Girl Against the Universe (4 page)

“I tried to get him to tell me your secret identity,” I admit. “But he wouldn't tell me who you are.”

“Good.” The boy looks away for a second. “He doesn't know anyway—not really. I'm not even sure if I know anymore.”

CHALLENGES

1. Make the tennis team.

2. Ride in a car with someone besides Mom.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

GOAL

Plane ride to Ireland for memorial service.

“Maguire, don't forget you have tennis tryouts after school,” my mom says with entirely too much enthusiasm. She's at the counter slicing fruit, the baby monitor propped up against the side of a mango.

“Got it.” I stifle a yawn. As if I could forget. My mom was thrilled to hear I was going out for the tennis team. She's always telling me I need to get out of the house more and meet people. Is it me, or is my mom the only mom in the history of ever who told her kid to spend less time reading and more time being social? Doesn't she know the chances of me getting drunk, pregnant, and/or arrested are much lower if I never leave my room?

I spoon some oatmeal into my favorite bowl with the painted white elephants around the rim and take my usual seat across from my half sister, Erin. When my mom isn't looking, I toss a little salt over my left shoulder. Erin catches me and giggles. “Maguire,” she says in her high-pitched
voice, mangling my name just slightly so it sounds like Mack Wire.

“Shh.” I raise a finger to my lips. Her bright blue eyes sparkle. She's just a little kid. She'll play along.

Casually, I let my hand drop to my chair, where I knock three times. My stepdad, Tom, looks up from his newspaper. He's an engineer of some sort. Chemical? Mechanical? Honestly, I don't know, but then I've never made much of an effort to ask. Don't get me wrong; he's not a wicked stepfather or anything. He's basically cool. It's just even after three years, it still feels like I'd be betraying my real dad if I got too close to him.

“I hope the new racquet works out for you.” Tom tugs at the knot in his tie.

“I'm sure it'll be great.” I force a smile.

He and my mom bought me this top-of-the-line graphite–titanium–moon rock bulletproof two-hundred-dollar racquet. I appreciate the gesture, but unless it's going to play
for
me, there's no guarantee I'll make the team. And unless it's magical, there's no guarantee something bad won't happen.

The oatmeal begins to congeal in my stomach when I start brainstorming about accidents that could occur during something as seemingly benign as tennis tryouts.

“Knock 'em dead, champ,” Tom says. Grabbing his keys, he gives my mom a kiss on the cheek and then heads off to work.

I slide my chair back from the table and mumble
something about finishing getting ready. “Dead” is not a word I want associated with today.

The school day proceeds in an orderly fashion, thanks to a predictable routine and my five-second checks. I survive first-hour gym and then sit through European literature and trig. I eat lunch by myself outside, on the front steps of the school.

While I'm nibbling on a PBJ, I flip through my luck notebook. I used to keep it at home, but my mom found it once when she was putting away my laundry. I told her it was a statistics project I was doing for math class, but ever since then I've carried it with me most of the time. It would be really hard to explain all of the documentation I've been keeping.

I flip to the very back page and write the word “CHALLENGES.” Then I number from one to seven down the left margin. Next to #1 I write, “Make the tennis team.” Next to #2 I write, “Ride in a car with someone besides Mom.” That's as far as Dr. Leed and I got, but it feels like plenty to work on.

After lunch, it's time for physics. My teacher, Mr. Ginger, messes up my name for the second day in a row.

“Kelly?” he calls. “Kelly Maguire?”

I'm used to people reversing my first and last names, since Maguire is a pretty weird first name. I love it, though. It's Irish, like my dad. When I was younger, people tried to call
me stuff like Mac and Mags for short, but fortunately nothing ever stuck.

“It's Maguire,” I say.

He rubs at the bridge of his nose as he jots something down on his seating chart. He'll probably spend all semester thinking I'm some jock or ROTC wannabe who likes being called by her last name. I don't mind.

Once Mr. Ginger finishes taking attendance, he gives us the rest of the hour to read the first chapter in our textbook and answer the discussion questions at the end. I finish them early and then fish a novel about a girl spy out of my backpack. I love adventure stories. Reading about people in mortal peril is much more fun than actual danger.

When the bell rings, I shuffle off to yet another boring lecture. Juniors can choose from several electives and it'd be fun to take home ec or maybe even theater. But hot stoves? Precariously placed set pieces? That'd be asking for a catastrophe. I only take gym because it's required every semester. Some school incentive to keep teens active and healthy. What a crock. I'm surprised we're not all dropping dead from high cholesterol due to the buffalo chicken sandwiches half the school eats for lunch.

I knock on my desk three times. I try not to even think about stuff like mass cholesterol casualties.

My last class of the day is psychology, something I signed up for because it sounded more interesting than any of the other social studies classes. Maybe I can learn something that
will help with my therapy challenges. Today my teacher, Ms. Haynes, is talking about boring historical stuff, different schools of thought that led to various types of psychotherapy. Dr. Leed said what he does is called cognitive behavioral therapy. Hopefully we'll talk about that eventually.

When sixth period finally ends, I head for the locker room. With my back to everyone else, I wriggle out of my jeans and T-shirt and into a pair of shorts and an embroidered polo shirt that my mom insisted would make me look like a serious contender.
If you say so, Mom.
I toss all of my clothes into my locker, slam it shut, and give my combination lock a spin.

I slink out of the locker room and head for the back door of the school. “Wish me luck,” I mutter to no one in particular.

The afternoon sun blasts me in the face as I step outside onto the blacktop basketball court. The ocean breeze blowing in from the west threatens to make my curly hair even curlier.

Beyond the blacktop is the football field, surrounded by our blue and gray track. We're supposed to meet in the football bleachers for an informational briefing session. There are twelve girls lined up when I arrive—three orderly rows of four. I've never seen so many pleated tennis skirts with color-coordinated socks, shoes, and headbands. I suddenly feel like a ball boy in my shorts and polo.

I tromp up to the back and make a fourth row. The two
girls right in front of me are still in their street clothes—one in jeans and flip-flops and the other in a pastel blue sundress and fur-lined Ugg boots. They turn half around to give me a curious look, but neither one bothers to say anything. Both of them were in my psychology class. Sundress Girl sat in the front row and asked a lot of questions about the lecture. Her name is Kami or Kimberly or something.

Coach Hoffman appears from behind the bleachers, a baseball cap pulled low over his pronounced brow and a clipboard balanced on one of his meaty forearms. He paces back and forth on the asphalt track, his neon yellow Nikes treading a repeated path across the stocky body of our mascot, the Pacific Point Porpoise.

A tall Asian girl wearing patterned kneesocks and a black tennis dress emblazoned with purple geometric shapes makes her way up the bleachers, scanning the rows like she's looking for someone. She was also in my sixth-hour class. She sat in the back with me and redid her nail polish behind her book for most of the period.

“Bloody hell,” she says to no one in particular, in what I think is a British accent. “I cannot believe I'm going to spend all semester with you turnips.” She passes everyone up and comes to sit by me. “You're the new girl, yeah?” she asks. “Maguire?”

“Yeah.” I scoot a little bit away as she drops her tennis bag on the ground. It's more of a plain duffel strategically cut and sewn to convert it to a racquet bag. Tiny patches with
slogans like “I think, therefore I am (better than you)” and “Death to pop music” cover the front of it.

“Right then,” she says. “I'm Jade.” She dusts off the bleachers with one hand before sitting down. She's got fresh black and silver polish on every nail except for her thumb, which is adorned with a sunflower decal.

“Jade.” I scoot back toward her. “Nice to meet you.” Okay, so it's totally dumb to like someone for her name, but jade is lucky in several different cultures. I'm counting this as a good omen.

“Welcome to tennis tryouts.” Coach Hoffman clears his throat. “As most of you know, we lost five seniors last year, so this is going to be a rebuilding season.”

A murmur moves through the crowd. Sundress Girl smoothes her already smooth ponytail and then raises her hand.

Coach gestures to her. “Yes, Kimber?”

“Given all the people that we lost and the relatively small number here today . . .” She pauses to take a look around at the bleachers, not bothering to look back at Jade and me. “I'm thinking that instead of having last year's squad members go through tryouts again, we might be more useful to you if we spent the next few days trying to recruit some new members.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Coach says. “But it's always been my policy that every member of the team tries out every
single year. For one, this keeps you girls from getting complacent. And two, it helps me decide who will play which positions. We may have lost first, second, and fourth singles, but that does not necessarily guarantee you the top spot.”

Kimber's back and neck muscles go tense as she sits up even straighter and another murmur moves through the group, this one accompanied by a few giggles. “Of course not,” she says sharply, fiddling with the strap of her sundress. “I was just thinking we might need more than we have here to make a solid team.”

Coach does another lap back and forth across the face of our porpoise mascot. “Oh, I don't know. I count fourteen girls. We only need ten and a couple of alternates.”

“I see.” Kimber's shoulders rotate up and back as she inhales deeply, but she doesn't say anything else.

Jade and I exchange an amused glance.

“Here's how today will go,” Coach continues. “First we'll warm up with some calisthenics. Then we'll break up into groups of two and just hit around for a while so that I can get a first look at some of the new faces and see which of my veterans have stayed in shape over the summer. Once everybody is loosened up, we'll go from there. Any questions?”

A girl in the second row raises her hand. She looks nervously around the bleachers before speaking. “Will anyone be getting cut today?”

“Good question. No one will be getting cut until next week, so no pressure. Just have fun and don't try to force it,” Coach says.

Kimber raises her hand again. “Isn't Jordy going to be helping you out again this season?”

“Right,” Coach says. “I almost forgot. Once again, we're all going to be lucky enough to have Jordy Wheeler at some of our practices and matches, serving as sort of my manager-slash-assistant.”

“You call that lucky?” a blonde girl in the front row pipes up. She tosses a sun-kissed braid back over one shoulder. Some of the girls giggle.

“For everyone but you,” Coach says. “All right. Anyone who needs to change clothes can go do so. We'll meet back here in ten minutes to get started.”

I make a big point of slowly gathering my things, allowing the rest of the girls to descend the bleachers before I start so I can't accidentally trip down the stairs and crush anyone. Even with something as simple as walking, I'm constantly on the lookout for potential hazards. I turn to Jade. “Who's Jordy Wheeler?”

“Shite. You
are
new, aren't you? He's Pacific Point's claim to fame—some big-deal junior tennis star.”

“Cool,” I say. “Does he play on the boys' team?” I fling my tennis bag over my shoulder and make my way to the steps, my court shoes clunking down each of them like I'm a rhinoceros who's had a few too many drinks.

Behind me, Jade's footsteps are quiet enough to make a ninja jealous. “No. He goes to some online athlete school, but I believe he has to participate in at least one activity as part of his graduation requirements. He can't play for the boys' team because he competes in pro tournaments already, so that's why he's going to help coach us.”

“Wow. Lucky us.”

“I suppose. Half the school has a crush on him.” She scoffs. “A bit dodgy, if you ask me.”

“Why?”

“Allegedly his parents don't let him date, or even hang out with friends much. He eats, sleeps, and breathes tennis.”

“Sounds boring.” Really I'm thinking that it sounds kind of predictable and safe. “But not exactly
dodgy
.”

“Well, from what I hear, Jordy still manages to get plenty of action, if you know what I mean.”

I do. There were guys like that at my old school too, ones who were always single and yet seemed to have hooked up with everyone. Or so people said, anyway. I wasn't exactly dialed into the social scene.

Jade and I hop down from the bleachers and cross through a gap in the fence to the track, where the other girls are either standing around chatting or engaged in various degrees of stretching. “So what about you?” I ask. “Are you from England or something?”

Jade exhales deeply. “Bloody hell, I thought you'd never ask.” She loses her British accent completely. “Nah. I moved
here last year from Seattle. I'm in theater class. I just like to try out accents with people who don't know me and see if I can fool them.” She turns the accent back on. “So I had you going then? For a bit?”

“For a bit,” I mimic her.

She laughs. “Brilliant.” She rubs her hands together like a mad scientist.

We drop our stuff on the track and do a couple of halfhearted stretches while we wait for everyone to finish changing. Kimber and the girl who was sitting next to her reappear in matching gray skirts and blue tops. Coach Hoffman and a tall boy stroll out of the school a couple of minutes later. The boy has a huge duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a hopper of tennis balls in the opposite hand. It takes me a second to recognize him.