Like Jazz (3 page)

She laughed. “It’s called being friendly.”

Instead of being offended by her calculated overtures of friendliness, I realized that as much as I hated the attention I’d been paid during the day, her repeated efforts to welcome me made me feel, well, welcome. “Effective strategy,” I said, calling out over my shoulder as I walked away. “You’ve got my vote.”

*

Two days later, in Earth Science, I listened in growing discomfort as our teacher began identifying the recipients of the five top scores on the first test of the semester. It was a refresher, designed to get students reacclimated to Earth Science after a summer-long hiatus, not counting toward our grade. It seemed strangely cruel that the teacher, Mr. Mullens, would call attention to each of the top five students—in terms of how they fared on the test—like they did something wrong. Who wanted to be highlighted for having aced an exam?

Mullens began. “Five: Dawkins, Kip.” A couple of catcalls from some girls in the back of class. “Four: Clemens, Dirk.” A bunch of hoots from what sounded like football players, with their deep voices and happy amusement at the discomfort of a fellow player. I noted Dirk wasn’t only good-looking, but had a brain, too. “Three: Rodgers, Eric.” A few groans. Apparently whoever Rodgers was, he was a typical test-acer who wasn’t popular with fellow classmates due to consistently high grades and what I guessed was an absence of good looks or athleticism. “Two: Perkins, Sarah.” A few “aws” and “whats?” as if there was some miscount of the scores. From the middle rows, I heard Sarah Perkins’s voice. “Two? I came in
second
?” As if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Mullens continued. “Number one and top grade goes to: Warner, Cassidy.”

I wanted to die. I should have pretended not to know the answers, but the exam was so easy I owed it to myself to answer as best I could. I slumped in my chair. There were a few murmurs I couldn’t make out, and then someone posed a discernible question. “Who’s Cassidy Warner?” I put an elbow on the desk, a hand to my forehead to hide my face, and wished for an earthquake (this being L.A.) or something similarly large or frightening that would take everyone’s eyes off me. I wanted to disintegrate.

Mr. Mullens called out over the din. “Cassidy, raise your hand so everyone can see you.”

Nightmare. Crawling under my desk and disappearing beneath the floor would have been far preferable. Instead, I removed my hand from my brow, raised it slightly over my head, and focused on the ceiling, hoping for an alien spaceship to crash through and beam me up and out of this classroom. I took a few steadying breaths as Mr. Mullens spoke. “Cassidy got a hundred percent on this test and the three bonus questions. If any of you are thinking of taking on a new study partner, I suggest you arm wrestle for her. Well done, Cassidy.”

The bell rang, and once again I was relieved to be left alone in the classroom after everyone departed. As I stepped out beyond the door, Sarah, leaning against a picnic table in the quad, called out in a steely voice. “Cazz. Over here.” I stopped, dreading confrontation. She stared intently at me and motioned me forward with her hand. That hand comprised long, elegant fingers that would have seemed very inviting in another circumstance, though what that circumstance was, I couldn’t say. I walked up to where she waited and stood in front of her.

“What are you trying to do?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“I never come in second.”

You just did.
“Sorry.” I gave her a slight shrug.

She glared at me. “Know that this is the first and last time you will ever beat my score in anything.” She delivered each word with such precise diction, a baboon couldn’t have misinterpreted her.

I didn’t get sucked into these kinds of rivalries or intend to start now. I’d been the new kid far too often to let threats and intimidation tactics faze me. Typically, I’d simply walk away and mutter to myself when out of earshot. But something made me respond to Sarah. Some part of me wanted her to know who I was and for her not to forget it. Before I could contain myself, I shrugged and heard myself say, “Perhaps.” It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Sarah’s eyes blazed in disbelief and anger. She stormed away toward an awaiting group of girls at the other end of the quad.

God. I loved high school.

That Friday, back in Wilcox’s class, he began by handing out a new assignment. “Time to partner up, people. You’ll be working in pairs as you sift through Shakespeare’s
Othello
. You have thirty seconds.”

Commotion erupted as some students called out across the room to get the attention and agreement of a friend, while others scampered out of their chairs to wherever their friends were sitting. After thirty seconds, Wilcox called time, and I alone was without a partner. “Since there are twenty-six of you, I assume each of you is paired up at this point?” Wilcox asked.

Too embarrassed to speak up, I told myself I’d talk to him after class about flying solo on the project. At that moment, as she had on my first day in Wilcox’s class, Sarah Perkins entered, having come from her student-assembly planning meeting, one of the few allowable excuses for tardiness at Claiborne. And like that first day, I had trouble wrenching my eyes from her. She wore cut-offs that showed plenty of leg, and the feminine cut of her pinstripe Dodgers T-shirt tastefully accentuated her shapely chest and trim waist. With those curves, she could easily pass for twenty-two.

“Ah, Miss Perkins. You missed our selection process of pairing up for our
Othello
project. We’ll put you in a group of three.”

A good-looking boy named Kip Dawkins called out. “Sarah, you can join me and Kevin.”

“Wait a second,” Wilcox said. “There’s an even number of you. Which of you doesn’t have a partner?”

Slowly, desperately hoping Wilcox would somehow miss it, I raised my hand.

“Miss Perkins, you and Miss Warner are a team.”

“But Mr. Wilcox, why can’t I work with Kip and Kevin?”

“Because, Miss Perkins, we’re working in pairs. You’re with Miss Warner. Please sit down while I go over the details of the project.”

Without turning her head, Sarah moved her eyes to me with such a look of annoyance it was as if she were trying to bore a hole through my skull. Keeping her eyes on me, she went to one of the few remaining open desks and sat perfectly erect before turning to Wilcox.

After class, as I gathered my belongings, some of Sarah’s friends surrounded her desk and offered condolences on her fate. Remarks like “not fair” and “totally uncool” and “sucks” filled the air as I made my way out the door.

Certain that the pairing would yield us both as much happiness as Othello’s marriage, I couldn’t help but be amused. It was a first. The perennial new girl, I was used to being matched up with the dregs of the class, the least intelligent students whose “project” grade would rely solely upon my efforts. Now I was partnered with perhaps the brightest of my classmates who was already out to best me. Let her try.

*

Because Claiborne comprised nearly six hundred students, I had only two classes with Sarah: AP English and AP Earth Science. After sixth period at the beginning of my second week, we had tryouts for the tennis team. My parents both worked, so I spent a lot of time playing sports. Staying late at school made it easier to get home and gave me more time to study, since my mom could pick me up after work. My usuals were tennis, basketball, and softball. I wasn’t a star player, but I was respectable because of my good hand-eye coordination, speed, and scrappiness. Sports allowed me to let off some of the steam that built up from our moving around so much, never being able to put down roots or get close to people.

About twenty-five girls in tennis skirts stood around a short redhead who identified herself as the coach. She referred to a clipboard and called out names, each girl responding with “here” or “yep.” We were on the fifth of twelve tennis courts, the first four being occupied by other girls, six playing singles and four playing doubles. As the coach described the drills we’d be starting with, I glanced over at the occupied courts and stopped short when I saw Sarah Perkins pound a forehand crosscourt winner against her opponent. She turned around and strode to the baseline.

Her short cream skirt and ankle socks showed off her long, tan legs, and her matching sleeveless V-neck tennis shirt with light-yellow stripes accentuated her collarbone and lean, sun-kissed arms. Like me, she wore her hair in a ponytail that came down to her shoulders. A silver necklace held a charm or medallion that dipped toward the lower V in her V-neck, luring my eyes to her chest. For the first time that day, I noticed when I swallowed. She was stunning. Athletic, too.

With her left hand, she bounced the ball in front of her four times, held it close to her racket, tossed it into the air, sprang up and forward with her body, and struck it hard with her racket. Her motion was at once powerful, yet fluid. The kick serve hit just inside the line and spun out wide off the court. Her opponent couldn’t get a racket on it. Ace.

With effort, I turned back to the coach, who was finishing explaining that seven of the girls on courts one through four were already on the team since they were on varsity previously. The others were the prior year’s top JV players. From last year’s team, only two students—two seniors—had graduated. There were only a couple spots left on varsity, and although JV was wide open, many of us wouldn’t make either team. Once we worked on drills, those of us the coach thought had varsity potential would be pitted against one of the varsity players for a set.

My turn. The coach fired off round after round of balls from where she stood next to the ball basket at and across the net, making me run after countless forehands and backhands. Then she hit a drop shot that brought me to the net and struck volley after volley at me. After several minutes, she waved me over.

“Nice work, Cassidy. You have a great backhand, and your instincts at net are impressive.”

I didn’t respond, but kept my eyes on her. I’m not good with compliments. They make me feel I’m under a microscope, and I’m uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

“I want you to go hit with one of the varsity players.” Coach called out across the courts. “Sarah!” Sarah looked up, then jogged over to the fence separating us. “I want you to play a set with Cassidy here.”

“Sure, Coach.” Sarah glanced at me and quickly tossed her head to the side, indicating that I should join her on court two.

The coach addressed me. “Sarah’s one of our top singles players so don’t worry about the score. I’ve got a lot of girls to watch today, but I’ll be able to catch some of your play. Just do your best.”

I hustled off the court, around the fence and onto court two, and stopped on the opposite side of the net from Sarah, relieved at the court-length distance between us. I felt it would help me concentrate better, though I didn’t understand why.

Sarah gazed at me for several moments, as if taking stock, making me uncomfortable under her inspection. Finally, she lightly hit to me the two balls she was holding. “You serve first.”

Perfect.
My serve was the worst part of my game. Net play, baseline play, return of serve—all fine. My first serve was hard and flat, with zero spin. It would be fine if it actually went in, but it only did so about half the time. My second serve was the epitome of wimpiness. I tapped it in like a third-grader.

I walked to the baseline and watched Sarah across the net, shifting her weight from side to side, anticipating my serve. Sure enough, it slammed into the net. I hit my weak second serve, which landed a good foot inside the service box, and could do little but stand on my heels as Sarah attacked it on the rise, pounding it with devastating effect down the backhand line for a clean winner. Love-fifteen.

From the ad court, I attempted a down-the-line first serve. It was hard and fast, but well wide. On my second serve, I tapped it to her backhand, which she again attacked and drilled for a winner.

“Nice shot,” I said. Love-thirty. This was going well.

Sarah walked quickly to the even court without looking at me until she was ready to return. I tossed the ball, bounding into the court as I smashed my racket strings against it, aiming for a serve that would pull her wide to the right, and watched in relief as it fell in. Sarah couldn’t get more than her frame on the ball. Fifteen-thirty. Back in the ad court, I decided to go down the line to her forehand. The serve caught the line, and she stretched far for the forehand return, hitting it well wide. Thirty-all. All business, Sarah walked again to the even court, tugging at a few racket strings before raising her eyes to await my serve. This point and the next ended as the first two had, with my second serve coming into play and Sarah taking full advantage, striking each for outright winners. She won the game, and we switched sides.

Return of serve was one of the better aspects of my game. Sarah had a strong serve, but I was able to return each one, forcing us into some long baseline rallies. Serving at deuce, she went wide to my forehand and ran to the net for a serve-and-volley. I returned down the line for a winner. At my ad, she missed her first serve and spun the second serve wide to my backhand. Taking it on the rise, I hit a crosscourt return she could barely get her racket on and won the game.

“Nice,” she said, clapping her left hand on the strings of her racket. The set continued with us breaking each other’s serve, until she got her tremendous kick serve going and won a service game at love, taking us to 3-5, in her favor. True to form, my first serve failed me, and I lost my service game, giving her the set at 3-6.

We both jogged to the net and shook hands. She had a mist of sweat on her face and neck, making me think of a beverage I wanted to try.

“Nice set,” she said, my hand in hers. She wasn’t smiling but wasn’t frowning, either. She had a look of respect combined with wonder, like she was trying to figure out a puzzle.