Cinderella Sidelined
Read Cinderella Sidelined Online
Authors: Carly Syms
To The Churph.
Cinderella Sidelined
Copyright 2014 Carly Syms
All rights reserved.
Twitter: @carly_syms
All events are a work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to any people and/or events are purely coincidental.
CHAPTER ONE
"Party tomorrow night at my place. My parents are going to San Francisco for the weekend. You'll be there, right?"
Andrea Harris -- at least, I'm pretty sure that's her name -- stops in front of my locker before the first bell rings and eagerly smiles up at me.
"Maybe," I tell her. "We've got a ton of invites for tomorrow night, so I'll see if we have time to get to you before the night's over."
She's still beaming at me even though I'm all but letting her down as nicely as I can. For some people, just having me acknowledge they exist is enough to make it through another crappy, meaningless day in their boring lives.
What? Stop looking at me like that, okay? It's not my fault that I'm, well, me. I can't help it if I'm pretty and popular and the best volleyball player Ashland High School has ever seen.
And what am I supposed to do about the fact that our school's star running back -- the only football player to ever attract interest from college coaches across the country -- is totally captivated by me?
Together, we're unstoppable. Emma Thompson and Blaine Locke. I mean, we just sound like we belong, don't we?
Andrea skips off down the hall, a spring in her step that hadn't been there before she started talking to me. I grab my gym bag from my locker and slam it shut behind me.
A Thursday afternoon after the final bell rings means only one thing in the fall: it's game time.
I head down the hall and walk outside toward The Barn. Some people think teachers and classrooms are the heart of a school, but for me, it's The Barn with its clean locker rooms and endless maze of gymnasiums, basketball hoops, tennis courts and wrestling rooms. It's where we used to play capture the flag when it was raining in middle school and the fields were too muddy for gym class, and it's where I've become an all-star volleyball player several years later.
So, yeah. I love this place. I love the smells, the sounds, the memories, the way the floors squeak under my sneakers and ducking into Coach Morris' office between periods when I need a break from the packed school halls.
This afternoon, I burst into the locker room where the rest of my teammates are already getting into uniform for our match against County Day School.
"Em!"
Stella Gonzalez waves me over from her spot along one of the wooden benches. She's already dressed in our school's signature red and white, and is busy slipping her kneepads on when I walk in.
I go over and drop my bag on the bench with a thud. "Ugh. I'm so ready for this game to start."
Stella smiles sympathetically. "Long day?"
"The longest. Mrs. Jackson wasn't impressed with the lab report I turned in last week and spent the last half an hour after class explaining how I'm wasting my future away because I refuse to take chemical molarity seriously." I roll my eyes. "Like I'm gonna get into college because I know how to do a chem calculation."
She laughs and pulls on one of her sneakers. "As if, right?"
"Sometimes I think the teachers don't really understand that some of us are just here for the sports," I say with a dramatic sigh. "Hello, I'm not taking your class so I can become a chemist. I have to so I can play volleyball and go to college. Duh."
"It's your golden ticket," Stella agrees. "Any scouts coming tonight?"
I shrug. "Haven't talked to Coach yet. Probably. But you know I'm just waiting for that last offer."
"We know, we know. It's not enough that you've got scholarships from three colleges. You need The One," she teases.
I shrug. "What can I say? I've wanted to go to Michigan Tech since forever. It has to happen."
"It will. You're great."
I try not to smile as I slip out of my leggings and tunic top but it's hard. Even though I know I'm good enough, it's still nice to hear it from time to time. Or, okay, all the time. It's not like there's a shortage of praise coming your way when you're being recruited to play for a top college sports program.
I get into my uniform, put my kneepads on and lace up my sneakers in record time before Stella and I hit the gym. Our opponents for the afternoon -- the County Day School Whales (yep, they actually willingly call themselves whales) -- are already on the court warming up. So are most of our teammates, gathered around Coach Morris near the bench.
The bleachers lining the gym's four walls are starting to fill with people. Volleyball isn't exactly our school's main attraction -- that distinction will forever belong to Blaine and the football team -- but we do pretty well for ourselves, especially since we're back-to-back state champs.
I scan the stands until my eyes land on him and I can't keep the smile off my face. He's hard to miss at nearly six-foot-three and almost two hundred pounds of solid, lean athlete's muscle. Blaine's mop of wavy blonde hair is as messy and sweaty as ever. He must've just finished tossing a football around with some of the guys. I'm sort of surprised there's no smudged charcoal under his eyes.
He looks up as I'm staring at him and grins, waving me over. I happily bounce to him and fling my arms around his hard body.
"Hey! You made it."
Blaine nods and brushes a light kiss across my lips. "What, like I'm gonna miss one of your games?"
I lift my head from his chest and raise my eyebrows. "This is the first time you've been here all season."
"First time I've had a chance to get away from football, Em."
A frown tries to flicker onto my face but I manage to keep my smile steady. "I know that. I'm not complaining."
"Yeah, whatever you say," he says, pressing his lips into my hair. "I told some of the other guys to come."
"Richie?" I ask, wiggling my eyebrows, but Blaine just sighs.
"Yeah, I told him, too."
"Yay!" I squeal. "Stella will be so excited to see him."
"Emma." Blaine's voice takes on a warning tone, but I ignore him. I already know what he's going to say. He's a guy, what does he know? "Richie's not into it."
I wave my hand in the air. "He doesn't know what he wants."
Blaine opens his mouth to respond but before he can get a word out, Coach Morris blows her whistle. I glance back at the huddle over my shoulder, then lean in to give my boyfriend a quick kiss on the lips.
"Gotta go! Wish me luck!" I flip my long dark brown hair over my shoulder and jump down the bleachers and back over to my team.
The official blows her whistle and takes her place on the stand overlooking the net. And then I'm back on the court, ready to beat another team, and show the college scouts -- or one in particular -- why she has no choice but to choose me.
I catch Blaine's eye in the stand and he smiles that incredible grin, the one that makes my stomach twist and my cheeks go red.
Yeah.
It's good to be me.
CHAPTER TWO
It's almost ten o'clock the next night by the time Blaine and I pull up in front of Andrea Harris' mansion in his black BMW. There's no other word for it. She lives in Fountain Hills, a ritzy neighborhood just east of Scottsdale that I don't usually visit. Most of the houses out here are embedded into Arizona's mountainsides, and Andrea's is no different.
Cars line the street in both directions and there's a steep walk up the hill to her house that I'm sure has breathtaking views of the entire valley. The house is lit up like a Christmas tree with big, round patio lights hanging from the front porch. I can hear the bass pounding and I'm still sitting in Blaine's car.
"Angela Houston has this many friends?" Blaine unbuckles his seatbelt and stares at the street. "Jeez, I'm glad we found somewhere to park."
"Andrea Harris," I correct him. "And, yeah, there's no way. But it's Friday night and her parents are in San Francisco. Anyone can be popular for a few hours with the right amount of beer."
He thinks it over for a second, smirks and nods. I push open the door and step out into the chilly night. It isn't supposed to be this cold, not in September in Arizona, anyway, and I can't stop myself from shivering.
"What are you, cold?" Blaine asks with a laugh. "Toughen up, Em. It's like sixty-eight degrees."
I glare at his back as he walks up the cactus-lined path that leads to Andrea's house. It's not like we're all walking around with two hundred pounds of solid muscle to keep us warm.
"You came!" Andrea tumbles out of her wide-open front door in a whirlwind of red hair, sequins, and booze. She flings her arms around me and squeals. "Omigod, omigod, you really, really came! I didn't think you were gonna do it! Emma, this is, like, so awesome!"
I stare down at her and wait patiently as she untangles herself from my body. "I told you we'd try to stop by."
"Yeah, but people always say that. I didn't think you actually would!"
Andrea looks so happy to see us that I don't have the heart to tell her I'd been happy as a clam in a pair of old yoga pants and a sweatshirt, all set for a night of Chinese takeout and scary movies with Blaine just half an hour ago.
But then Richie had texted, wanting to know why the star running back wasn't at the party, sure it was my fault, and Stella followed that up with a phone call, screaming something impossible to understand about Richie being thirty feet away from her and why the heck am I not here to keep her from making a fool of herself?
"Well, we did," I say calmly as Andrea finally lets go of me and I smooth out the front of my sheer black and white polka dot top.
"Come on, I'll get you a drink!" She latches onto my hand and yanks me toward the blue cooler set up in one end of the courtyard so hard that I stumble over my own feet. I don't have time to protest before Andrea's shoving a red plastic cup filled with who-knows-what from a punch bowl toward me.
I grab it before the drink sloshes over the sides and spills down the front of my shirt, and make a mental note to make sure Andrea doesn't go back to fill up her own cup again. Someone's had more than enough for one night, and if she has another, I know all too well that she'll wake up in the morning with nothing but regret and the overwhelming urge to eat French fries.
She roots around in the ice bucket for a beer can and smiles when she hits paydirt.
"Eek, that's cold!" she exclaims, pulling her hand out and shaking away stray water droplets.
I raise an eyebrow, but she only laughs when she sees my face.
"Relax, Mom, I'm not even that drunk," she says, and now I know she's lying because a sober Andrea Harris would never have the balls to sarcastically call me mom. "It's not for me, it's for Blaine."
My eyes narrow ever so slightly. I'm not sure why Andrea feels the need to get a beer for my boyfriend when I've got two working hands, but whatever. Another attempt to suck up to me, I'm sure. It's not like she's a threat. A small smile plays on my face as I think it over.
Heck, it's not like there's anyone at Ashland who could ever make Blaine wander, not even in his mind.
