head for the parking lot. “So you
do
think I'm a crazed stalker. That or a bad driver maybe?”

I sigh again. He's not going to let up without an explanation. Maybe I'm the only girl in the history of ever who refused a ride home from him. “I was in a car accident when I was young,” I say. “People died. Now I get freaked out riding with people I don't know.”

The grin melts off Jordy's face. “Oh, I'm sorry. Your dad?”

I nod. “It's okay. It was a long time ago.” A trickle of water runs from my hairline down over my temple.

Jordy reaches up and brushes it away. “It looks like it still hurts a lot.”

I flinch inwardly, surprised by the softness of his touch. “People keep telling me that time heals all wounds, but it's been almost five years and I can't even make a scab grow, you know?” Tears rise up from nowhere and I turn away.

Jordy places a hand on my shoulder. “Time doesn't heal anything. It's like drinking. The best it can do is help you forget, if you're lucky.”

“Guess I'm not lucky,” I say softly.

But I already knew that.