by Diane Hoh
Libby, looking flushed and irritated, failed to return a serve. John moved from the bench to hand Nicki a ball, but she had already pulled free the one in her pocket. She was just about to serve when she heard loud voices arguing. The voices sounded familiar. She allowed herself a slight turn of the head, just in time to see Deacon and Mel being escorted out by a security guard.
She lowered her arm. Great. Just great. They were the ones who had been making all the noise. And now her two staunchest supporters were being kicked out. Hadn’t she warned Deacon about that? Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut? Now they weren’t even going to be there to see her win.
If she won.
She hoisted the racket with her right arm, prepared to serve.
Tossed the ball up in the air with her left hand.
The ball met the racket. And exploded.
Bright-red liquid poured down Nicki, coating her hair, her face, her neck and shoulders, burning her eyes, spilling down across her whites and her bare arms, splattering the floor around her.
Her mouth open in shock, Nicki stood alone on the tennis court, coated with a shiny, blood-red sheen.
Chapter 11
THE SPECTATORS IN THE dome rose to their feet, letting out one collective gasp of horror. Then an appalled silence fell over the crowd.
For a few seconds, the entire dome froze, as if time had stopped.
Then Coach Dietch dropped the cupboard she was holding and dashed across the court to Nicki’s side.
The other players left their courts, running to Nicki’s side. Referees, linekeepers, and ball people gathered around her.
Nicki was only vaguely conscious of the activity, of people asking her questions, handing her towels, trying to help her wipe the slick, oily red from her eyes, her nose, her mouth. Pat was there, too, and she must have been saying something, because her mouth was open and her lips were moving, but Nicki heard nothing. She felt as if she had removed herself from the scene, as if she were watching the whole ugly mess through a window.
Someone took her elbow. Someone was forcing her to move, walking her forward, off the court. Her own movements were automatic, with no sense of direction or purpose. She simply followed where she was led.
“Why isn’t she saying anything?” she heard then, a voice whispered from somewhere behind her. “Why isn’t she crying? I would be.”
Another voice said, “It’s paint, you can smell it. Where’d it come from?”
And still another disembodied voice said, “It came from her ball. It was inside the ball she took out of her pocket. I saw her getting ready to serve, and tossing the ball up. She was about to win. One more point … but when she hit the ball, it exploded, and all that stuff came pouring down on her.”
They’re not real, Nicki thought numbly as she was led into the locker room, the voices aren’t real. I’m imagining them. Because if the voices are real, then everything is real, and that can’t be, that just can’t be. I didn’t walk off the tennis court all covered with red paint in front of the whole school. I couldn’t have. That would be too horrible to bear.
But if it wasn’t real, why did her eyes burn so, why did her lips taste of paint, why were her arms and hands covered with red?
Well, she told herself matter-of-factly, I’m imagining all of that, too. My arms aren’t really the color of blood, and my eyes don’t really burn. I’m asleep and I’m having a nightmare, that’s all.
There was great comfort in the belief, and so she held onto it with all of her might, even when someone … Pat? Coach? began swabbing at her face with a warm, wet washcloth, wiping gently, talking soothingly.
Because it wasn’t really happening, Nicki lay down on the table someone had led her to and relaxed, closing her mind to everything except the belief that she was dreaming.
The wiping of her face and arms and legs continued, as did the voices.
“I don’t like this,” one voice said. Coach? Coach was in her dream? Her nightmare? “The way she’s acting. She’s too quiet. I expected hysteria, but this …”
Another voice suggested calling a doctor, still another talked about taking someone to the infirmary.
Nicki supposed the someone they were discussing was her. It was really weird to hear people talking about her and know that whatever they were saying didn’t matter because none of it was real.
“I wish she’d snap out of it,” the first voice said worriedly.
I will, Nicki thought lazily, just as soon as I wake up. She thought about opening her eyes, just to test out her theory, but her lashes seemed to be stuck together, as if they’d been glued. Must have some of that red stuff on them, she thought dreamily. It’ll be nice to wake up and have it gone.
Someone was yelling, from a distance. Angry. At her? No, at one of the voices, now saying firmly, “No, Deacon, you can’t come in here. We’ve got our hands full. We’re going to put her in the shower. We’ll let you know when you can see her. Go away.”
Deacon’s voice stopped arguing.
Nicki was lifted off the table, carried somewhere, set on her feet. Her eyes were still closed, and although the kind, soft voices warned her, she wasn’t quite sure what it was they were warning her about. She wasn’t prepared for the sudden shock of warm water that streamed down upon her from above.
She had no choice then. How could she stay asleep with water pouring down over her?
When she opened her eyes, with great difficulty because of her sticky lashes, she was in a shower stall, still in her clothes, and she was staring through a curtain of water into the concerned eyes of two people. Coach Dietch and Patrice Weylen.
They looked so worried.
“It’s okay,” Nicki said gently. “Don’t you get it? It was all just a bad dream. Thanks for waking me up. I’ll be fine now. Can I come out of the shower?” And then, before they could answer, she lifted her head and looked straight into a small, rectangular mirror hanging on the shower wall facing her.
And screamed.
Because underneath the fine stream of water, her hair was coated with a thin veneer of red, her eyes were horribly swollen, the whites pink, the edges rimmed with red, her lashes thick with the red goop, her cheeks and nose a scarlet blur.
She kept screaming until they pulled her out of the shower.
The next thing Nicki was aware of was waking up in a quiet white cubicle. She knew immediately that she was in the infirmary, and that she was alone.
And she remembered everything. Reaching up to slam her serve into Libby’s court, hoping this would be the point that would do it, hoping Libby wouldn’t be able to return it …
Then the ball, exploding, the horrible red stuff splashing down upon her …
Nicki slid beneath the scratchy white blanket, shuddering in revulsion. All those people in the dome had seen it happen, had watched her being showered with red … red what? Paint, hadn’t someone said? They had all seen her standing there, a big, red blob, frozen in place. They had all watched as she was led off the court, dripping scarlet.
She couldn’t bear the thought. Tears of humiliation stung her sore eyes. She fought them back, trying to focus her thoughts.
How had paint got inside her tennis ball?
She was struggling to trace the path of the ball from the sporting-goods store to her gym bag to the locker room to John when the same security guard who had supervised the installation of a new lock on her door entered the cubicle. He was accompanied by Coach Dietch, Pat, and a white-faced Ginnie.
“It was paint, all right,” he said, pulling a small notebook from his shirt pocket and flipping it open. “Thinned it with paint thinner first, that’s why your eyes are such a mess. Looks like someone tried to blind you. You got lucky.”
Lucky? Nicki sat up. “How did paint get inside my tennis ball?”
The man shrugged. “Could be someone took it apart, dumped the paint in, glued the pieces back together. Twin Falls police have a different theory, though. I talked to a fellow there, he s
ays if they can find a hole in one of the ball fragments, it’ll mean someone never took the ball apart at all, that they thinned the paint and then injected it into the ball using a hypodermic needle, one of those big ones, used for horses and cows. The weight of the paint made the ball burst when you hit it with your racket. The guy said he heard about something like that in a case in Australia, except that ball had carbon tetrachloride in it. Blinded the woman who hit it. I sent the ball fragments to Twin Falls. I’ll let you know what they find out.”
This time, he pressed Nicki repeatedly for information about who might have “pulled this stunt.” But Nicki knew that it was much, much more than a simple “stunt.” The paint thinner could easily have blinded her. Was probably meant to.
He hadn’t killed her in the whirlpool, so now he was willing to settle for blinding her? As it was, the skin on her face and arms was burned, and stung fiercely. And her eyelashes wouldn’t be the same for a good long time. She’d probably lost half of them to the scrubbing.
But she could think of nothing to tell the security guard. Nicki knew Libby didn’t like her, and most of the team had refused to make her feel welcome. But this was not the work of someone who simply disliked Nicki Bledsoe.
The person who had done this had to hate her with a passion.
What had she done to make someone hate her so much?
Deacon and Mel were allowed in to see her then, and the others left, telling Nicki to get some rest.
She felt safe with Deacon and Mel. They didn’t play tennis. And thanks to Deacon’s big mouth, which had got them tossed out of the dome, they hadn’t witnessed her humiliation, so she was more comfortable with them. She couldn’t imagine what it was going to feel like when she left the infirmary and had to face the world. Gruesome. Everyone would be checking her out to see if any traces of red remained. She’d feel like a store display sitting behind a glass window.
Still, she wasn’t about to stay in the infirmary. How could she feel safe in the place where Barb had died?
“She was supposed to be you,” Nicki heard again, and shuddered.
“You’re being sprung in the morning,” Deacon said, as if he’d read her mind. “But no one will expect you to attend classes, or practice. Especially not practice. How about if Mel and I cut and we all spend the day in the state park up the road? Leave the scene of the crime, so to speak? Abandon the halls of academia to commune with nature.”
“You need some fresh air, Nicki,” Mel agreed. “Your face is as white as that pillowcase.”
My face is white, Nicki thought, because I happen to be scared to death. Because just a little while ago, it wasn’t white, it was covered with sticky, smelly, bright-red paint. And someone did that to me on purpose. That is very scary.
But not as scary as almost being murdered. As being there when a teammate died.
“I am going to go to practice,” she said emphatically, deciding at that very moment. “It’s not like I’m hurt. I’m not. My pride is black and blue, but the rest of me is intact. If I don’t show up, whoever put that red slop in my tennis ball will think he’s scared me off.”
“You’re going to keep playing tennis?” Mel asked, disapproval in her voice. “After what they did to you?”
“We don’t know who did it, Mel,” Nicki said patiently. “And even if it was someone on the team, it was probably only one person. Everyone else, and Coach, will be expecting me to show up. And I intend to.” I sound so tough, she thought, as the nurse came in and told Deacon and Mel they’d have to leave. But inside, I’m jelly.
The nurse gave her something to help clear up the painful skin rash caused by a combination of the paint and the scrubbing necessary to remove it, and a mild sedative to help her get a good night’s sleep.
“You were in shock,” the woman said, plumping Nicki’s pillow. “Can’t say that I blame you. I’ve seen some nasty things in my time, but this one takes the cake. Lucky you weren’t blinded. Of course,” she added innocently, “you were luckier than your friend was last week.”
I know, I know, Nicki thought wearily. People keep telling me I’m a lucky girl.
As the nurse was leaving, she flicked the light switch, plunging the room into darkness.
Nicki bolted upright in bed. “Please, could you leave that on?” she cried. The whirlpool room, with its side door, was only steps away from where she lay. “I can’t sleep with the lights off.”
“The sedative will help you sleep,” the nurse said, and didn’t turn the lights back on.
“Please!” Nicki begged, feeling ridiculously childish. But if she didn’t watch out for herself, who would? She needed the light on!
The nurse sighed. “After what you’ve been through today, I guess I can’t blame you. I’ve got a nightlight here somewhere, let me look.” A few minutes later, a soft, white light shone from the wall beside Nicki’s bed. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. “Now, you go to sleep,” the nurse said. “I’ll be right outside. You’re my only patient, and I’ll keep a close eye on you, I promise. You’re safe here.”
Sure, Nicki thought bitterly. Hadn’t she and Barb thought they were safe in the whirlpool? And they’d been wrong, hadn’t they?
Fatally wrong.
She had planned to stay awake all night, her guard up against possible peril, keep her mind too busy to relax so she couldn’t possibly fall asleep.
But her mind was as exhausted as her body, and the mild sedative sapped her determination. Then, too, her eyes stung less when the lids were closed. Maybe she’d just close them while she did her thinking. Thinking might even be easier with her eyes closed. Easier to concentrate.
“Nicole?” a voice called softly.
Nicki lifted her head, her eyelids heavy.
A figure stood in the doorway, holding something up in the air. At first, she thought it was another hairdryer, and her fogged mind struggled to think what harm it could do, when there was no water anywhere in her little cubicle.
But it wasn’t a hairdryer, she realized. It … was … a … racket. A tennis racket. The hallway outside her room was dark, but she could see a dim outline in the reflected glow from her nightlight. A tennis racket, held high in the right hand of the figure in the doorway.
“You do love tennis, don’t you, Nicole?” the voice whispered, swinging the racket over his head, as if he were getting ready to serve. “You want to play tennis, don’t you? But the thing is, Nicole, you don’t deserve to have what you want. Not after what you did.”
“I … I didn’t do anything,” she protested weakly, trying to shrink down beneath the covers. “What did I do?”
There was a short, brittle laugh from the doorway. “You don’t even know, do you? It means nothing to you. I wish I could feel that way. But, you see, I can’t. Impossible. Why don’t you think, Nicole? I’ve been trying to give you little hints. Because if you think of what it might be that you’ve done, maybe you’ll have the decency to be sorry. That just might save your life.”
Nicki reached out for the call button. Her hand hit the glass of water by the bed, knocking it over.
“No,” she whispered. Her groping fingers found the call button.
“That’s right Nicki. Call for help. You’re going to need it. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”
When the nurse arrived, Nicki babbled hysterically, trying to explain what had happened.
“Why, there’s no one here but you and me,” the nurse said, gently pushing Nicki back down onto the pillow. “No one came in. I’d have seen them. You must have had a bad dream. The medication does that sometimes.”
She sounded so absolutely sure, so positive, that after a while, Nicki decided it had been a bad dream. Like the other night …
It had to have been a dream. Because although she tried, for just a few sleepy minutes before closing her eyes for the last time that night, to remember something awful that she had done, nothing came to mind.
If there was something, she�
�d remember.
Wouldn’t she?
Chapter 12
WAITING TO BE RELEASED the following morning, Nicki thought about quitting tennis. In spite of her bravado telling Deacon and Mel about showing up at practice, the thought of walking into the dome again made her skin crawl.
The dome wasn’t safe.
For just a moment, she wished she could stay in the infirmary, curled up in a nice, safe ball under the scratchy white blanket.
Then she remembered the whirlpool, just down the hall. This place wasn’t any safer than the dome. She couldn’t stay here.
And she couldn’t give up tennis. She had made a commitment to Coach Dietch, and to the team. And there was her scholarship. She couldn’t toss that away like a used tissue. She needed it.
On the other hand, she argued mentally, what good would a scholarship do her if she were blinded … or worse?
Good question.
The arrival of Pat and Ginnie with clean clothes for her, ended Nicki’s silent argument with herself.
As she went through her normal Monday routine, she was relieved to find that no one seemed to be staring or pointing at her. Maybe because she looked perfectly normal now that she was no longer dripping with red. And if they were whispering about her, they weren’t being obvious about it.
An even bigger surprise came when she arrived at practice. Half the squad surrounded her the minute she stepped into the dome.
They asked her how she felt.
They wanted to know if her eyes were all right.
A girl named Sara asked if Nicki needed to borrow anything, and a girl named Joanie wanted to know if the whites Nicki had been wearing on Sunday were ruined.
The unexpected reception dumbfounded Nicki.
She didn’t know exactly what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. It was … nice.
Still, even as she answered all the questions, she was acutely aware of Libby and Libby’s followers huddling in a distant corner of the dome. Libby did not look pleased by the attention being given Nicki.