The Edge of Anything

by Nora Shalaway Carpenter

  When Ketia served an ace to give them a four-point advantage, Sage started to feel like she might vomit. She told herself it made sense. She’d missed Wednesday’s practice and hadn’t played a game this intense in two weeks; she was no longer conditioned for it.

  Only five more points. Five more points and she’d be on a championship team, headed to states. Sage wasn’t sure if her head suddenly felt stuffy or if it was the high of the realization—a long-held dream finally coming to fruition. She sucked in a breath. Maybe she did feel a little wobbly. And what if the sick feeling was caused by her heart condition? She could pull back, just a little.

  That’s when things began to crumble.

  Mountain lost an easy point when he touched the net, and then Ketia was called for back-to-back questionable lifts. Flick almost lost her mind over the calls and was lucky to get off with a warning, but the energy had shifted. The Pumpkins were back in it, 9–10.

  Flick clapped her hands, like she could wake her team up with sound. “Let’s go,” she ordered. “Let’s do this.” She pointed at Sage, who realized Flick had seen something that let her know Sage was the server’s target. Sage sank low, ready. The ball went up and over right toward Sage, then suddenly veered to the left.

  It was one of the craziest floaters Sage had ever seen, and she realized three things in the same nanosecond:

  She could maybe reach the ball if she sprawled.

  She still might not reach it.

  She really, truly didn’t feel well.

  “Short!” Flick screamed, and for the first time since junior high, Sage was caught motionless, her instincts dulled by indecision.

  The ball hit the floor in front of her.

  The Pumpkin bench whooped as the scoreboard ticked 10–10. “Time out!” Flick thundered. She whirled on Sage before they’d even made it off the court. “What was that?”

  Sage blinked. “I’m sorry.”

  “Her floaters always go left! I just told you that in the huddle!”

  Sage stared at her. Had she really said that? Why couldn’t Sage remember?

  Ketia put a calming hand on Flick’s shoulder. “This isn’t helping,” she said. “What’s our play?”

  Flick drew a few scribbles on her whiteboard. “I want a short set just left of middle, here. If that’s not available, run Cardinal, got it? When we get the ball back, thirty-two can’t handle a jump serve—” She met Sage’s eyes. “You’re up next. Your jump serves can put this thing away, understand?”

  Sage nodded, her arms already aching for the ball and the chance to redeem herself. The whistle sounded the end of the time out.

  “Let’s finish this,” Flick said, “on our terms.”

  “You got this, Tiny,” Mountain told Sage. “Don’t take Flick personally.”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “My coach is the same way.”

  Mountain frowned. “What coach?”

  But then the ball was served, and there was no time to argue. The Pumpkins eked out another point before Mountain’s spike almost took the face off the guy in the back row, giving the serve to Sage.

  Flick handed her the ball. “Show ’em what you’re made of, Tiny. And bring us home.” She held out her fist to Sage, who bumped it. “Remember,” Flick whispered. “Jumper to thirty-two. Position five.”

  Sage never looked at position five—she’d practiced this serve so many times she didn’t need to. When the ref signaled, she let her body take over, sending the ball directly to thirty-two, who shanked it into the wall.

  Sage’s teammates whooped.

  This time Sage stared down her target before the serve, just for fun. Again, he shanked. The scoreboard flipped to 13–12.

  Ketia ran back to high-five her. “That’s the way, Tiny,” she said. “One at a time.”

  Sage’s heartbeat crawled to her temples.

  The ball rolled past her, and Sage bought a few seconds as she slowly walked to retrieve it. When had it gotten so hot in here? Had the heat kicked on? She wondered if maybe she should do a regular overhand serve to save some energy, but when she stepped close to the serving line, Flick shook her head. She signaled another jump serve.

  For the first time, Sage thought maybe she should tell her team about her heart. Maybe she was tempting fate too strongly. Sweat dripped down her hairline, pooling at the dip in her throat. She was so close, though. Two points to advance to states. Two points to prove beyond all doubt that she didn’t just belong on this team; it needed her.

  The whistle sounded before Sage was ready, so her toss went high. She compensated, straining to make solid contact, but at least she got the ball over. The Pumpkins set up an attack, but Mountain and Derek’s block was so perfect that even Flick roared in triumph as the ball dropped back on the Pumpkins’ side. Her teammates’ cheers made Sage’s thoughts flicker, thin and flimsy.

  “One more,” Flick told her, walking the ball to her. “And we’re going to states.”

  Sage pinched the bridge of her nose. “Why aren’t they calling time out?”

  “They don’t have any left. And we’ve only got one.” Flick’s eyes narrowed. “Are you okay? Sage?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Again, a small voice inside said maybe it was time to stop, but she closed her mind to it. She hadn’t worked her whole life to be robbed of her only dream and two different championships to boot.

  She swallowed the saliva gathering in her mouth, pretending it was water. The whistle sounded, and she tossed the ball into the air.

  “Nooo!”

  For a nanosecond Sage thought her mind had revolted, her fear somehow voicing itself aloud. It confused her just enough that she hesitated and gave in to her impulse not to jump. The ball dropped to the floor.

  It’s fine, she told herself. She still had her one re-serve. But as she stepped forward to retrieve the ball, someone cried, “Stop!” at the same time another voice said her name. Sage faltered, because it wasn’t possible. Len and Kayla ran toward the court, waving frantically.

  “Step back.” The referee waved them off.

  “Do you know them?” Flick asked, incredulous. Sage glared at her so-called friends, trying to steal this last triumph from her. How were they even here, together?

  “One more point,” she told them, frantic.

  “Don’t do this,” Len said from the sidelines.

  “Please!” added Kayla. “It’s not worth it!”

  “What are they talking about?” Ketia asked.

  “Sage?” Flick stood next to the referee. “Do we need a timeout?”

  “No!” If she stopped now, it was over.

  “I’ll tell them!” said Kayla.

  In a breath Sage was at the sidelines, her face inches from Kayla’s and Len’s. “This is my choice,” she said. Then, because she couldn’t let them ruin her final chance, she changed tactics. “Please, don’t take this away from me.”

  The referee’s whistle sounded. “Delay warning,” she called. “Continue play or service and point is forfeited.”

  “Sage!” Flick was near hysterics.

  “But your life—” Len started.

  “This is my life,” Sage said. The ref whistled again, beginning the eight-second countdown she had to serve.

  “Tiny!” Mountain roared, and Sage scrambled into position, visualizing her jump, the ball soaring over the net. The small voice crept in again: Stop.

  Her hands slapped the ball. Only one more jump.

  That’s the other thing about Russian roulette, the voice said. All it ever takes is one.

  “Five seconds,” Flick croaked. Sage lifted the ball.

  “I’ll get help!” Len cried. “If you stop, right now, I’ll get help.”

  Sage wanted to scream. Len needed help. But it wasn’t fair to ask her like this, to make it conditional. And now she’d waited too long to jump serve.

  “Serve the ball!” Ketia commanded.

  She could still serve overhand. It only took a second.


  She needs help. Len needs serious help.

  Her vision went blurry. Her heartbeat raged against every vein in her body.

  I need help, too.

  Sage lowered the ball. “Time-out,” she told Flick, who immediately signaled the referee. Sage sagged to the ground, relief bursting through her vision in tiny dark spots. Footsteps padded around her. Then she was standing, supported by Mountain and Ketia, who were saying things she couldn’t understand.

  She found her balance, walked herself off the court, and vomited.

  “Oh, my God!” Ketia said. Someone called for a janitor.

  “What is happening?” Flick demanded. Sage collapsed onto one of the metal folding chairs. Jon passed her his water bottle, but it was several moments before she could collect herself enough to speak. She thought Len and Kayla would be there, explaining everything, but she didn’t see them anywhere.

  That was odd, but for the better. She needed to do this alone.

  “I have a heart condition,” Sage said. “That’s what’s keeping me from my school team, not grades.”

  Several teammates—maybe all of them—swore.

  “You don’t mean…” Ketia’s voice trailed off.

  “Yeah,” Sage said. “My heart could stop at any second.”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Mountain. He looked toward the ref. “Call an ambulance!”

  “No!” said Sage.

  “Keep drinking,” Jon told her.

  Sage’s eyes went wide. “Are you still on the roster?” she asked Jon. She turned to Flick. “Can you sub him in?”

  Ketia threw up her hands. “She’s still worried about the game!”

  “Just one serve,” Sage told Jon. “You can do that, right?”

  Jon looked at Flick, who for once didn’t seem to know what to say.

  “You have to win,” Sage told her.

  “I’ll be useless in the backcourt,” said Jon. “But I can get the ball over.”

  Flick, rubbing her head, walked over to the ref’s platform.

  “What can we do?” Ketia asked Sage.

  “Nothing.” She took another drink and elevated her feet onto the chair beside her.

  “Okay,” Flick said, returning. “An ambulance is on its way.”

  “What?” cried Sage.

  Flick glared at her. “You almost killed yourself, and you think we wouldn’t call a medic?” She was clearly pissed. “I didn’t need to anyway. Your friends already had. At least they have some sense.” She jutted her chin at Jon. “Substitution is made.” She stomped back to the court, where the ref was talking to the Pumpkins’ captain.

  Sage couldn’t blame Flick for being angry. For the first time she imagined how Flick—or any of them—would feel if something had happened to her. She took another long pull from the water bottle.

  “You better not die on us,” Mountain told Sage as the ref signaled both teams back to the floor. “’Cause when I get back here, I’m gonna kill you.”

  Sage gave him a weak smile.

  It was over quickly, and after everything, decidedly anticlimactic. Jon served underhanded, the Pumpkins returned, but Mountain made a successful block, ending the match.

  Ketia and Mountain high-fived, but Flick didn’t even clap. Guilt knotted inside Sage. Flick had wanted this win so badly, and now she couldn’t even celebrate it.

  After the teams shook hands, Flick marched up to Sage. “You know you’re not playing states, right?”

  Sage blanched. “Um, yeah.”

  The doors burst open, and two paramedics rushed inside, pulling a stretcher. Len and Kayla joined them. Sage covered her face.

  “Hey.” Flick knelt beside her. “We wouldn’t be going if you hadn’t helped. Understand?”

  Sage nodded.

  “If your parents contact me with permission, you can join us. As inactive, of course.” She gave Sage a quick, tight hug.

  “Here she is,” Kayla said frantically, leading the medics to where Sage sat.

  The EMT approached Sage. “Miss, just relax. How are you feeling?”

  Sage frowned. “I’ve been better.”

  “Scale of one to ten?”

  “I don’t know,” Sage said. “I’m feeling a little better now. Five?”

  The other medic, a woman with tight dark curls, took Sage’s pulse and blood pressure. “She’s stable,” she told her partner. To Sage she said, “We’re going to lift you now.”

  “You mean—?” Sage gaped at the stretcher.

  “We’re coming with you.” Kayla grabbed her hand. “They told us we could.”

  The woman said, “I’m going to lift under your knees, okay? He’ll lift under your arms.”

  Soon Sage was on the stretcher with Len and Kayla hurrying alongside her, her teammates’ voices trailing behind them. Only Ketia’s came through clear: “We love you, Tiny! I’ll call!”

  Outside, the medics opened the door of the ambulance. “You ladies can sit on that bench there,” said the man. “I need the one on the left.” Sage heard thuds and clunks as her friends scrambled inside. Then she was airborne, sliding into the van. The woman climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “This is mortifying,” Sage said as the man hooked her up to a heart monitor.

  “Sage!” Kayla said. “You almost died. Again! Please, get over yourself.”

  Sage might have been irritated, but Kayla’s comment had made Len smile. For the first time, Sage got a good look at her, at her clothes and face covered with grime. “Len!” She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “You’re filthy.”

  “Yeah.” Silent tears mixed with the grime, and Sage wondered how she could stand it, being that dirty. She must be in torture. For you, idiot, Sage realized. She’s doing it for you.

  Sage felt her own tears welling up, and this time she didn’t stop them. “You’re really brave,” she told Len. “Hella brave. I’m gonna help you, okay?”

  “What’s she talking about?” Kayla turned to Len. “Why do you need help?”

  Sage started to answer for her, but, shockingly, Len beat her to it. “Something’s wrong with my brain,” Len said, and the words weren’t even a whisper. “It makes me… not myself.”

  Kayla glanced at Sage, who nodded. She turned back to Len. “You mean, like, what? You’re sick or something?”

  Len nodded. “Something like that.”

  Kayla kept silent, no doubt realizing what that meant; she’d been mocking a sick person. Her mouth twisted guiltily. She could be an asshole, like anyone could, but she wasn’t a bad human. Not at her core.

  “I’m sorry,” Kayla told Len. “I just—I’m sorry.”

  Len nodded, the barest trace of a smile in her eyes.

  “Wait,” Sage said, so suddenly her heart rate ticked up on the monitor. “Wasn’t the Penn scout coming today?”

  “Kayla left,” Len said. “As soon as I told her you needed help.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Kayla said. “Scouts can come back. But you…” Her voice hitched. “You’re more important anyway.”

  The medic interrupted them to reposition a wire, which was good because Sage couldn’t speak. When he sat back, Sage held out her hand. Kayla took it.

  “Thank you,” Sage whispered, “both of you. I’m sorry. I said terrible things to you—”

  “It’s okay,” Len said.

  Kayla nodded. “We all messed up.” She pulled her hand away and held it up, making a fist. Sage smiled and bumped it, pinky side. She extended her fist to Len.

  “Um,” Len said.

  “Come on,” Sage said. “You have your gloves on.” Len looked a little pained, but she bumped back. She even held her first out to Kayla, who barely hesitated before returning the gesture. Sage beamed at both of them.

  “We’re almost there,” said the medic. “Your parents will be able to see you once you’re admitted.”

  Sage’s heart rate increased again. “My parents? Do you have to—?”

  “We already called them,” Len s
aid as the medic nodded.

  Sage’s eyes widened in horror. “They’re gonna put me in therapy for sure.”

  “You need therapy,” said Len.

  Sage closed her eyes.

  “You said you’d help me,” Len went on. “And I need it. But so do you.”

  Sage looked up at her, because she was right. Each of them knew it.

  “We’ll get help,” Len said. “Both of us.”

  Sage swallowed. “Both of us,” she echoed. “Together.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  LEN

  LEN STARED UP AT THE MODEST TOWNHOUSE TUCKED slightly back from the narrow Atlanta side street. It was tall—three stories—but thin, like it was continuously holding its breath.

  Sage cut the engine, and Len pulled on her gloves. As payment for Sage driving her, she’d agreed not to wear the gloves in the car. If Sage got her way, Len would be starting something called cognitive behavioral therapy in the next couple weeks, and Sage thought it would help if Len started prepping. There were still some hoops to get through, but when Sage learned Len had almost died at the tree bridge, she’d been in full fixer mode for the past forty-eight hours.

  Sage had called Dr. Surrage at home yesterday, and over speakerphone she and Len told her about Len’s symptoms, how they were getting increasingly severe, but that Len had no way to pay for therapy. Dr. Surrage said there were some options available through a local children’s nonprofit to get Len evaluated and into some sort of pay-as-you’re-able therapy. There were only a few spots, but with Dr. Surrage as a reference, they were hopeful Len could get in.

  “Len?” Sage prompted, bringing her mind back to the townhouse in front of her. “You ready?”

  Len unbuckled her seatbelt. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready,” she said. “But I’m going in.”

  Sage nodded. “You know that’s the definition of courage, right?”

  Len fought not to roll her eyes and climbed out, grabbing her camera bag. She took the five steps to the front stoop quickly, Sage at her heels, and—forcing herself not to run away like she wanted to—pushed the doorbell instead.

  A dog barked, and footsteps padded inside the house. Then the door opened and Fauna was there, smiling and near tears at the same time. “You’re here!” she said. “You actually made it.” She went to hug Len, then stopped as Len pulled back. “Right. No hugging. You told me yesterday. Sorry. Come in, come in!” She held out a hand to Sage. “I’m Fauna.”