Last Breath

by Diane Hoh

  I wouldn’t want to live in that gloomy old place, Nicki thought. Still, as she returned to her little shoebox of a room, she found herself wishing again, as she always did, that she had a roommate. But the only room available when she arrived was this tiny single on the eighth floor of Devereaux, a tall, gray stone building in the heart of the campus.

  Rooming by herself increased her loneliness.

  She had hoped that when she arrived some of the tennis players would show up to welcome her, but none had. And Coach Dietch had insisted that Nicki take the first two weeks to “become acclimated, get used to your academic schedule. I’ll expect you at practice on Tuesday, the thirteenth.”

  At least it wasn’t Friday the thirteenth.

  Nicki changed into white shorts and T-shirt. Dietch insisted on whites, even for practice. “More professional,” she had said crisply.

  Marta Dietch was one reason Nicki had agreed to come to Salem. The coach at State was good—but Dietch had played the professional circuit, and Nicki wanted the benefit of that experience.

  Not that she intended to play professionally herself. Her ultimate goal was architecture. She wanted to design and build homes. Big homes, little homes, medium-sized homes. Maybe because she’d never lived in a house long enough to feel that it was home. But while she was playing tennis, and as long as tennis was footing her bills at college, she wanted to be the best she could be, and Dietch could help her do that.

  Nicki’s hands were shaking slightly as she brushed her long, straight, dark hair and pulled it up into a ponytail, wondering if Dietch would make her cut it. Some coaches hated long hair, even if you swept it back and kept it out of your eyes.

  When she had decided that the view in her full-length mirror was as good as it was likely to get, she reached under the bed and pulled out her favorite racket, removing it from its case with loving hands. Her father had given it to her for Christmas during her sophomore year of high school. It was the best that money could buy, and she’d known the minute he put it into her hands that it was perfect. It had, from that moment on, felt like part of her. It had earned for her a Regionals championship, and then, the title of State Champion.

  When she left for college, her father had cleared off an entire shelf of a wall unit in their new, one-story retirement home. The shelves above and below it were already filled with Nicki’s rewards for working so hard at tennis. “This shelf,” her father said, “is for your college trophies.”

  It hadn’t seemed to occur to him that she might not win any. Didn’t he realize how much stiffer the competition was in college?

  She certainly did.

  She slid the racket back into its case, zipped the case, donned a suede jacket over her whites, picked up her gym bag, and left the room.

  Her heart was hammering against her rib cage as she entered the locker room just off the tennis courts. You’re being silly, she scolded herself impatiently. You’ve done this a hundred times. You should be used to it by now. They’re just people. Imagine them in their underwear. That always helps.

  In middle school and high school, when she’d entered a new locker room in a new school, ready to play tennis, there had always been one or two people who had come to greet her. Always. The friendlier girls, usually the leaders on the team, broke the ice, and the other players always followed suit. At State, the coach had taken Nicki around and introduced her to everyone. That had helped.

  But not here, not at Salem. Coach Dietch was busy in her office, and Nicki thought those must be the friendlier girls in there, gathered around the coach’s desk, because no one else came forward to greet her. Everyone was tying on white tennis shoes or practicing a swing or talking quietly or brushing hair that, Nicki noticed, seemed to be very, very short.

  She was not cutting her hair. Not even for tennis.

  She had learned, long ago, not to linger in the doorway. It invited attention. So, taking a deep breath and letting it out, she walked into the room as casually as she could and began looking for her locker number. Twenty-three. There, way down at the end, on the left-hand side. Swinging her racket to make it look as if she didn’t have a care in the world, she walked between the double row of lockers to number twenty-three.

  She could feel eyes on her, but no one said hi or hello, or smiled or waved. It was like walking a gauntlet. And she suddenly missed with a fierce pain the easy camaraderie of the team at State, where whites were not required to practice, long hair was perfectly acceptable, and the coach introduced new players to their teammates.

  She had opened her locker and removed the new can of balls from her gym bag when three girls came out of the coach’s office. They immediately made their way to Nicki.

  Ah, these must be the friendly ones. They’d say hello and introduce themselves, and then the ice would be broken and the other players would welcome her, too. Nicki breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t going to be so bad, after all. She should have known that by now.

  “I suppose you think you’re pretty hot stuff,” the tallest girl said under her breath as the trio arrived at locker number twenty-three. The girl who had spoken had very short ash-blonde hair, broad shoulders that indicated a powerful serve, and narrow green eyes that seemed to Nicki as cold as jade.

  Stunned, Nicki said, “Excuse me?” as she turned to face her teammates.

  “I’ve read about you. Small town champion, from somewhere out in the sticks where the competition stinks. I always say, until you’ve played a Californian, you haven’t really played tennis.”

  The two girls with her, one stocky and red-haired, the other tall and thin, laughed. They all had matching short haircuts.

  The speaker smiled without warmth. “You’ve probably read about me, too. Libby DeVoe? California Junior Champion. Two years in a row.”

  The tone of voice told Nicki all she needed to know. “No,” she answered coolly, “can’t say that I have.” She’d met Libby DeVoes before. They were all alike. If you let them think they could push you around, that’s exactly what they did.

  Libby had plucked her eyebrows to almost nothing. She lifted what was left. “Really? You must not keep up with the tennis news, then. I personally feel that it’s important to know what’s going on in the world of tennis.”

  “I, personally, prefer to concentrate on my own game,” Nicki said, turning away to place her gym bag in her locker.

  “She turned her back on you,” one of Libby’s companions said in a shocked voice. “That’s really rude.”

  Nicki turned around to face the speaker. “And you are … ?”

  “Nancy Drew, Libby’s best friend.”

  Nicki laughed. “Nancy Drew? You’re kidding, right?”

  The girl’s strong-boned face flushed. “No, I’m not kidding. And this,” indicating the red-haired girl on her right, “is Carla Sondberg. Florida’s Junior Champ.”

  “Two years in a row?” Nicki asked innocently, unable to resist.

  “No,” Carla said quietly, “I’m not as good as Libby.”

  Nicki was instantly ashamed. She shouldn’t have tarred Carla with the same brush as Libby. “Sorry,” she said.

  Carla smiled. She was very pretty when she smiled. “Forget it. You’re Nicki Bledsoe, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty.”

  “Coach told us about you.” As Nicki moved away from her locker, Carla fell into step beside her, while Libby and Nancy hung back. “Coach expects a lot from you. She’ll probably assign you to doubles at first. That’s where we’re really weak. And you and Libby would make a great team. You’d clobber everyone.”

  “I don’t do doubles,” Libby said from behind them. “Ever. And I’m certainly not going to do it with some minor-league player from Boonieville.”

  Nicki whirled. “I’ve played in small towns and big cities and in arenas and parks and in stadiums with ten thousand people watching, and I always try to play the same way. The best that I can. But to tell you the truth, Libby, I’m not really keen on playing double
s with someone whose head is swollen to the size of a pumpkin because she takes her press clippings too seriously.”

  Someone began applauding. When Nicki looked up, Coach Dietch was standing in the doorway to her office, leaning against the frame, clapping her hands. As she continued to clap, others on the team, sitting on benches or standing near their lockers, began to do the same. Not all joined in, Nicki noticed. But some did.

  When the clapping stopped, Coach Dietch straightened up and said, “Well, DeVoe, I see you’ve met your newest competition.”

  Libby’s face turned as ash-white as her hair, and her lips tightened into a long, thin line.

  As grateful as Nicki was for the support, her heart froze in her chest. Because she knew with cold certainty that on this, her first day of tennis practice at Salem University, she had made an enemy.

  Judging from the look in Libby DeVoe’s cold green eyes, a very dangerous enemy.

  Chapter 2

  NICKI’S FIRST PRACTICE DID not go well.

  After living in Texas for two years, she was used to playing on an outdoor court, even in winter, but here, in the heart of New York State, January meant indoor play. Salem, like other eastern schools, had indoor courts.

  Nicki walked down the long hall to the huge, domed area, by herself. But when she entered through the big double doors, a tall, brown-haired girl with shoulders as wide as Libby’s approached. She was accompanied by a shorter, stockier girl. “Hi,” the taller girl said. “You’re Nicki Bledsoe, aren’t you? I’ve seen your picture in the paper. I’m Patrice Weylen. Everyone calls me Pat. And this creature next to me waving her racket in the air like a maniac is Ginnie Lever. Actually, she is a maniac. About tennis, anyway.”

  “Hi.” The “maniac” stopped swinging. She was short and well-built and had, Nicki noticed with relief, very long hair, caught in a thick, strawberry-blonde, French braid. So maybe there weren’t any rules about hair length.

  Ginnie leaned across Patrice to say in a low voice, “We’re not members of the Libby DeVoe fan club, in case you’re interested. Watch out for her, okay?”

  Nicki laughed, to hide a sudden uneasiness. “You’re the second person to tell me that today.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who was the other one?”

  “A guy named John Silver. He works in the sports shop at the mall.”

  Pat and Ginnie nodded. “John’s great. Anything you want to know about tennis equipment, ask John,” Pat said. “He’s really smart.”

  “Cute, too.” Ginnie said, pulling open one of two large doors. “If John worked out once in a while, he’d be gorgeous.”

  “Maybe he should take up tennis instead of just talking about it,” Nicki said. “Nothing gets you in shape better than racing around a tennis court. And this,” she added admiringly, glancing around the huge, domed structure housing four separate courts, “is really something.”

  “On nice days,” Ginnie said, pointing to the glass roof, “the sun shines in, and it almost feels like you’re outside.”

  “It’s great,” Nicki said.

  But her pleasure over the facility was short-lived as the male faction of Salem’s tennis team arrived and practice began in earnest. Tension sometimes led her to play well, but not on this day. As she moved to a bench to sit with Pat and Ginnie until Coach Dietch set up play, Libby DeVoe passed in front of the bench, bending to whisper, “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got, hotshot.”

  It shouldn’t have rattled Nicki. She liked to think she was more professional and disciplined than that. Besides, Libby had only said aloud what everyone else was thinking. They were all waiting to see exactly what it was that Marta Dietch had seen in Nicki Bledsoe.

  But it did rattle her. Maybe it was from getting two warnings about Libby DeVoe in one day. Whatever the reason, no one was going to see during this practice session what Dietch had seen. Nicki fought grimly to overcome the tension she was feeling, but it was hopeless.

  She messed up on eight serves in eight tries.

  She missed the simplest volleys.

  She began to hear giggles and snorts of derision from her teammates.

  Discouraged and embarrassed, Nicki took refuge on a bench, sitting down beside Pat. On the courts, Ginnie was playing very, very well, with fierce concentration. “She’s really good,” Nicki commented admiringly.

  “Tennis is Ginnie’s whole life,” Pat said. “When she was a baby, her parents must have given her a miniature racket instead of a rattle. The only reason she cares about her classes at all is her scholarship. If it weren’t for that, I think she’d practice twenty-four hours a day.”

  Libby DeVoe, too, was playing well, Nicki noticed with envy. She had a strong serve and a powerful backhand, and for someone so tall and big-boned, she was amazingly light on her feet.

  Just before Coach Dietch blew the whistle to end practice, she came over to Nicki’s bench to say, “Relax! First time out is always tough. Get a good night’s sleep and be back here at two tomorrow.”

  When she had left, Nicki muttered, “Well, at least she didn’t toss me out on my ear.”

  Pat looked shocked. “She wouldn’t do that! Everyone knows how good you are.”

  If they did, they were hiding it well.

  The whistle shrilled. Nicki and Pat got up to leave, waiting for Ginnie to join them.

  “You’ll do better tomorrow,” a voice said in Nicki’s ear.

  She turned, looked up into the face of John Silver, smiling down at her.

  “I thought you were working,” she said. But she was glad to see him. He had warned her about this team. And he’d been right.

  “I was. But I decided to come watch practice today. Check out the new hotshot tennis star.” He smiled at Nicki, who felt her cheeks grow warm.

  “Not much of a star today,” she said apologetically.

  John stayed alongside Nicki. “First practices are always rough,” he said, echoing Coach. “Give yourself some time.” Then he grinned. “But if you think new shoes would help, I can get you a twenty percent discount.”

  Nicki laughed. “I’ll give it some thought.” Then she added grimly, “If I’d played that poorly when Dietch scouted me, I wouldn’t be here now. I hope you’re right about first practices being rough. I need to do better tomorrow.”

  “Good luck.” As he walked her to the locker room, Nicki noticed Libby DeVoe coming up alongside him, flashing a smile his way and a look of contempt Nicki’s way.

  Oh, great! Libby had a thing for John? Wonderful. If Libby had hated her before, now she’d really hate her for talking to John, too.

  This isn’t high school, Nicki told herself. We were supposed to leave that kind of petty jealousy behind when we graduated.

  “Want to go get something to eat?” Pat asked as they entered the locker room. “Have you seen Vinnie’s yet? Great pizza. I’m broke, as usual, but I think I can scrounge up enough for a slice or two.”

  “I haven’t been anywhere.” Nicki hated going to a restaurant alone, and had been eating in Devereaux’s dining hall only when she knew it wouldn’t be crowded. It would be fun to eat with friends again.

  “Meet you outside …” Pat said, and stopped short a foot away from locker number twenty-three. “Nicki?” she said, staring at the locker door.

  “What?” Nicki moved forward to join Pat. Ginnie was right behind them. It was her gasp that drew the attention of others in the room.

  “Oh, wow,” someone breathed.

  “I don’t believe this,” Nicki said, advancing to stand directly in front of her locker.

  Written on the door in thick, white foam, were the words, GO AWAY, LOSER.

  Buy Win, Lose, or Die Now!

  A Biography of Diane Hoh

  Diane Hoh (b. 1937) is a bestselling author of young-adult fiction. Born in Warren, Pennsylvania, Hoh grew up with eight siblings and parents who encouraged her love of reading from an early age. After high school, she spent a year at St. Bonaventure University before marrying and raising th
ree children. She and her family moved often, finally settling in Austin, Texas.

  Hoh sold two stories to Young Miss magazine, but did not attempt anything longer until her children were fully grown. She began her first novel, Loving That O’Connor Boy (1985), after seeing an ad in a publishing trade magazine requesting submissions for a line of young-adult fiction. Although the manuscript was initially rejected, Hoh kept writing, and she soon completed her second full-length novel, Brian’s Girl (1985). One year later, her publisher reversed course, buying both novels and launching Hoh’s career as a young-adult author.

  After contributing novels to two popular series, Cheerleaders and the Girls of Canby Hall, Hoh found great success writing thrillers, beginning with Funhouse (1990), a Point Horror novel that became a national bestseller. Following its success, Hoh created the Nightmare Hall series, whose twenty-nine novels chronicle a university plagued by dark secrets. After concluding Nightmare Hall with 1995’s The Voice in the Mirror, Hoh wrote Virus (1996), which introduced the seven-volume Med Center series, which charts the challenges and mysteries of a hospital in Massachusetts.

  In 1998, Hoh had a runaway hit with Titanic: The Long Night, a story of two couples—one rich, one poor—and their escape from the doomed ocean liner. That same year, Hoh released Remembering the Titanic, which picked up the story one year later. Together, the two were among Hoh’s most popular titles. She continues to live and write in Austin.

  An eleven-year-old Hoh with her best friend, Margy Smith. Hoh’s favorite book that year was Lad: A Dog by Albert Payson Terhune.

  A card from Hoh’s mother written upon the publication of her daughter’s first book. Says Hoh, “This meant everything to me. My mother was a passionate reader, as was my dad.”