CHAPTER ONE
KELLUM WATTS BURST through the door,
parting his lips in an apologetic grin. “Sorry I’m
late!”
“The first day, Kell?” the teacher asked. “Not a
good way to start out.”
“I know,” he smiled again, shaking his damp
brown hair around his face, and Mrs. Valor practically melted into a pile of blushing, Kellum-loving
goo. “It won’t happen again.”
Every line that formed around his eyes when he
smiled etched itself permanently into my memory.
No dimple left behind.
He slid into an empty seat reserved especially for
him between Safron and Zack. Safron reached out
and scratched Kellum’s shoulder with her French-
tipped nails. Kellum matched her adoring smile with
one of his own and hooked the strap of his backpack
over his chair, then scanned the room.
His brown eyes met mine.
I looked down at my notebook.
“Well, now that everyone’s here, we can get back
to class,” Mrs. Valor said.
She continued with the first-day speech teachers
gave every year, which usually included a syllabus
and the word “respect.” Between wondering if
Safron could smell his cologne and fretting about
volleyball tryouts, I barely caught a word.
The bell rang, and I retreated to the hallway, not
wanting to see if Kellum would carry Safron’s books.
“Hey, Skye!” Kylie appeared beside me.
I jumped, putting my hand over my heart. “You
scared the crap out of me.”
She laughed and shrugged. “How was A&P?”
“It was okay,” I replied without asking how she
already knew my class schedule. In two years of
knowing her, I’d learned to just go with it and enjoy
her uncanny knowledge of everybody’s business.
“What classes do you have?”
“Oh, this and that. We have English and history
together.”
The warning bell rang, and she waved goodbye
before veering of down a different hallway. I took
my time walking to Spanish where I found Señora
Luna standing in front of a full classroom wearing a
gaudy sombrero.
For the next hour, she gave us the cultured
version of Syllabus Day (“¡Respeto!”) and then I
made my way to the free reading period. I suffered
through Mr. Winkel’s nasally reminder to read a
book and write a report every quarter before the bell
finally rang and I could go to weights class.
The gym lights were of as I walked down the
sideline to the girls’ locker room, but light from the
windows shined on the volleyball net. Excitement
crackled through my muscles and danced over my
skin. New year, new volleyball season, new position,
new me.
I stepped down the stone stairs to the dingy
locker room and saw Rachel and Shelby were the
only other girls there. Both of them were on the
volleyball team with me the year before, so I figured
we’d be a good group.
We talked about our summers and volleyball
tryouts, then headed back to the gym.
Coach Rokey waited for us in the corner by the
door. About fifteen guys already circled around him,
and I hoped Kellum would be in the group. When
we got closer, I heard his laugh before I saw him. It
brought a smile to my lips.
Rokey used his finger to count everyone out.
“Okay, follow me.”
We walked through halls, giving me a better
view of Kellum. His shirt sleeves were cut of so low I
could see the muscles work in his shoulders as he
walked.
Coach Rokey led us to an open area in the
weight room, and Kellum stopped in front of me. He
must have grown over the summer because he stood
several inches taller than my 5-foot-six frame.
“You’ll be in groups of three according to ability,”
Rokey told us. “Girls, you’ll go together. Kellum,
Bryant, Kaiser, you’re a group...”
After sorting us into groups, Rokey had us bench
press. Shelby barely managed 75 pounds. Rachel
followed at 105. When my turn came, Coach joined
our group to spot me. I’d been nearing the record of
120 pounds all summer, but I was about to
press 125.
Laying on the bench, I stared up at the bar,
wrapping my hands around the cold metal. Feeling
every bit of the weight, I lifted it from the rack,
lowered it to my chest, and started the slow push up.
My arms froze, elbows bent, and I struggled to get
past the stall in my lift.
“Come on!” Rokey urged.
Grunting out a breath, I broke past the invisible
stop and pushed the bar all the way up for one rep. I
racked the weights, making a satisfying clang of
metal on metal.
Coach grinned down at me. “This is what you
get for coming to summer weights!”
I’m sure my face was all sorts of red and unattractive as I sat back up, grinning.
Zack slapped me a high five. “Nice!”
I blushed, thankful for the cover of exertion.
Sure, I wanted Kellum’s best friend to recognize me,
but not especially for bench press.
“Embrace it,” Rokey said. He must have caught
the blush.
Shrugging, I tried to make my face normal.
Thankfully, Rokey released us to go change, and I
didn’t have to stand around the rest of the boys much
longer. I caught Kellum looking at me on the way
back to the gym, but he was probably just surprised
about the record.
The guys and girls split at the gym entrance, and
we made our way toward the locker room.
My arms ached as I struggled to change out of
my gym clothes. “I’m gonna be sore tomorrow,” I
said, groaning.
“Man, I wish I could lift like that,” Rachel said.
“Yeah,” Shelby said, “but too much muscle slows
you down in volleyball anyway.”
I jerked my head back, shocked. Was she being
serious?
“What do you mean?” Rachel asked, reading my
mind.
“The college coach I talked to this summer at
camp said he’d trade speed for power any day.”
Shelby cast me a sideways glance. “Bulky girls are
just slower.”
I could practically feel the cold cement foor on
the underside of my jaw. She had to be kidding.
“You have to have power to hit,” Rachel shut her
locker. “And serve.”
“That’s just what the coach told me.” Shelby sat
down and started knotting up her shoelaces.
I remembered the college where she went to the
camp. A division two, nobody school.
“What was their record last season?” I asked,
trying not to let her comment make me regret all the
hours I spent in the weight room over the summer.
Shelby looked at me finally, her eyes narrowing
once she realized what I meant. “This coach came
from Upton, 32-1 last season. But don’t worry, Skye.
There are lots of bigger girls on community college
teams.”
Shelby shut her locker, smiled at me, and
flounced away.
I ground my teeth, mad at what Shelby said and
madder I let Shelby have the last word.
Rachel opened her mouth, “I—”
I shook my head.
“But—”
I raised my hand. “That doesn’t even deserve a
response.”
I tried to believe that lie, but I couldn’t. The
truth was, it stung, especially coming from a senior.
Rachel and I made small talk while we finished
changing and then headed to the cafeteria. We were
lucky enough to fall in line a few people behind
Kellum and Zack.
Kellum looked straight at me. “Hey, what was
the record before, Skye?”
It took me a minute for my brain to connect with
my mouth. “Um, 120, I think.”
“Cool. Good job,” he said and turned back to
Zack.
An insuppressible smile stretched my lips, and it
lasted for a full five minutes until I saw Shelby at the
table. Most of last year’s volleyball team sat together,
and I took a seat as far away from her as I could.
Volleyball tryouts dominated the conversation.
Tryouts at McClellan weren’t really tryouts. Since it
was a smaller school, everyone got to be on the team,
but we did have to fight for playing time in the positions we wanted.
Kylie waved her carrot stick around as she talked.
“You know me. Middle hitter, all the way.”
“Same,” Rachel said, shrugging. She’d played the
spot for the last three years. Trying out was just a
formality for her at this point.
Just as I opened my mouth to talk, Shelby told
everyone she wanted to be libero, meaning she’d get
to wear a special jersey and play back row the entire
game. She thought it would give her a better chance
at playing in college the next year.
A few of the girls told her she would be great for
the position.
I kept my mouth shut.
The second half of the day passed much the
same as the first half.
English, “r-e-s-p-e-c-t.”
American History, “Remember the Alamo?”
Calculus, “The limit on a bad attitude does
exist.”
Journalism, “Being a good journalist is about
more than the quality of your work.”
Of course, everyone would forget the whole
good-attitude thing less than a week in—including
the teachers—and school would be back to normal.
What I’d been looking forward to all day finally
came: the final bell. I threaded my way through the
throng of students rushing to get home and made it
to the locker room, changing in record time.
I had on my favorite kneepads along with spandex, a cutoff T-shirt, and a pair of broken-in volley‐
ball shoes. Within fifteen minutes, I had stretched
and was practicing my serve.
“Ladies!” Coach Umber’s voice rang throughout
the gym. “Take a seat at center court.”
The rest of the girls and I jogged over and sat in a
semicircle under the net facing Coach and Tasha
Wilkens, the assistant coach. For the first ten
minutes, Coach took roll and asked us which positions we would like to try out for, jotting notes on a
clipboard.
When she called my name, I tried to sound conf‐
dent. “Libero.”
I didn’t dare check Shelby’s expression. The
other girls’ poorly hidden looks of surprise said all I
needed to know.
Shelby’d already said she wanted the position at
lunch, and since she was a senior, I was supposed to
back down and say “defensive specialist” or “outside
hitter” and wait for next year to have my turn.
I just couldn’t do it. If Coach thought Shelby was
better than me, I’d take a different spot, but I knew
what I wanted, and I wanted to be varsity libero.
Coach nodded like nothing potentially disruptive to the accepted social order had happened and called on the last of the girls. After that, she had us do some warm-ups and then ran us through several drills. The practice wasn’t overly difficult and wasn’t anything compared to what regular season practices would be like, but I still worked up a sweat.
Being back on the court felt like heaven. On the
court was the only place I could let my mind go and
let the rhythm of the game take over. Volleyball
made sense in a way the rest of life never did, and I
liked the way I ft into the game.
I wasn’t sure where I stood compared to Shelby,
but I out-hustled her every chance I got, and I was
sure Coach would notice that.
In the locker room after practice, the atmosphere
was different than other year’s post-tryouts scene.
Usually a couple of girls were frustrated with their
performances and complained, best friends reassured each other, and most of the upperclassmen, like me, just smiled and changed. This time, when I walked into the locker room, everything got quiet.
