Girl Against the Universe (12 page)

Jordy isn't at practice the next day, so I don't see him again until Wednesday, the day of our first match.

It's an away match at Lexington High, a school across town. My mom let me drive her car to school so I wouldn't have to ride the bus with everyone else. I barely survived last night with Jordy. I'm not ready for a bus full of teammates yet.

I meet up with everyone else at Lexington, where Coach informs me I'm going to be playing a girl named Silvia. She smiles and then grabs a can of balls from her coach. She opens the can and drops the silver pop top in the trash. I notice the balls are Wilson #4s. Four is bad luck in several Asian cultures. I tell myself it doesn't mean anything.
Self-fulfilling prophecy. I believe I can win this match.

Jordy is bent over a clipboard with Coach Hoffman and Kimber. He looks up just long enough to mouth “good luck” and then turns his attention back to them. My insides are
quivering with nervousness, but I try to hold my expression steady as I walk down to the third court. Since we're the away team, I get to choose whether I serve or receive first. Everyone always chooses to serve—it's a natural advantage.

Except for me. After we warm up, I hand Silvia the balls and pick my side of the court instead, the side opposite the Lexington bleachers, so I won't have to look at anyone during the next game while I'm trying to serve. Jordy jogs around the courts to my side and gestures to me as I'm heading back to the baseline to start the match.

“One second,” I holler to Silvia. I jog back to the fence. “What's up?”

“I just wanted to wish you good luck again,” he says. “In fact, I found something for you.” He pulls a wadded-up tissue from his pocket and folds it back to reveal a four-leaf clover. “Put it in your shoe or whatever.”

My cheeks get hot. Gently, I reach my fingers through a hole in the fence and take the clover from Jordy's outstretched hand. I twirl the stem between my thumb and index finger. “Thanks, that was really sweet of you.”

“It was, wasn't it?” Jordy tosses his hair out of his eyes. “I'm glad you didn't accuse me of being Slick Asshole Jordy again. Maybe I shouldn't have told you about him.”

“No. I'm glad you . . . shared that with me. I'm sorry again about last night.”

“It's cool. I know you didn't mean it. Because I make you
nervous
.” He winks. “Now hurry up and kick this girl's ass.”
Before I can reply, he gives me a little wave and then heads back around to the side with the bleachers.

I should take his advice and put the clover in my shoe, but instead I tuck it inside the small pocket of my racquet bag. No guy has ever given me anything, and this is one good luck charm I want to keep.

Silvia bounces a ball repeatedly while she waits for me.

“Sorry.” I jog to the baseline and take my place at the back of the service box. Quickly I scan the court, making sure there are no loose tennis balls or any obvious hazards on Silvia's side. “Ready.” I bend my knees and shuffle from side to side, my heart thrumming with the anticipation of receiving my first-ever serve in a real match.

Silvia serves the ball, and I return it low and deep. We exchange several ground strokes before she finally hits a backhand into the net. I've just won my first point!

The next point goes to her when I return her serve off my back foot and the ball goes so long it pings off the painted fence. We trade points again, and then finally I win the game when she double-faults at 30–40. I can't believe it—I've just won my very first tennis game! I try to hold in a huge grin, but it slips out a little as Silvia and I change sides and I catch sight of Jordy smiling at me.

But now I have to serve. Silvia casually hits both balls over the net. I tuck one of them in the pocket of my trunks and grip the other one in my hand. Stepping up to the baseline, I get in position just to the right of the center T.

“Just concentrate. You can do this,” Jordy yells from behind me.

I throw the ball up, but my toss is too low. I let it fall and catch it off the bounce. A second toss, too far behind me. I lean back and catch the ball again. Across the net, Silvia shuffles back and forth. She takes a step inside the baseline, perhaps realizing that she's about to be served up a cream puff.

“Third time's a charm,” I mutter to myself. Tossing the ball up in the air, I bring my racquet back and explode upward, making contact with the ball at exactly the right time. The serve lands in the box, and Silvia struggles to return it, hitting a short shot that brings me up to net. I aim for the back corner of the court and plant my feet, ready to volley whatever she aims at me. She goes for my backhand side, and I punch the ball cross-court out of her reach.

“Nice one, Maguire.” Jordy flashes me a thumbs-up as I'm heading back to the baseline.

“Thanks.” I head to the left side of the court, ready to do it again. But this time my first serve hits the top of the net and lands on my side. I try again. Double fault.

Silvia smiles to herself and trots over to the right side of the court. We trade points again, but she ends up winning the second game. She wins the next game too, and then I win, making it two games apiece. We go back and forth like that, trading games until it's five games to four and my turn to serve. I glance up at the bleachers, but Jordy isn't watching
me anymore. He's two courts down, talking to Kimber. I can see her scorecard—five games to five. Looks like I'm not the only one struggling. Between us, Penn seems to be winning her second set 3–1.

My new toss abandons me at this crucial moment, and I end up serving a bunch of double faults and losing the first set 6–4. I take a few minutes to stretch out and drink water before starting the second set.

Coach Hoffman jogs down to give me some pointers. “Don't get down on yourself, okay?” he says. “This is your first-ever match and you're doing fine.”

I nod, but my chin droops slightly. I really wanted to win for the team, and for Jordy. I don't want him to think the time he spent working with me has been a waste. I trot back out onto the court and try my hardest, but Silvia ends up winning the second set 6–3. By the time I finish my match, Penn has already won hers, and Jade and her doubles partner are just finishing up. I'm the only one who's lost so far. Kimber is starting a third set, and we all go to sit behind her court and cheer her on.

Jordy is down talking to the third doubles team but breaks away when he sees me in the bleachers. He jogs down and takes a seat next to me. “How'd you end up?”

“4–6, 3–6,” I say.

“Not bad.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I lost my first match 6–1, 6–0.”

“Really?”

“Really. How did you feel serving?”

“Better. I think I just got nervous when the score was close and reverted back to my old toss.”

“Old habits die hard.”

Jordy and I watch Kimber with the rest of the team. She ends up winning in a third-set tiebreaker. After we all congratulate her, Jordy turns to me. “Want to give me a ride back to school?”

“That's probably a good idea. Dr. Leed says I need to keep reinforcing my earlier tasks as I move through my list.”

I feel a little better as the two of us head for the parking lot. Even though I lost today, in a lot of ways I kind of feel like I won. I played respectably. I served okay for most of the match. And the team won—and that's what's most important. I think about the four-leaf clover tucked inside my tennis bag and decide to leave it there for the time being. Jordy is almost like a living good luck charm.

“Why do you let some people call you by your first name?” I ask.

Dr. Leed laughs under his breath. “You can call me Daniel if you want.”

“What's up, Daniel?” I try it out. “Do you not want me to?”

He shrugs. “I go on a case-by-case basis. Dr. Leed feels kind of stuffy and old, but sometimes with young women it feels a little creepy to be like, ‘Heeey. Call me Daniel.'”

“Ah,” I say. “Makes sense.” I smile. “Can I call you Danny?”

“Not if you expect me to answer.” He smiles too. “So how are things?”

“I rode in a car with someone else,” I say. “Finally.”

“And?”

“It was horrible.”

“But?”

“We survived.” I give him a quick rundown of what it felt like being in the car that first night. “Then I did it again on Wednesday during the day, only that time I drove.”

“Congratulations. So what's next on your list? Ready to try riding a bus or similar?” Daniel asks.

My eyes widen. “Like during the day? With other people?”

“Well, there are going to be other people on this plane, right?”

“Yeah.” I bite my lip. “What about something like just hanging out in a crowded place first? You know, enough people where I can't control everything with five-second checks, but where I'm not completely trapped just in case something happens.”

“You're the boss. Where would you go?”

“Not sure. Maybe the mall or the beach?” I really don't like the beach. It's bad enough keeping track of everything happening on the sand, let alone in the water.

“And what about after that?”

“Maybe then I can try the bus?”

Daniel smiles. “Sounds like you're right where you want to be.”

My heart is pounding a little bit as I leave Daniel's office. I think about riding with Jordy, about how he talked me all the way through the task. I'm glad we decided to work together on some of our therapy challenges.

I lick my lips and swallow, prepare myself to smile and say hi. But today the waiting room is empty. I remember that he said something about playing in a tournament this weekend. It's no big deal. I'll see him next week at practice.

But still, I'm a little sad he's not here.

On Saturday, I get a call from Penn. “What are you doing today?” she asks.

“I don't know.” I pause. “Did your brother give you my number?”

“Oh. He has a sheet with everyone's address and phone number on the team. I hope calling you like this is okay.” She sighs. “I need a favor, and since Jordy is your friend, I thought maybe you might help.”

It feels weird to hear Penn call Jordy my friend. I wonder if he told her about our late-night drive. “What's up?” I ask her.

“I need a ride to my brother's match. He's playing at San Diego Tennis Complex. The semifinals of the Pacific Crest Open.”

Last night I Googled Jordy's results from Thursday and Friday, so I know he's advanced through the first four rounds of the tournament, but my insides twist a little at the thought
of driving Penn somewhere. It shouldn't be any different than driving Jordy, but it is, for one because she doesn't know about my phobia. “You can't get a ride with him?”

“He and my parents are already there. I was supposed to go with them, but tomorrow is my birthday and we kind of all got in a fight.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I'm the invisible child when my brother is winning. But it isn't Jordy's fault my parents care more about his matches than my birthday. I feel like crap for some of the things I said, and I want to be there to watch him.” She trails off. “I guess I thought you might want to watch him too. I can get you in for free.”

I think about a crowded tennis stadium. It would work for therapy challenge number three, if I can handle another challenge after the stress of driving Penn. My stomach knots even further. The first two tasks went okay, but this one would be a lot bigger—hundreds of people, way more than on a plane.

But you wouldn't be trapped
, I remind myself. And Jordy will be there, and he does seem to be lucky. So far he hasn't gotten hurt from being around me—not
really
. And if I just sat in my seat, maybe everything would go smoothly.

I would love to see him play.

“Maguire? You still there?”

“Yeah, okay,” I say. “I can drive you. When do you need me to pick you up?”

“His match starts in an hour,” Penn says, “so the sooner the better, I guess.”

Penn is sitting on the porch waiting for me when I pull up to the Wheeler house. Her blonde pigtails swing back and forth as she jogs across the grass. She starts talking a mile a minute the second she gets into my car. “Thank you so much for this. I totally owe you and my brother owes you and I'm so glad you're going to come watch him play and I know he'll be glad you're there too.”

“I'm glad you called,” I say.

She rubs at a stain on her T-shirt. “I probably should have changed, but I'm hoping we can avoid my parents altogether. That way I won't be yelled at for being
slovenly
.” She flares her nostrils. “One of my mother's favorite words.”

I sit there at the curb for a minute, trying to figure out the best way to ask her to buckle up without sounding like an old lady.

“Oh, do you need directions?” She peers at me through her sunglasses, apparently confused by my lack of motion. “First go back to the main road and make a left.”

“I have to tell you something,” I blurt out. “I sort of have a phobia of driving people places.”

“What?” Her smile fades. She flips her sunglasses onto her forehead. “But then why did you say that you would take me?”

“I'm trying to get over it,” I tell her. “But it's not easy.”

“Do you want me to drive?” she offers. “I've got a permit and I'm pretty good at it.”

“No,” I say, imagining what constitutes “pretty good at it.” “I can drive. I just—it would help if you put on your seat belt.” I give her a sideways glance. “And if you were sort of quiet.”

“Ooh. Understood.” She clicks on her seat belt and makes a little motion like she's holding a key to her lips and locking them. She gives me a thumbs-up.

“Thanks.” I do a quick check of my surroundings, start the car, and shift into drive. “I know it's weird to ask someone not to talk in the car, but that way I can totally focus on the road.”

“Got it,” she says. “Jordy told me about what happened to your family. Sorry. I didn't think about that before I asked you. I'd probably be afraid of cars too.”

I signal as I prepare to pull away from the curb, checking my mirrors one last time. My hands are clammy on the steering wheel. “He told you about that, huh? What else did he say about me?”

“Not much. Don't be mad if it was a secret. I'm good at getting him to talk to me about stuff. My mom has scared off most of his local friends, so when he's not on the road, I'm pretty much all he has.” She grins mischievously. “I think he likes you, though.”

I blush. “No. We're just helping each other with—”

“Shh.” She holds her index finger to her lips. “Less
talking. More driving.”

“Right.” I do another check and then pull out into the street. I force myself to focus on driving instead of what Penn said.
I think he likes you.
If anything, it's just some weird fascination with me because I'm apparently the only girl in all of San Diego who didn't recognize him on sight. I check my mirrors repeatedly, slowing down whenever I get too close to another car.

Penn sits next to me, quiet except for occasionally tapping her foot against the floorboard. I repeat Daniel's coping statement over and over in my head.
No one is going to die.

When we arrive at the tennis complex about twenty minutes later, I pull my car around to the back parking lot as Penn directs. She ushers me through what looks like a players-only entrance. The stands are packed with people.

I follow Penn up a set of green metal stairs and then inside to an air-conditioned hallway. She opens the door to a small but lavish room with one wall made completely of glass. “It's a private box,” she says. “Only for family of the seeded players.”

I freeze midstep. “Are your parents going to be up here?”

“Oh no. They feel the need to sit in the front row of the stands so my mom can yell helpful things at Jordy like ‘tuck in your shirt' and ‘get your hair out of your eyes.' You won't have to meet them, I promise.”

We each take a seat in front of the big glass window and watch Jordy's opponent—a guy named Peter Kline, accord
ing to the electronic scoreboard—go through some basic stretches. Although he's several inches shorter, he looks older than Jordy. A tattoo of a leopard protrudes from his left sock and covers most of his calf.

“So the driving thing,” Penn says. “Is that why you drive yourself to our away matches?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “It's not so much a fear of driving as it is a fear of being in a vehicle with other people.”

“That must be hard,” she says. Then her face brightens as she points down at the court.

Jordy emerges from the tunnel across the stadium, dressed in white tennis shorts and a black and green Windbreaker. An unfamiliar heat radiates through my body as I watch him jog slowly over to his seat and set his water bottle and racquet bag on the ground. There's something about the way he carries himself, about the way he looks wearing actual tennis clothes instead of mesh shorts and a T-shirt. He looks older, professional.
He looks hot.

I can't even believe my mind just went there. I should be focused on possible hazards, not fangirling. I force myself to scan the crowd and the court for anything that appears dangerous, but after seeing nothing, my eyes come back to Jordy. Is this what happened to every girl at school, too? Did he wear them down one at a time with his exhausting mix of confidence and charm? No, this is a guy who trains five hours a day and then studies and then goes to practice and then comes home and does homework. There's no way he
found time to work his magic on all the girls who are crushing on him.

Jordy strolls over to the edge of the stands where a thin blonde woman is standing. She says something to him. He pulls a headband out of his pocket and affixes it over his forehead. Then he makes a big point of tucking in his shirt.

I smother a giggle. “You weren't kidding about your mom.”

Penn coils one of her pigtails around her hand. “Nope. And there's my dad next to her, in the aviator sunglasses. He's the silent partner in the tyrannical dictatorship known as the Wheeler household. And there's Jordy's coach, Mr. Sang, next to Dad.”

The announcer introduces Jordy and his opponent. Apparently this is one of two semifinal matches being played today. The announcer states that Kline is ranked 141st in the world and Jordy is ranked 47th among 18-and-under juniors. The crowd applauds as the two of them begin to warm up.

I settle back in my chair, and the match gets off to a good start, with Jordy taking a 3–0 lead. His serve is incredible. He hits ace after ace, the balls being clocked at over 120 miles per hour. I can barely even see them from up here. The announcer comments on how Jordy's height gives him an advantage with serving, but the rest of his game is also pretty stellar. Peter Kline wins a game to make it 3–1, but Jordy comes back and wins two more games without even giving
up a point. He's basically dominating and quickly wins the set 6–2.

He goes to his chair and mops some sweat from his forehead. Then he glances up and smiles in our direction.

“That was for you, by the way,” Penn says.

“Nuh-uh,” I say. “He can't see me from down there.”

“I might have texted him on the way here to apologize and say good luck.” She blinks innocently. “And mentioned that his
friend
Maguire was giving me a ride.”

I make a move like I'm going to strangle her.

She laughs. “Do you like him?”

I think about how sweet he's been, from the serve lessons to helping with my therapy challenges. And the way he took care of me when I was freaking out and flashing back to the accident. “He's really nice,” I say.

She scoffs. “Yeah, that's his biggest downfall if you ask me. He hates making waves. He tries to please everyone all the time. He lets my parents, his coach, his sponsors, random people on the internet tell him what to do and who to be. No wonder he feels like—” Penn pauses. “Well, I guess as far as annoying qualities go, it could be worse, right?”

“Feels like what?” I ask. “Like the real him is disappearing?”

“Yeah. Wow, he told you that?”

“We were sharing shrink stories,” I say. “I'm not sure he meant to tell me. It just kind of spilled out.”

Before she can respond, Jordy jogs back out onto the court. I do a five-second check, scanning the court and the crowd for anything that looks out of place. I can't see all of the people from where Penn and I are sitting, but it's a gorgeous, sunny day, and everyone seems to be having a good time. I lean back in my chair and prepare to enjoy the second set. But after winning three of the first four games, Jordy double-faults twice, and suddenly it's three games to two. From that point onward, he seems to slowly unravel. He wins a point, but then loses two. He makes a great shot but then makes a silly mistake. He follows this pattern for several games in a row.

“What's happening to him?” I ask Penn.

She shakes her head. “No clue. He said he's been feeling tired lately. My mom made him go to the doctor, but as far as I know they didn't find anything wrong.”

A terrible idea seizes my brain. I was worried about coming here because of the crowd, because I imagined being in a public place meant someone might get hurt. What if Jordy is the one I'm hurting? What if he's losing this match because of me? I reach up and touch my mystic knot pendant, hoping the clasp is in front. No such luck. I sink lower and lower in my chair, dropping my hand over the side and knocking feebly on one of the wooden chair legs.
Please don't let him lose.

When Jordy loses the second set 6–4, I almost ask Penn if we can leave, but I know that will look unsupportive, like I've given up on her brother.

He goes to the stands briefly. I watch his mom's lips. I can't make out any words, but they seem sharp. His coach is gesturing wildly with one hand. Behind them, Jordy's dad appears to be talking on his phone.

Jordy's shoulders droop slightly as he heads for the folding chair set up next to his racquet bag. I wish I could go talk to him and tell him he's doing fine.

“Can we text him or something?” I ask. “Encourage him?”

“Not a good idea,” Penn says. “If my mom sees him on his phone, she'll have a shit fit. He knows you're here. That helps.”

“Doubtful,” I mutter.

“Let's get food,” Penn says. “This is only a ‘best of three sets' match, but we might be here for another hour or so.”

“Okay.” I follow her back down the green metal stairs to the ground level of the stadium where there are the usual booths selling beer and pretzels, as well as a few fancier places selling things like pasta and salads. I pause on the bottom step, a little afraid to abandon the relative safety of the staircase. People are milling in all directions, carrying too much food, talking on phones, not paying any attention to where they're going. Blue flame flares up in a skillet at the back of one of the booths. The cook shakes the pan without even looking, instead talking and laughing with the cook next to him.

The entire stadium suddenly feels tiny, like the walls are
closing in. Pain jolts through me, like someone is holding a lit sparkler in my chest. I reach up to touch my mystic knot, one hand pressing hard against my breastbone, willing my heart to slow down.

“Let's get pasta,” Penn suggests, oblivious to the panic welling inside me. I do a five-second check of the pasta stand as I get in line behind her. My blood is still racing through my veins, my pulse roaring in my ears, but there are no obvious signs of danger.
No obvious danger.
I repeat the words in my head like a mantra. I breathe in for a count of four, hold my breath for a few seconds, and then exhale slowly, like my old therapist taught me to do for a panic attack.
No obvious danger.
Penn and I will be back in the safety of the box in a few minutes.