When we were finished getting ready, I followed Tillie through a swinging door, down a domed hallway to where the squash courts were located.
I still couldn’t believe I was doing this.
SQUASH.
Of all the sports in all the world...
I thought about what Caroline’s reaction to this new development might be and I laughed to myself.
“What is it?” Tillie asked.
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about home.” I shook my head dismissively. “But don’t worry—now I’m getting into the squash mindset.”
She laughed and stepped in with the others.
By a quick count, I saw that fifteen of us had gathered into a loose circle for practice that afternoon. Aside from Tillie, I recognized quite a few faces. There was the floppy-haired kid who had eaten at the end of our lunch table. Tillie had introduced me to him but I couldn’t quite remember… Reagan? Reese? Ugh, why was I so terrible with names? There was a girl with long wavy brown hair and a beaky nose who I’d had my last class with. She gave a half-wave when we made eye contact.
And, of course, standing stiffly at the front of the group with a racquet in her hand, was Ava Cameron.
Mr. Hammond arrived five minutes later looking the part of a yachter in white shorts and a snug-fitting white collared shirt. I had to wonder how many of the girls (or guys for that matter) had showed up for the love of squash and how many had come for the love of him.
His green eyes danced as he paced in front of the wall of the squash courts, explaining the basics of the game for us noobs. He touched on equipment and the scoring system, excitedly telling us about services and rallies, then broke us into groups to play short matches. The player to garner three points the fastest would be declared the winner.
There were slightly different balls for the different skill levels. Unsurprisingly, I wound up in the blue-dot group—the lowest of the low.
The first person I played against was a muscular girl with dark hair that she wore pulled back into a tight bun.
“Patrice, not Patricia,” is how she brusquely introduced herself before the first serve.
Okay then.
Squash, I’d learned from a covert search on my phone during one of the breaks and from listening to Mr. Hammond gush, was basically the ancestor of racquetball. Two players stood on the same side of a court and took turns whacking a bouncy black ball against a wall. Sounds simple, right?
Not so much.
As it turns out, squash is a sport with a lot of nuance. Drop shots, trickle boasts, nick shots, and Mizukis were just a few of the moves I would supposedly have to master over the next few months. And, despite what she had claimed at the beginning of practice, Patrice, not Patricia, knew exactly what she was doing with a racquet. Blue-dot group my ass.
Somewhere behind me, I heard Tillie cheering me on as I stumbled around in my too-big shoes, but it was pointless.
I was awkward.
I was sweaty.
I was an embarrassment to womankind everywhere.
The only good thing about being horrendous was that I lost my games quickly and was able to sit out the remaining time and watch the others play.
After we’d moved through a complete cycle and each person had played everyone in his or her skill group, Mr. Hammond put us in pairs to practice simple volleying techniques. By a stroke of luck, I was matched with the floppy-haired kid from lunch whose name turned out to be Ruben.
Five minutes into the volley session, I cupped my hand over my mouth and whispered, “Do you think I’m being punished for an offense I committed in a previous life?”
“Probably,” Ruben answered with the hint of a smile.
“It’s like the tenth circle of hell in here.”
He nodded solemnly. “Dante omitted the part about squash. It was too graphic and horrific for the general population.”
Happy to find a like-minded soul, I laughed. “So why are you here?”
“I suspect the same reason you are.”
“So either you’re in love with Mr. Hammond or you’re a writer.”
He blushed all the way to the tips of his freckled ears. “Well, I hope to become a writer.” He glanced away. “Someday. We actually have two classes together.”
“We do?”
Ruben nodded.
“I’m sorry. Today’s been crazy.”
His smile turned shy. “I understand.”
Finally, finally, finally, after what seemed like a bazillion years, Mr. Hammond rounded us up. I assumed practice was over and lifted my fist in a silent cheer. It turned out our leader was only getting us together so we could all work on our kill shots because, apparently, that was a thing.
“A kill shot sounds dramatic,” Mr. Hammond said, “but it simply means you hit hard and aim low so that the ball won’t come back far in the hopes your opponent will have to work hard to make the next shot.”
Then he demonstrated and told us to get ready. My first time up to hit, I missed the ball by at least a foot and slipped, landing hard on my right knee.
“Ow,” I huffed.
“Nice effort, Hannah!” Tillie called out, smacking one hand against her racquet. I knew she was trying to help, but her relentless encouragement only made my face flame brighter and my mouth go drier.
The second time Mr. Hammond served to me, I did make contact with the ball, but it wasn’t even close to a kill shot. It was more like a friendly tap.
I bent down to adjust my sneakers. The laces were loosening and my left heel kept slipping out of the shoe. To no one in particular, I muttered, “I think it’s my shoes.”
“I think it’s more than just the shoes,” someone said. Snickering followed.
Nice. I stood up and decided that if I was ever going to manifest a secret power like invisibility, now would be an ideal time for it to happen.
And then, I felt fingers on my arm nudging my elbow higher. I whipped my head around and recognized the artist who had been sitting in the office this morning. He was also in one of my afternoon writing classes. I was sure of that because I’d stared at him for most of the hour.
Had he been at practice the whole time? How had I missed that? He wasn’t exactly someone who blended in with the other Warriner students.
Short, dark hair, a lanky build, skin the color of dry-roasted almonds, and those thick lashes that only guys seem to wind up with. On top of all that, he had these unreal eyes. They were such a light brown they appeared almost golden with the flecks of seaweed green in them. Tiger eyes, I thought as my gaze slid across his face.
He wasn’t perfect.
His ears were a little too large for his head and his nose had a crook in the bridge like maybe he’d broken it at some point. There was a small pale scar just above his right cheekbone, one eyebrow was higher than the other, and his lips were probably too pouty to be handsome. But none of that seemed to matter. He was hot. Or fit. Or whatever they called it here. In Tillie’s book, that would make him a wanker.
“Hi?”
He didn’t answer me. His fingers moved on my elbow and his other hand found my hips and tilted them to one side. I drew in a half-breath and felt my skin break out into goosebumps. Before I could say thank you or swoon any harder, he dropped his hands from my body and took a small step to the right.
“Ready?” Mr. Hammond called from the other side of the court.
I swallowed and nodded.
He made the serve. The ball arced perfectly, hit the wall and bounced once. Holding my breath tight inside my lungs, I concentrated on the ball, took aim, and slammed it hard and low just like I was supposed to. Mr. Hammond dove for it and missed. He actually missed my hit!
I jumped in the air and hooted. Sure, it was just a racquet connecting with a ball, but to me it was sweet redemption.
“Nice shot,” the guy said in a quiet, deep voice.
It took a second for his accent to register, but when it did, I nearly shouted, “You’re American!”
“Yeah?”
“So am I!” I whirled in his direction.
And I whacked him in the face with my racquet.
I moved through the lunch line in slo-mo feeling like a total loser. I couldn’t decide between chips and fries to go with my hamburger and I didn’t want to hold up the line any longer, so I just grabbed both. Because, why not?
A quick scan around the cafeteria and I knew that I definitely didn't want to have one of those awkward lunch scenes like in a bad movie where the girl is wandering around, looking for a place to sit but every table she approaches shuns her like she's a leper.
It was still raining so finding a quiet spot under a tree was out. And I really didn't feel like hiding in a bathroom stall that stunk of urine. Just the thought was enough to rock my appetite.
I found a deserted corner in the commons area and quickly claimed it as my own. There were other students around but at least it wasn’t as cliquish as the cafeteria. I set my tray down and got out my phone so it would look like I was occupied and completely content to be all alone. Lucky for me, there was a new message from Hannah waiting for me.
To: Caroline
From: Hannah
Date: August 31
Subject: My day...
Remember how I was supposed to tell you how my day went? Well, it started with this total beeyotch telling me I couldn’t wear nail polish at school. What is that all about? Did I stumble through a wormhole into the eighteenth century?
And, my classes are ridiculous. For most of the day, I had no idea what my teachers were even talking about. I felt like a ten year old who’d been mistaken for a trained surgeon. I frantically scribbled notes and nodded my head a lot, but that was just a cover to make myself feel better. I’m sorry to tell you but it’s glaringly obvious to me that my dad is right and the American school system is failing us all.
I mean, I thought I came here to be a writer, not a cadet in the military. But the teachers here prep us the way an elite squad is prepped for a black ops mission. We are soldiers and it’s war. Casualties are to be expected.
The worst part? I’m suspicious that my classmates actually like homework and tests.
Hannah
____________
I laughed as I wrote her back.
To: Hannah
From: Caroline
Date: August 31
Subject: Call in the National Guard
Hannah—
You think your day is going badly? Mine is a disaster! You will not believe what happened to me today. There was a huge—EPIC—mess up with my schedule and I didn’t get into that photography class like we planned. I’m so mad! It’s not even a core class so why do seniors get priority over everyone else?? Grrrr! But that’s not even the worst part. Instead of photography I got stuck in... wait for it… Are you sitting down while you read this?? I wound up in Intro to Theater. THEATER!
You’re laughing right now, aren’t you?
And if you are, it’s okay because the whole idea of me on stage performing in front of an audience is insane. It’s like the start of a bad joke... or a horror movie.
Okay, so I haven’t even told you the worst part. (Yes, it gets even WORSE!) Turns out that as part of the ‘course requirement’ I have to audition for the fall musical! Did you hear that?? I have to audition for a musical!
I mean, seriously?!? Me? There’s no way I can sing on stage in front of hundreds of people—even if I will only be in the chorus waving a flower back and forth. I’m going to make a fool out of myself. I can see it now. I’ll trip over my own feet during the lame choreography and probably take the set down with me. I might even pass out on stage. Or throw up on people. It’s going to be bad. So bad.
Kill me now.
Caroline
____________
Her reply came through by the time I opened the chip bag.
To: Caroline
From: Hannah
Date: August 31
Subject: Your imminent demise
Killing you seems like a bit of an overreaction. Don’t you like musicals? I have a distinct memory of you swaying around the kitchen, pretending to be Maria from The Sound of Music. And you play the piano!!! On the other hand... maybe it is a bad idea. I keep flashing back to the recital in the third grade when you accidentally stepped on Julianne Savoca’s skirt. And then there was the hula hoop contest that summer at the lake... Now THAT was a hot mess.
But, srsly, Care—I wish I was there to hug you, or audition with you, or sweep you away into the Witness Protection Program so none of those drama kids could ever find you again. This being apart thing is starting to suck more than just a little bit. The only thing I can do to make it better is to share a little news from this side of the pond that is sure to take your mind off theater. I was going to wait to tell you this on the phone so I could hear your reaction but it’s obvious that you need a pick-me-up.
Your best friend is now… (drumroll please)... the newest member of the squash team. Just let that sink in for a minute and your mood should start to improve.
Hannah
____________
I read through the email twice. Squash? I knew it was some kind of sport from an episode of Gilmore Girls I watched on Netflix, but what the heck? I needed details and fast. I set my bag of chips down and started typing up another email on my phone.
To: Hannah
From: Caroline
Date: August 31
Subject: Team USA
WHAT?? You leave me for a week and all of a sudden you’re an athlete?
And, if you were going to become sporty all of a sudden, why squash?
Btw… what IS squash? Please explain, because surely what I am envisioning is not accurate. Because what I’m picturing is you running down a field kicking a spaghetti squash. Or perhaps a pumpkin. Yeah, definitely a pumpkin. They’re rounder so you can get much more distance with a pumpkin.
Care
PS: And WHY didn’t you tell me about Elise cheating on Henry? WHAT THE HECK?!!!
____________
My phone started to buzz in my hand and a picture of Hannah sticking out her tongue popped up on the screen. My heart jumped into my throat and I felt my face break into a wide grin.
“Hey!”
“Hey yourself,” she laughed. “Can you talk?”
“Yes, I’m at lunch. And is this really happening?” I exclaimed. The people on the opposite side of The Commons turned their heads to look at me. Embarrassed, I hunched over placing my elbows on my knees and covered my face with my hand. “So seriously, why didn’t you tell me about Henry and Elise?”
“Honestly? He seemed so blasé about it that I just blanked,” she said. “It doesn’t even matter. Good riddance, you know?”
“I guess.” I wanted more information but I didn’t want to press Hannah.
“So,” Hannah started. “Tell me more about this theater class. Couldn’t you get someone to change your schedule?”
“Ugh. I begged and pleaded with Mr. Kant but he wouldn’t relent,” I told her. “But, instead of talking about my bad day, I’d rather hear more about you joining the pumpkin team.”
Hannah snorted. “Pumpkin. I love it!”
If it was possible, my smile grew. “I keep trying to imagine you playing a sport.”
“Well, umm… if you pictured me hitting someone in the face while playing, then you are clairvoyant.”
My jaw slackened. “No.”
“Yep,” Hannah countered.
“Hannah Banana, tell me you didn’t hit someone.”
“Then I’d be lying.”
I pressed the phone harder to my ear. “Please explain.”
“Ughhh… It was so embarrassing.” I could hear Hannah’s sigh through the phone. “Okay. So, there’s this guy on the team.”
�
�Yeah…” I prodded as I chewed on a french fry and took a sip of soda.
“Well, when I realized he was American, I introduced myself as custom dictates by whacking him in the nose with my racquet.”
I nearly choked on the fizzy Coke in my mouth.
Hannah sighed and continued, “There was blood.”
I swallowed and squeezed my eyes hard. “Oh my God! Is he okay?”
“I mean… if you call getting nailed by an uncoordinated ass okay, then... yeah sure.”
“Jeez, Hannah. Way to make an impression on the first day.”
“I know. You should have seen everyone’s face. There’s this girl, Ava, and I swear to God she decided to hate me right off the bat,” she told me. “Anyway, I could practically see her glowing with jubilation that I had managed to embarrass myself in such an epic way on the first day.”
“So, why squash?”
“I’ll have you know that squash is a very old and regal sport,” she said unconvincingly.
“Okay, but I know you.” I did know her and there was no way my best friend, the girl who loved books and words, decided to join a squash team just ‘cause.
Hannah was silent for a moment. “Honestly, I joined the team because the head of the writing program is, like, some rabid squash super fan who also happens to be the coach of the school team and I wanted to make a good impression.”
“Ohhhh-kay.” That made a lot more sense.
“At least he’s swoon-worthy so I get to look at him while I suffer through the torture of practice.”
For the second time in the last couple of minutes, I nearly choked. “The teacher?”
“Yep, my teacher is like a mix between Henry Cavill and Prince William. But way hotter.”
Steering the Stars Page 5