Girl Against the Universe

by Paula Stokes

  I would love to see him play.

  “Maguire? You still there?”

  “Yeah, okay,” I say. “I can drive you. When do you need me to pick you up?”

  “His match starts in an hour,” Penn says, “so the sooner the better, I guess.”

  Penn is sitting on the porch waiting for me when I pull up to the Wheeler house. Her blonde pigtails swing back and forth as she jogs across the grass. She starts talking a mile a minute the second she gets into my car. “Thank you so much for this. I totally owe you and my brother owes you and I’m so glad you’re going to come watch him play and I know he’ll be glad you’re there too.”

  “I’m glad you called,” I say.

  She rubs at a stain on her T-shirt. “I probably should have changed, but I’m hoping we can avoid my parents altogether. That way I won’t be yelled at for being slovenly.” She flares her nostrils. “One of my mother’s favorite words.”

  I sit there at the curb for a minute, trying to figure out the best way to ask her to buckle up without sounding like an old lady.

  “Oh, do you need directions?” She peers at me through her sunglasses, apparently confused by my lack of motion. “First go back to the main road and make a left.”

  “I have to tell you something,” I blurt out. “I sort of have a phobia of driving people places.”

  “What?” Her smile fades. She flips her sunglasses onto her forehead. “But then why did you say that you would take me?”

  “I’m trying to get over it,” I tell her. “But it’s not easy.”

  “Do you want me to drive?” she offers. “I’ve got a permit and I’m pretty good at it.”

  “No,” I say, imagining what constitutes “pretty good at it.” “I can drive. I just—it would help if you put on your seat belt.” I give her a sideways glance. “And if you were sort of quiet.”

  “Ooh. Understood.” She clicks on her seat belt and makes a little motion like she’s holding a key to her lips and locking them. She gives me a thumbs-up.

  “Thanks.” I do a quick check of my surroundings, start the car, and shift into drive. “I know it’s weird to ask someone not to talk in the car, but that way I can totally focus on the road.”

  “Got it,” she says. “Jordy told me about what happened to your family. Sorry. I didn’t think about that before I asked you. I’d probably be afraid of cars too.”

  I signal as I prepare to pull away from the curb, checking my mirrors one last time. My hands are clammy on the steering wheel. “He told you about that, huh? What else did he say about me?”

  “Not much. Don’t be mad if it was a secret. I’m good at getting him to talk to me about stuff. My mom has scared off most of his local friends, so when he’s not on the road, I’m pretty much all he has.” She grins mischievously. “I think he likes you, though.”

  I blush. “No. We’re just helping each other with—”

  “Shh.” She holds her index finger to her lips. “Less talking. More driving.”

  “Right.” I do another check and then pull out into the street. I force myself to focus on driving instead of what Penn said. I think he likes you. If anything, it’s just some weird fascination with me because I’m apparently the only girl in all of San Diego who didn’t recognize him on sight. I check my mirrors repeatedly, slowing down whenever I get too close to another car.

  Penn sits next to me, quiet except for occasionally tapping her foot against the floorboard. I repeat Daniel’s coping statement over and over in my head. No one is going to die.

  When we arrive at the tennis complex about twenty minutes later, I pull my car around to the back parking lot as Penn directs. She ushers me through what looks like a players-only entrance. The stands are packed with people.

  I follow Penn up a set of green metal stairs and then inside to an air-conditioned hallway. She opens the door to a small but lavish room with one wall made completely of glass. “It’s a private box,” she says. “Only for family of the seeded players.”

  I freeze midstep. “Are your parents going to be up here?”

  “Oh no. They feel the need to sit in the front row of the stands so my mom can yell helpful things at Jordy like ‘tuck in your shirt’ and ‘get your hair out of your eyes.’ You won’t have to meet them, I promise.”

  We each take a seat in front of the big glass window and watch Jordy’s opponent—a guy named Peter Kline, according to the electronic scoreboard—go through some basic stretches. Although he’s several inches shorter, he looks older than Jordy. A tattoo of a leopard protrudes from his left sock and covers most of his calf.

  “So the driving thing,” Penn says. “Is that why you drive yourself to our away matches?”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “It’s not so much a fear of driving as it is a fear of being in a vehicle with other people.”

  “That must be hard,” she says. Then her face brightens as she points down at the court.

  Jordy emerges from the tunnel across the stadium, dressed in white tennis shorts and a black and green Windbreaker. An unfamiliar heat radiates through my body as I watch him jog slowly over to his seat and set his water bottle and racquet bag on the ground. There’s something about the way he carries himself, about the way he looks wearing actual tennis clothes instead of mesh shorts and a T-shirt. He looks older, professional. He looks hot.

  I can’t even believe my mind just went there. I should be focused on possible hazards, not fangirling. I force myself to scan the crowd and the court for anything that appears dangerous, but after seeing nothing, my eyes come back to Jordy. Is this what happened to every girl at school, too? Did he wear them down one at a time with his exhausting mix of confidence and charm? No, this is a guy who trains five hours a day and then studies and then goes to practice and then comes home and does homework. There’s no way he found time to work his magic on all the girls who are crushing on him.

  Jordy strolls over to the edge of the stands where a thin blonde woman is standing. She says something to him. He pulls a headband out of his pocket and affixes it over his forehead. Then he makes a big point of tucking in his shirt.

  I smother a giggle. “You weren’t kidding about your mom.”

  Penn coils one of her pigtails around her hand. “Nope. And there’s my dad next to her, in the aviator sunglasses. He’s the silent partner in the tyrannical dictatorship known as the Wheeler household. And there’s Jordy’s coach, Mr. Sang, next to Dad.”

  The announcer introduces Jordy and his opponent. Apparently this is one of two semifinal matches being played today. The announcer states that Kline is ranked 141st in the world and Jordy is ranked 47th among 18-and-under juniors. The crowd applauds as the two of them begin to warm up.

  I settle back in my chair, and the match gets off to a good start, with Jordy taking a 3–0 lead. His serve is incredible. He hits ace after ace, the balls being clocked at over 120 miles per hour. I can barely even see them from up here. The announcer comments on how Jordy’s height gives him an advantage with serving, but the rest of his game is also pretty stellar. Peter Kline wins a game to make it 3–1, but Jordy comes back and wins two more games without even giving up a point. He’s basically dominating and quickly wins the set 6–2.

  He goes to his chair and mops some sweat from his forehead. Then he glances up and smiles in our direction.

  “That was for you, by the way,” Penn says.

  “Nuh-uh,” I say. “He can’t see me from down there.”

  “I might have texted him on the way here to apologize and say good luck.” She blinks innocently. “And mentioned that his friend Maguire was giving me a ride.”

  I make a move like I’m going to strangle her.

  She laughs. “Do you like him?”

  I think about how sweet he’s been, from the serve lessons to helping with my therapy challenges. And the way he took care of me when I was freaking out and flashing back to the accident. “He’s really nice,” I say.

  She scoffs. “Yeah, that’
s his biggest downfall if you ask me. He hates making waves. He tries to please everyone all the time. He lets my parents, his coach, his sponsors, random people on the internet tell him what to do and who to be. No wonder he feels like—” Penn pauses. “Well, I guess as far as annoying qualities go, it could be worse, right?”

  “Feels like what?” I ask. “Like the real him is disappearing?”

  “Yeah. Wow, he told you that?”

  “We were sharing shrink stories,” I say. “I’m not sure he meant to tell me. It just kind of spilled out.”

  Before she can respond, Jordy jogs back out onto the court. I do a five-second check, scanning the court and the crowd for anything that looks out of place. I can’t see all of the people from where Penn and I are sitting, but it’s a gorgeous, sunny day, and everyone seems to be having a good time. I lean back in my chair and prepare to enjoy the second set. But after winning three of the first four games, Jordy double-faults twice, and suddenly it’s three games to two. From that point onward, he seems to slowly unravel. He wins a point, but then loses two. He makes a great shot but then makes a silly mistake. He follows this pattern for several games in a row.

  “What’s happening to him?” I ask Penn.

  She shakes her head. “No clue. He said he’s been feeling tired lately. My mom made him go to the doctor, but as far as I know they didn’t find anything wrong.”

  A terrible idea seizes my brain. I was worried about coming here because of the crowd, because I imagined being in a public place meant someone might get hurt. What if Jordy is the one I’m hurting? What if he’s losing this match because of me? I reach up and touch my mystic knot pendant, hoping the clasp is in front. No such luck. I sink lower and lower in my chair, dropping my hand over the side and knocking feebly on one of the wooden chair legs. Please don’t let him lose.

  When Jordy loses the second set 6–4, I almost ask Penn if we can leave, but I know that will look unsupportive, like I’ve given up on her brother.

  He goes to the stands briefly. I watch his mom’s lips. I can’t make out any words, but they seem sharp. His coach is gesturing wildly with one hand. Behind them, Jordy’s dad appears to be talking on his phone.

  Jordy’s shoulders droop slightly as he heads for the folding chair set up next to his racquet bag. I wish I could go talk to him and tell him he’s doing fine.

  “Can we text him or something?” I ask. “Encourage him?”

  “Not a good idea,” Penn says. “If my mom sees him on his phone, she’ll have a shit fit. He knows you’re here. That helps.”

  “Doubtful,” I mutter.

  “Let’s get food,” Penn says. “This is only a ‘best of three sets’ match, but we might be here for another hour or so.”

  “Okay.” I follow her back down the green metal stairs to the ground level of the stadium where there are the usual booths selling beer and pretzels, as well as a few fancier places selling things like pasta and salads. I pause on the bottom step, a little afraid to abandon the relative safety of the staircase. People are milling in all directions, carrying too much food, talking on phones, not paying any attention to where they’re going. Blue flame flares up in a skillet at the back of one of the booths. The cook shakes the pan without even looking, instead talking and laughing with the cook next to him.

  The entire stadium suddenly feels tiny, like the walls are closing in. Pain jolts through me, like someone is holding a lit sparkler in my chest. I reach up to touch my mystic knot, one hand pressing hard against my breastbone, willing my heart to slow down.

  “Let’s get pasta,” Penn suggests, oblivious to the panic welling inside me. I do a five-second check of the pasta stand as I get in line behind her. My blood is still racing through my veins, my pulse roaring in my ears, but there are no obvious signs of danger. No obvious danger. I repeat the words in my head like a mantra. I breathe in for a count of four, hold my breath for a few seconds, and then exhale slowly, like my old therapist taught me to do for a panic attack. No obvious danger. Penn and I will be back in the safety of the box in a few minutes.

  She orders manicotti and sparkling water, and I order a plate of ravioli and a large Coke. I peer around the corner as we wait for our food, scanning the masses of people. No obvious danger.

  Just as we get our food, the announcer asks everyone to take their seats so the third set can begin.

  “Come on.” Penn turns toward the metal stairs, dodging around people, both hands full of food. She hits the steps running.

  I’m slightly behind her, not quite as quick or agile. “Wait up.” I adjust my grip on my container of ravioli so I can hold it and my soda in the same hand and use the other hand on the railing.

  And then I see Penn’s foot miss a step. Her toe comes down on the edge of it and slips off. She pitches forward. Manicotti and sparkling water go flying as she flails her arms to regain her balance. It doesn’t happen. She lands face-first on the metal staircase.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Penn,” I shriek. I hurry up the steps and push my way through the circle of onlookers gathering around her. “Let me through.” A little voice in my head says, You did this.

  Penn is sitting on the stairs, covered in tomato sauce and looking dazed. One hand is curled around her nose and mouth. “Ow,” she says through her fingers.

  I set my food on the steps next to her. “Are you all right? Let me see your face.”

  She moves her hand, and I can see she’s got a bloody nose and a puffy red spot beneath her left eye.

  “Can you see okay?” I ask. The blood trickling from her nose makes me a little woozy. I bite my lip as I struggle to focus.

  “I’m not sure.” She tries to close her eye but can’t quite do it. A drop of blood falls from her lip and lands on her T-shirt. “Dammit,” she says. “That’s going to be so hard to get out.” She pinches her nose closed with her thumb and forefinger.

  A guy in black pants and a navy blue shirt pushes his way through the crowd. “Step aside, everyone,” he says. “Just head back to your seats please.” He turns to us. “I’m club security. What happened?”

  “I fell,” Penn says. “I was running up the stairs like a dumbass. I’m sorry about the mess.”

  “Don’t worry about the mess. Just sit right here while I call a medic.”

  “I don’t think I need a medic,” she protests.

  “Yes you do,” I say firmly. “Penn, you’re bleeding and half your face is swollen. You might have a broken nose.”

  She uses the reverse camera on her phone to check her appearance and then swears under her breath. “My mom is going to kill me.” She turns to the security guard. “Look. My brother is playing. We just want to go back to the box and finish watching him. I know there’s probably legal stuff you need me to do, but can I have my mom fill out the paperwork or whatever after the match?”

  “You’re with one of the players?”

  “Jordy Wheeler,” Penn says.

  The guy sighs and then pulls out a cell phone. He steps away from us and mutters something into the phone.

  “I’m so sorry,” I start. “I shouldn’t have—”

  She waves off my apology. “It’s not like you pushed me. I was just in a rush.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  Penn doesn’t answer. She’s staring at a guy dressed like an EMT and the blonde woman from the stands, who are heading toward the stairs. An older man with a mop and bucket trails behind them.

  “Shit,” she says. “Get out of here, Maguire. Go back and watch my brother. I don’t want my mom meeting you like this.”

  “I’m not just going to leave you like—”

  “I assure you, I’m in good hands. Too good. Just go, please. Jordy deserves someone to support him.”

  “Um . . . okay, if you’re sure.” I head back to the third level of the complex and watch from the landing as the medic and Penn’s mom escort her down the steps.

  I return to the box, realizing only when I get there that I left m
y food sitting on the stairs. I’m not hungry anymore, anyway. I hope Penn is okay. I wonder if Jordy knows what happened.

  I get my answer a couple of minutes later when Jordy goes to the stands after a point to talk to his coach and then doesn’t return to the court. He pulls his Windbreaker over his head, grabs his bag, and runs over to the umpire. Then he jogs up to his opponent at the net and shakes his hand.

  Jordy disappears, and the announcer tells the crowd he’s forfeited the match because of a medical emergency. I sink to the floor of the box and rest my head in my hands. This was only my third therapy challenge. I can’t believe I failed already. Reluctantly, I pull my luck notebook out of my purse and make a new entry.

  Sept 26. San Diego Tennis Complex. Penn Wheeler falls on stairs.

  I try to think about what Dr. Leed would say. He’d point out that this is different from my previous incidents, because only one person was injured. It’s not like the entire stadium collapsed. He’d undoubtedly mention that it wasn’t my idea to get food and that I wasn’t near Penn when she fell. And he’d be right about all of those things. I know logically I didn’t cause Penn’s accident. But curses, bad luck, these things aren’t logical.

  “Maguire.” Jordy is standing in the doorway. “Are you okay?”

  I shake my head. The tears surge from my eyes without warning, hot and fast. His sister is hurt. He had to forfeit. And yet he came to check on me. “Why are you here?” I ask. “You should be at the hospital.”

  “I’m going right now,” he says. “But why are you crying?”

  “I shouldn’t have come here,” I choke out.

  “I’m glad you came.” Jordy kneels down in front of me, his hair plastered to the sides of his face with sweat. He rests his hands on my shoulders. “What happened exactly?”

  “We went to get food and she fell on the stairs and her nose was bleeding and she said she couldn’t see out of one eye.” I bury my face in my hands, taking a couple of slow breaths to get myself back under control. I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t want anyone to see me like this.