by Diane Hoh
What stopped her was the sight of her beloved tennis racket, hanging by a string from the light fixture in the center of the ceiling.
By a string …
There shouldn’t have been a string. The racket that she had lovingly packed away in its case, which she had then zipped and stashed under her bed as she always did, had had no loose strings with which to hang it from the ceiling. A racket with a broken string was of no use at all to a tennis player.
But that one string, tied around the fiberglass handle, wasn’t the worst part.
“Oh, no,” Nicki breathed, and Deacon, hearing her, moved to stand behind her, gazing into the room.
The tennis racket which Nicki’s father had given her in her sophomore year, the racket that felt like a part of her and had led her to victory in countless matches, was completely ruined. Every single string had been sliced through.
Chapter 6
“LOOKS LIKE IT WENT through a shredder,” Deacon said, walking over to stare up at the suspended racket. The broken strings flopped uselessly as the racket dangled above the floor, like a sick decoration.
When the ugly sight had finally registered completely, Nicki began to tremble with rage. What a horrible thing to do!
Reaching up, Deacon released the racket. Instead of handing it to Nicki, he held it in his hands, turning it over several times, fingering the shredded string ends. “Not easy to cut,” he remarked. “I wonder what they used.”
What difference does it make? Nicki thought as she fought tears of anguish. “I don’t know,” she said aloud, “I don’t know what they used. And I don’t know how they got into my room, either.”
“Are you kidding?” Deacon handed her the useless racket. “The locks on these doors wouldn’t keep a flea out if it wanted in. Locking them is a waste of time.”
But Nicki wasn’t listening. The minute Deacon placed the racket in her hands, her eyes widened. She studied the handle carefully. Same brand, same style, same color … but there was something … something not quite …
She hefted the racket, took a few practice swings, aware that the shredded strings would create a difference in feel. She knew that. But there was something about the way the racket felt in her hands that aroused hope in her. It looked exactly like her racket. But something felt wrong, something more than simply the shredded strings.
“Wait a sec,” she said, and handed the damaged racket back to Deacon. She hurried over to her bed, got down on her knees, and reaching under the hem of the scarlet bedspread, withdrew the red plastic zippered case.
The case wasn’t unzipped. And … it wasn’t empty, as it should have been if that was really her racket in Deacon’s hands. Her fingers shook as she yanked at the zipper. Then her fingers closed around the pale blue fiberglass handle inside. She pulled it forward.
And there it was. Her racket. Her very own special racket that her father had given her. Completely intact. Every crisscrossed string whole, perfectly in place, and drawn taut.
Weak with relief, she sank back on her haunches, the racket clutched in her hands. “This,” she said, “is my racket. That one,” pointing to the butchered instrument in Deacon’s hands, “isn’t.”
Still holding the wreckage in his hands, Deacon sat down in Nicki’s desk chair. “Explain,” he said. “I’m confused. This isn’t yours?”
“No.” She held high the one in her hands. “This is mine. I don’t know who that one you’re holding belongs to, or why it was chopped to pieces, but it isn’t mine, and that’s all I care about.”
“It shouldn’t be.” Deacon was frowning at her.
“What?”
“That your racket is still in one piece shouldn’t be all you care about. You should care that your room was invaded. You should care that a racket exactly like yours was butchered and then hung from your ceiling light. And above all, you should care that someone went to a lot of trouble to make you think they’d destroyed something you care a lot about.”
Nicki thought about that. She knew he was right. Still, after the scare she’d just had, having her racket in her hands, safe and sound and intact, made it hard to focus on the things Deacon had mentioned.
“Maybe,” she said slowly, getting up to sit on her bed, “the tennis team here has some kind of hazing ritual. You know, like fraternities and sororities sometimes have.”
“That’s not what this was, Nicki, and you know it,” he persisted. “Hazing might involve hiding your racket, or painting it with glue or honey, or filling your ball can with trick balls. Juvenile, stupid things like that. But you’re talking about people who love the game themselves. They wouldn’t deliberately destroy another player’s racket as a joke. Or even pretend to.”
Again, Nicki knew he was right.
“You should call security. Or at least your RA,” he said, standing up. “And ask for a better lock on your door.”
“I will,” she promised, trying to think clearly. It wasn’t a joke? A prank? It wasn’t some silly kind of initiation rite for the new arrival? Then what was it? “And thanks for … for being here, Deacon.”
“Want me to wait until the cavalry arrives?” he asked, hesitating near the door.
“No.” She wanted to be alone, to think. “I’ll call someone, I promise.” She meant it. The idea that someone could get into her room without leaving any evidence of a break-in made her blood run cold. Her little room was drab and lonely, but it had never occurred to her that it might be unsafe.
“Look,” he said, opening the door, “do not let this rattle you, okay? I know I said you should take it seriously, but maybe you were right. Maybe it was just a pathetic attempt at humor. The tennis players I knew when I was a kid came up short in the humor department. Some of them might actually have thought this kind of thing was funny. Something about the hot sun beating down on their brains, I guess.”
His words fell on deaf ears. Nicki was touched by his attempt to cheer her up, but she knew he’d been right in the first place. It hadn’t been a joke.
When he’d gone, she called the Resident Advisor for her floor, a junior named Sela Templeton. Although Sela seemed to have a hard time understanding at first exactly what had happened, when she saw the damaged racket, she did call Security. The man, who clearly didn’t understand at all, nevertheless promised to put a heftier lock on Nicki’s door … the following day.
And how do I sleep tonight? she wondered fearfully.
“Maybe you should call a friend,” Sela suggested. “Have them sleep over. I think you’d feel better.”
Nicki wasn’t about to admit that she didn’t know anyone on campus well enough to invite them for a sleepover. “That’s okay,” she said, walking Sela to the door. “I’m so tired, I’ll be asleep in five minutes.”
But she wasn’t. Although she was exhausted, she couldn’t erase from her mind the image of the shredded racket dangling from her light fixture.
Deacon was right. It was a lousy trick to pull on a fellow tennis player, making them think that something as important as their racket had been destroyed. It was cruel. And she knew someone on the team had to have done it. Only another tennis player would understand just how cruel it really was.
Nicki’s first reaction after she’d thought about it was that she didn’t really want to play with people who could be so mean.
Then anger and indignation overcame fear and distress, and her second, firmer reaction was, I’m going to play the best tennis tomorrow at practice that I’ve ever played in my life. No one on that team is going to guess how rattled I was tonight. I’m going to blow their socks off tomorrow.
Her intention when she walked onto the tennis courts the next day was to prove that the stunt with the racket hadn’t scared her off. To prove that Nicki Bledsoe didn’t scare so easily. And to show whoever had wrecked that racket, broken into her room, and tied the unmistakable message to her light fixture, that she had no intention of cutting and running.
She had no way of knowing whether or not
she’d achieved her goal. Only time would tell if the cruel prankster had given up. But what she did know, when practice was over and they all ran, sweaty and tired, to the locker rooms, was that she had impressed almost everyone on the team with her performance.
She started out slowly, off-balance because she knew that someone on the team was pulling some nasty pranks, and she had no way of knowing which player it was. But by concentrating with all of her might and keeping in mind every second the goal that she’d set for herself, she was soon playing against Barb with fierce zeal, serving up one ace after another and beating her with perfectly placed shots.
Her first realization that she was attracting attention came during a brief break when she heard shouts of praise from onlookers sitting in the bleachers. She suddenly had her own little fan club. Then, as their calls of support reached the ears of her fellow players, she felt them watching her also.
And as she kept shooting the ball back across the net without missing a beat, slamming it back like a missile each and every time, her footwork dazzling, her concentration unbroken, the team members began applauding at the more remarkable shots.
Well! Nicki thought as she dove for a difficult return just inside the foul line, how about that! Eat dirt, Libby DeVoe.
She was exhausted, but triumphant, when the long practice match was over and she had won.
“Boy,” Barb said as they walked off the court, “you take no prisoners, Nicki. You have not a shred of mercy anywhere in your bones.” But she didn’t sound angry, as Nicki was sure Libby would have.
John was there, too, beaming congratulations her way. “See?” he said, coming up to her to shake her hand. “I told you it would be better today. I’m always right about stuff like that.”
Although her fellow players congratulated her on the way to the locker room, Nicki sensed reluctance on their part. They weren’t, she realized, ready to embrace her with warmth and enthusiasm. That rankled. How many times was she going to have to prove herself? One more match like this one with Barb, and she’d be in bed for a week, recuperating. Every muscle in her body ached, and she knew from experience that the aching would intensify later. A hot tub was in order. The whirlpool at the infirmary was available for athletes. Maybe she’d try that.
When she entered the locker room, Libby, Nancy Drew, and Carla Sondberg were staring daggers in her direction. Nicki shrugged it off. She’d played well, and everyone knew it. So Libby didn’t seem to matter very much at the moment.
“She knows you’re a real threat now,” Pat said, arriving at Nicki’s side. “This is not good. Watch out for her.”
“That’s what John Silver said,” Nicki replied, slipping her racket inside its case. “I didn’t take him very seriously. Maybe I should have.”
“Always take John seriously. He’s a smart guy, and he knows what he’s talking about. I think he has a thing for Ginnie.”
“Ginnie? I thought all she cared about was tennis.”
“True. I don’t think she knows John is alive, even though he never misses a match. He knows Ginnie has only one love, and that’s tennis, but I still think he’s interested.”
Coach Dietch emerged from her office to make an announcement. “Exhibition match, Sunday afternoon, here. I want to see how you all play in front of a crowd.” Then she began rapidly rattling off play assignments.
Although Nicki was listening carefully, she heard only, “Bledsoe against DeVoe in singles play.” Everything after that was blocked out, as if the shock had suddenly rendered her stone-deaf. She was playing Libby in front of a crowd? Great. Just great! As if things weren’t sticky enough between them already.
If I lose, Nicki thought in dismay, Libby will be so smug and triumphant, she’ll be even more unbearable than she is now. And if I, by some miracle, trounce her, well, a defeated Libby could be a dangerous thing.
Either way, I lose, Nicki told herself. She had never in her life deliberately played any less than her best. But the thought of how Libby might react to a public defeat by the “new girl” was so chilling, Nicki was momentarily tempted to develop a sudden, mysterious disease that would keep her off the courts on Sunday.
Because if Libby was the person already tormenting her, defeat at Nicki’s hands would only make things worse.
And if she wasn’t the one, if someone else had strung that racket from the ceiling, then defeating Libby in public would give Nicki two enemies to battle.
But the moment didn’t last. No way was she going to hide out on Sunday. Deacon Skye might think that running away from things was a good answer, but Nicki Bledsoe didn’t. Libby DeVoe wasn’t scaring her off the courts.
Anyway, Nicki thought as she headed for the showers, maybe you won’t beat her. She is very, very good. If she wins, if she hammers you into the ground in front of the whole school, you might be humiliated, but at least you won’t have to look behind every bush after that to see if Libby is lurking behind it, waiting to get her revenge.
By the time she’d taken her shower, the only thing Nicki was sure of was that she was going to play on Sunday. And she was going to play her very best. Whatever came after that, she’d handle.
But her firm resolve did nothing to dissolve the hard lump of anxiety lying in her chest.
Chapter 7
“YOU’RE TYING YOURSELF UP in knots over that exhibition match with DeVoe,” Deacon said on Friday afternoon after classes. “What you need is to relax, have some fun, take the kinks out. How about we crash the Phi Delta Theta party tonight?”
Nicki had spent Wednesday and Thursday evenings with Deacon and Mel. She’d invited Pat and Ginnie to join them at the movies and later at Vinnie’s on Thursday, but Pat said she was too broke for a movie and Ginnie said she was too tired.
Deacon and Mel were fun. Interesting. Different. There had been no more shoplifting, and they managed to make even the most ordinary excursion fun. And compared to most of the tennis team, the warmth they surrounded Nicki with was a welcome change.
Deacon and Nicki were sitting on the fountain wall on the Commons, a broad, level area green in spring and fall, but covered now with a thin layer of crusted old snow. The cloudy, cold, gray day suited Nicki’s mood. Her spectacular performance at practice two days earlier had failed to thaw her teammates’ resistance to her. And she hadn’t repeated the performance since. On Thursday, she hadn’t been assigned play at all and had spent the two hours practicing her backhand, and this afternoon, she’d played poorly, her nerves strung too tightly over the upcoming exhibition match. Barb and Hannah were still friendly, but no one else had thawed.
Thursday, when she’d found her sneakers knotted together after her shower, she had hoped that meant they were starting to include her. Later, the hairbrush she kept in her locker had been coated with peanut butter. That kind of stunt was supposed to mean you were being welcomed to the team. But since there was no other sign that that was true, Nicki suspected that Ginnie or Patrice, maybe both of them, were pulling the stunts, trying to make her feel at home.
It wasn’t working. Nicki felt like a foreign exchange student who didn’t speak the language. She had never felt this alienated anywhere.
Deacon was right. She needed a party, even if she had to crash one.
“Sure,” she said, “a party sounds great.”
But it wasn’t.
It started out okay. No one raised an eyebrow when Deacon, dressed completely in black and Mel, wearing a tiny miniskirt, a khaki army shirt, and combat boots, walked into the Phi Delta Theta house with Nicki. No one asked who had invited them. Someone handed each of them a plastic cup filled with punch, and a boy from one of Mel’s art classes came over and led her off to the dance floor. A number of people called out a greeting to Deacon, surprising Nicki. She hadn’t known he had so many friends.
But just about the time when she thought they were actually going to have fun, a group of tennis players arrived, led by Libby DeVoe, who stopped short in the doorway when she saw Nicki.
/> “What are you doing here?” she said coldly, slipping out of her coat and revealing a flaming-red dress that, Nicki thought nastily, made her look like an oversized tube of lipstick. Glancing at Deacon, Libby added, “He’s not a Phi Delt.”
“Neither am I,” Nicki answered coolly. “Couldn’t pass the physical.”
“Very funny. Not.” Libby tossed her coat on a chair. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be resting up for Sunday’s match? Or in the gym working on your backhand? After the way you played yesterday, I’d think you’d want all the practice you could get.”
Nicki nonchalantly flicked an imaginary piece of lint from her blue velvet tunic. “Well, you’d be wrong, wouldn’t you? But thanks for your concern, Libby. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
Barb and Hannah gave Nicki apologetic smiles. As Libby and her followers walked away, Nicki thought darkly, Which one of you broke into my room and tied that racket to my ceiling light? And what are you going to pull next?
Nancy Drew commented as she passed, “You shouldn’t talk to Libby like that. No one else does.”
“Oh, go solve a mystery!” Nicki turned to Deacon, saying, “Why don’t we dance? I need to work off some of this frustration.”
“Good idea,” Deacon replied.
They danced four songs in a row, and then walked over to the refreshment table. Libby was standing off to one side, her narrowed green eyes shining like cold, hard jewels as she watched Deacon and Nicki.
“She hates me,” Nicki said when Deacon glanced Lobby’s way. “What did I ever do to her, anyway?”
“You showed up.”
John came by then, and Deacon went off to locate Mel.
“You’re a Phi Delt?” Nicki asked.
John smiled. He really was handsome. Ginnie had to be blind! “You sound surprised. You think only jocks are pledged to frats?”
Nicki flushed. “No, of course not. I didn’t mean—”