Like Jazz (5 page)

“To Homecoming, silly.”

Ugh. The only person I wanted to go to Homecoming with was the girl sitting next to me, and that was wrong for so many reasons. “No,” I said definitively.

“No one’s asked you, or you’ve turned down your hordes of admirers?”

“You’re so amusing, Perkins.” My tone was anything but amused.

“Which is it?”

“Does it matter? I’m not going. It’s not my kind of thing,” I said, with mounting irritation.

“Your kind of thing being staying up until three
AM
, reading Shakespeare?”

I held up my book. “Fitzgerald, actually.”

“I heard Kip was going to ask you. He didn’t?”

“Perkins, lay off. It’s not my scene.”

“He thinks you’re pretty special, you know.”

“Well, I’m glad you two have a great time talking about me behind my back.” I nearly winced at the alarming clip at which I was regressing into childishness. She couldn’t know what buttons she was pushing, but I wasn’t proud of my reply.

Sarah jumped off the table, crossed her arms, and glared at me. “What is your fucking problem? Are you annoyed because someone finds you attractive? Or because, God forbid, I—your friend—am asking you something somewhat personal? Or are you pissy because no one’s asked you?”

Fuck. None of the above.
I was jealous of Dirk and frustrated I couldn’t tell Sarah how I felt about her or how uneasy I was with the whole dating subject. “I don’t have hordes of admirers, like you, and wish you wouldn’t tease me by pretending I do.” I returned her glare and crossed my arms defensively, as she had done.

Sarah’s eyes burned into me almost as if she stood in the sun and held a magnifying glass to my face. “You’re a piece of work, Warner.” She dropped her hands and stalked away.

Once Wilcox called our team, Sarah strode to the front of the classroom while I claimed the stool to the left of her podium, at the ready with our flip charts. We didn’t acknowledge each other. She presented our material flawlessly and effortlessly, smiling and engaging the class throughout. Dang, I could use such a gift. No doubt about it after that performance: we’d win. And we did. Sarah charmed Wilcox and the rest of the students with her knowledge of
Othello
, natural poise and intellect, and we got the high score. At least we knew who Homecoming Queen would be. The thought gave me comfort, as I hated to think of iron-willed Sarah holding fast to her word and dropping out of contention over a grade on a stupid project with me.

After class, I went to the locker room to change for our team’s tennis match against our cross-town rivals. This was our only Friday match of the semester, which seemed to heighten its importance. Relieved yet disappointed not to see Sarah, I made my way to the awaiting bus that would take us to our opponent’s tennis courts. I sat in my usual seat in the far-right rear, donned earphones, stared outside, and lost myself in music. The engine roared to life, and soon after the bus lurched forward, the bench seat I occupied dipped slightly as someone sat to my left. I looked over and removed my earphones, unexpectedly finding myself gazing into Sarah’s light-blue eyes, which seemed to be searching mine for something, though I didn’t know what.

We must have stared at each other for twenty seconds or more. It was weird. Some part of me felt such a strong connection to this girl that I wondered, as I looked at her, whether she could read my thoughts. Whether with her eyes she was somehow reaching into my soul. Whether she could tell she was making me feel like I wanted to tell her things I’d never told anyone. Whether she knew how much it tore up my insides when we argued. Whether she could sense that some part of me physically ached with awe and longing to simply be near her. Of course, mind reading was impossible; yet I was anxious in a way I didn’t understand.

“Hey,” Sarah finally said.

“Hey.” I swallowed hard, quickly returning to the view outside. “Nice job today,” I said to the window.

“You, too.”

“Glad you won’t be dropping out of Homecoming court.”

A hand lightly squeezed my left thigh and rested there. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable this morning.”

“No worries.” I was trying to will away the heat searing my leg. Her touch made me feel I was being branded like cattle, and part of me wanted to be similarly marked by her as hers.

“If you do decide to go to Homecoming, I’d like you and your date to join me and Dirk for the night. We’ll be with a bunch of friends, and we’ve rented a huge limo so it should make for some seriously good times.”

“Thanks, but I don’t intend to go. Please…” I wanted to finish my statement with authority, but it came out more as a whisper. “Please respect that,” I said softly. I continued to stare out the window, and the weight on my thigh lifted.

“I do.” After several moments, Sarah headed toward the front of the bus.

She was giving me space, heeding my silent plea to be left alone. Having spent my life on the periphery, it was a message I was used to sending, a shield I was adept at raising. Yet never had I felt so alone as when she walked away.

At our rival’s tennis club, which was very swanky compared to our modest on-school-premises tennis courts, Coach pulled us into an unoccupied court. “Primrose High is our toughest competition, and I intend for us to give them their best fight. We’ll be switching things around from what you’re used to. Normally, we try to win sets, but this is going to come down to winning games. If we tie in sets, the squad with the most games will win this meet. Instead of our usual one-two-three singles players going toe-to-toe with our opponents, today I’m putting our top singles players together as doubles teams and moving some of our doubles players to singles. Joanie and Sandra, you’re our new number-one doubles team. Sarah and Cassidy, number two. Rachel and Kristin, number three. Jennifer, Barbara, and Olivia, you’re our top singles players for the day. Remember, we’re fighting for every game. Let’s do it.”

Sarah and I split our first two matches, barely leading the games column by one, as we lost our first match 5-7 and won our second 6-3. This was our third and final match. We were behind three games to four when Coach told us as we switched sides that ours was the last match in play. Behind her we could see some of our teammates filing into the nearby bleacher seats. Total matches scheduled: eighteen. Seventeen had played, and the games totals favored Primrose by one, excluding our current match. Since the winner had to win by two games, the prevailing doubles team would mean the difference between winning or losing the meet. No pressure.

As I prepared to serve, Sarah joined me at the baseline and tried to pump me up. “You can do this, Cazz. We can beat these chicks.” My first serve fell well wide to the forehand side. The girl then pounded my second serve down the line past Sarah’s stab volley for a winner. That was indicative of most of the game. Although we got them to deuce, my first serve then failed me twice, and we lost the game due to my weak second serve. 3-5: one game away from losing the match.

This Primrose girl had the weaker serve of the two. Sarah ruthlessly clobbered the return on both serves, as did I. With two of our returns clean winners and the other two so well placed that our opponents’ shots didn’t clear the net, it was Sarah’s turn to serve, 4-5. I felt a slight surge in confidence at the prospect, knowing how hard her serve was to return. Her first serve caught the net and barely exceeded the service line for a fault. Our opponent attacked her second serve, hitting it right at me, forcing me to defend myself with a volley, which luckily landed beyond reach on the sideline. The game’s other points ended in similar fashion, and we were soon even at 5-5.

The Primrose girl with the stronger serve caught the outside line, causing Sarah to stretch wide to her forehand. Thinking the girl at net would get the volley, I moved back, hoping to reduce the size of no-man’s-land between Sarah and me. The girl at net hit a backhand volley to my feet, and I was able to scoop it up and send it back over her head. Her partner returned the lob with a shallow one, and Sarah rushed forward for the easy overhead smash. Love-fifteen. We high-fived each other.

“Let’s go, Cazz. Show ’em what you got.” I nodded, and Sarah jogged to her place at net. The next serve went in down the line, and though I barely got my racket on it, the return was deep. The server girl hit a solid forehand up the middle that Sarah anticipated and volleyed at a short angle, past our opponents.

“Way to go, Sarah.” Love-thirty. We split the next two points. Fifteen-forty. The server’s first serve was well long, and on her second serve, she made the mistake of going to Sarah’s forehand. Sarah took it on the rise for a better angle and nailed a crosscourt winner. 6-5.

Crap. My serve, at the worst possible time. Sarah scooped up a ball with her racket and foot and handed it to me, offering words of support and reassurance. Unfortunately, my first serve wasn’t listening. Various points later, although my first serve continued to abandon me, Sarah didn’t give up. At thirty-forty, one point from losing the game, she walked over to me before I prepared to serve. “Let’s go, Cazz. You can do it. We’re going to win this.” Serving to the ad court, I nailed it down the line, sending the girl well to the right of a comfortable forehand. The ball hit her racket frame and soared into the fence. Deuce.

Once again, Sarah hustled over to me, trying to pump me up. “Take a little pace off your first serve. If it doesn’t go in, do the exact same thing on the second serve. Can you do that?”

“I might double-fault.”

“True, but I’d rather lose because we were aggressive than because we played it safe.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Trust me.”

I shifted my grip slightly to the left to add a small spin to my first serve. I tossed the ball and sprang forward into the serve with slightly less power than usual. It sailed long. I looked at Sarah, who nodded. “You can do it,” she said firmly. Keeping the same grip, I repeated the process and watched the ball land just inside the line. The Primrose girl stepped into the forehand but couldn’t take it on the rise due to the faster pace of the ball. She hit it to Sarah, who lunged left, her stab volley sending over a perfectly placed drop shot. Ad-in.

“Nice!” I called out.

Sarah met me at the baseline. Another high-five. “Same thing, Cazz. Same thing.” This time, serving to the ad court, my less formidable first serve landed on the centerline. Our opponent hit a strong forehand deep to my backhand, which I sent down the line to the other girl. She struck a hard but short ball back to me. I raced around it in order to hit a forehand that traveled between our opponents for a winner.

We won.

I hustled to the net next to Sarah, both of us shaking hands with our opponents to congratulate them on a good match. Our teammates cheered and applauded and began filing out of the bleachers to head to the gate leading to our court. Next thing I knew Sarah practically tackled me, engulfing me in a fierce embrace.

I’d never known such joy until that moment. My grin was as wide as our bus. I wanted nothing more than to wrap my arms around Sarah and never let go, but I couldn’t bring myself to hug her. My racket in one hand, the other staying limp at my side, I wanted so badly to hold her yet knew I never could, not the way I wanted to.

“Okay, okay, okay.” I laughed. “No need to fuss. Geez. All right, already. It’s not such a big deal.”

She continued holding and rocking me for a few moments. She pulled back, and her eyes beamed with pleasure as she smiled, her hands around my neck, her face inches from mine. Her gaze dipped to my mouth, and her smile disappeared; then she quickly raised her eyes back to mine. My grin vanished, and my mouth went dry. The gymnast in my stomach did a backflip that moved deftly into a somersault. I gazed into her eyes for what seemed like an endless stretch of time. Then, afraid of what was in them or what I feared I might do, I forced myself to turn away.

Sarah released me and took a step back, which gave me the freedom to meet her eyes. “We did it,” she said quietly, bringing a smile back to her beautiful mouth. I nodded, pleased and pained by her smile. Pleased to see her happy, pained not to be able to cause it beyond a tennis match or two. She had Dirk for that.

“We did.”

Suddenly our joyous teammates surrounded, hugged, patted, and high-fived us, everyone congratulating each other on everyone’s contributions to our team victory.

*

My mother was late in picking me up that evening. It wasn’t possible to know when a match would be over, especially away matches, and sometimes I had to wait around until she could come get me. I read under a lamppost as I waited, sitting on a three-foot wall bordering the parking lot. When the brakes of a bicycle startled me, I glanced up to see a front tire a few feet in front of me and Kip Dawkins straddling his bike, smiling at me.

“Hey, Cazz.”

“Hi.”

“What are you sticking around for?”

“Waiting for my mom. You?”

“Just finished working out. How’d it go against Primrose?”

“We won,” I said with a grin.

“Sweet! Good work. I hate those stuck-up pricks.”

“I’m sure they say the same thing about us.”

“Yeah. Probably.” Kip stopped talking and I resumed reading.

“Cazz?”

I looked up.

“You going to Homecoming?” Kip asked.

“Uh, no.”

“Want to go?”

Along with Sarah and a few other students, Kip was in both my AP Earth Science and AP English classes. He got consistently good grades, played football and baseball, and was one of the cutest boys in school. And it sounded suspiciously like he was asking me to go to Homecoming with him.

“What?” I asked, lamely.

“Do you want to go to Homecoming with me?”

“Uh…dances aren’t really my thing. I’m not…I’m not much of a dancer.”

“We don’t have to dance if you don’t want to. It’ll be a huge party with lots of people and good music. Should be fun.” He smiled. “What do you say?”