The Ex Games (25 page)

But it’s all worth it. The Peak Performance Volleyball Camp in upstate New York trains top high school players from the tri-state area and gives them a shot at making the national team. I’ve wanted to go to Peak Performance ever since my gym teacher told me about it in the eighth grade. It has the best reputation. Plus it lands athletes on the radar of prominent college scouts—which is right where I want to be.

Trust, I would walk around stuffed to the gills in grills like rapper Plies if you told me gold teeth had transmitters that blip on the radar of college scouts.

Crazy ambition aside, what’s fun about Peak Performance is that after weeks of intensive training in the art of spiking, blocking,
serving, and winning, the camp squad flies to Miami to play against teams from other regions across the country.

Even though scholarships were awarded to only two star athletes from my school—seniors who have already been handpicked to play volleyball in college—I was selected to join the camp. My parents said they’d gladly pay the hefty fee … but only if I enroll the summer
after
my junior year. Trouble is, who even knows what chance I’d have for getting picked next year! Considering there’s no guaranteed placement, I just can’t pass up this summer’s opportunity.

So for now I’m all about improving my game, which, as it turns out, has been the therapy I needed to get over my ex-boyfriend Rick Stapleton.
Correction:
I didn’t need to get over
him
so much as the humiliation of being dumped publicly. Of course, all of that intensified volleyball focus has reflected on my wardrobe (I pair a v-ball jersey with jeans, like, every day) and the number of v-ball clips on my Facebook page.

I’m finally shaking off the heartbreak, but I still feel stupid when I think of how, right before it went down, I was beaming like SpongeBob because I was genuinely
happy for my then boyfriend. Picture gullible me, all chipper in the bleachers, watching Rick get honored as Peak Performance’s Top Athlete in his age group. I jumped up and cheered so loudly when his name was announced that I gave myself laryngitis
and
a migraine. That was mere minutes before I found out that Rick had also worked on his playa-playa game during his summer away.

Yup, in August, Rick returned from camp with a new girlfriend—the hot v-ball star from a rival school. After practically skipping off the bleachers, intending to congratulate Rick and welcome him back with a kiss, I caught the sight of him hugging up on a Keke Palmer lookalike. He didn’t even unglue himself from her when he saw me staring, frozen in shock. It didn’t matter, because by then my voice was too hoarse (and my head too achy) to confront Rick.

We haven’t spoken since.

But despite the prime-time shaft—witnessed by the entire athletic student body, by the way—I’m turning things around. It’s October, and I’ve established myself as a new, strong player on Teawood High’s varsity squad. Not even the sight of
unslick Rick watching from the stands (with
her
) can throw off my game.

“London Abrams, you’re on register.” My manager’s squawky voice yanked me back from my daydream.

I noticed that I’d been squeezing a helpless tube of paint, leaving it misshapen and crinkled. As best I could, I flattened it to its near-original figure before placing it at the back of the shelf behind the undamaged tubes.

My boss didn’t notice—he’s in his own world. While other managers and employees of Art Attack are funky, creative types, this one is offbeat in a chop-off-an-ear Van Gogh way. The poor guy seems tormented by a million unfinished personal art projects. He wears that torment in his hair. It looks more mad scientist than everyone else’s bed-head vogue.

“
Great
, my favorite place to be,” I said sarcastically, sidestepping his attempt at authority. With a million different possible payment transactions—cash, credit card, Art Attack bonuses, promotional codes, coupons, employee discounts, buy two get one half off deals—I still wasn’t completely comfortable manning the checkout counter.

“Would you rather advise customers on how to put their art projects together?” he asked.

I suck at art advice. So, after stocking the shelves, I went to relieve the lanky goth guy signing off of register 1.

Fortunately for me, it was smooth sailing for the first two hours—just simple cash and credit card customers. But about a half hour before my lunch break, things started getting busy. The checkout lane signs—wide lamp shades displaying red numbers—blocked the shorter cashiers from view. On the flip side, my head towered above my lane’s sign. Because they could see me, customers assumed I was the only employee on duty. So a long line formed at my register, while my coworkers at registers 2 and 3 seemed to be hiding behind their signs on purpose.

Just when I thought my boss would take notice of what was going on, an inquisitive customer whisked him away on a calligraphy ink hunt. It was up to me to handle the situation. I still had too much of that new-employee uneasiness to call out my coworkers, so I addressed the customers instead.

“Registers two and three are also open,” I
informed the back of the coiling line.

My announcement totally backfired. A cutie had been heading to my line, but just as I said this, he queued up behind the two customers who had also just switched to register 2.
Dang
. Curious, I stole a quick glance at him. He struck me as a cross between a teenage Lenny Kravitz and a modern-day Jean-Michel Basquiat. (Yes, working here has taught me a thing or two about famous dead hipster artists.) Dressed in a plaid button-down and khakis, he looked retro and current at the same time.

In the two weeks that I’d been an Art Attack employee, I’d come to recognize the look of a person with creative swagger. And Kravitz Cakes’s air of creativity was more timeless than most hot-for-the-moment, trendy customers who pass through. Something about him made me want to act supergirlie, like twirl my hair around my finger or tilt back my head while laughing. I think it’s called “flirting.”

I wanted to meet this guy. For one, he was taller than me—and possibly a full two inches taller at that. A lot of guys my age seem ten times more likely to catch mono than a growth spurt, so it’s nice to come
across a tall boy. Second—and this was huge—the mere fact that a guy caught my attention meant I must have been getting over unslick Rick.

I started ringing up customers at double speed. I couldn’t move faster if my name was Taylor Swift. Forget the checkout counter small talk I’d normally have. I just wanted the cutie to switch back to my lane when he realized it was the quicker option.

Funny how total strangers operate on the same timetable without even realizing it. There were solid blocks of time when not a soul walked into Art Attack. Then suddenly, as if a sightseeing tour bus had pulled up and parked outside the door, folks swarmed in all around the same time.

My coworker at register 2 and I both had two customers waiting in line. The cutie was at the end of her line. As she rang up stuff, I stole a glance over my shoulder to her lane like a paranoid marathon runner. She had two more items to ring up—a roll of satin ribbons and a box of fancy transparent paper, apparently for a bride-to-be into DIY wedding invitations.

Yes,
I thought.
Those items take mad long to ring up because the UPC has to be typed in
.

The two high-pitched beeps I heard in the next heartbeat meant that my coworker had somehow successfully managed to scan the wrinkled sticker codes on both packages. In a panic, I scanned my remaining three items and totaled the purchase. In a rare retail move (and without once removing his dark shades), my customer handed me glorious exact change.

The cutie looked over with anticipation when he noticed my now shorter lane. He took a step in my direction when, out of nowhere, a trio of loud Jersey types beat him to the punch. Only one of them was purchasing anything, but the obnoxious group made my lane look extra crowded.

“I
know
,” one of the women heaved out in a raspy smoker’s voice. “I would just
die-yah
if they had it—I’m
tawkin’
flat out
die-yah
.”

Then, like a killer block at the net to save the game, my boss walked up and pulled through.

“We have that size of canvas panels you asked for in stock,” he told the trio. “It’ll be out in a few minutes if you want to wait for it.”

The raspy-voiced woman was so excited,
she did almost
die-yah
. Her painful attempt to squeal with delight threw her into a coughing fit. Once she recovered, the excited group christened the store manager a
“dawll”
as he led them down a side aisle.

This time His Royal Hotness acted fast and moved to my lane just as I handed my outgoing customer his receipt.
Yes!
If daydreams could come true, I would jump over the Sharpie-marked counter into his waiting arms.

For all my effort to come face-to-face with him, I didn’t think of anything clever to say to Mr. Crushtastic. I barely managed to greet him. He had such a quiet intensity that it felt like anything I said would’ve sounded silly. For one, he was as focused as I get when I’m on the court. Dude carefully examined each photo matting tool as he placed them on the counter. I recognized that need to concentrate on the details to get the job done right. I’m the same way when it comes to volleyball. And from what I could tell, this guy was heavy into his photography game.

The safest thing for me to do was ring him up in silence. Suddenly, I felt self-conscious
and wished I hadn’t worn my faded powder-blue jersey. It made my deep brown skin look totally washed out. Plus my Teyana Taylor thick, curly hair was wrestled into a messy ponytail as proof that I hadn’t consulted the mirror enough while I styled it.

Fly Guy expected me to announce the grand total, but when I said nothing, he squinted at the glowing digital numbers on the register’s screen.
Real smooth, London
. I wanted to throw the lamp-shade lane sign over my head and pretend I was a fixture. But for some reason, he was the one who looked embarrassed enough for the both of us.
Could
I
be making him nervous?
I wondered.

“Oh no,” he said to himself, barely loud enough for me to hear. His stone-serious face softened into a grimace. “I’m short two bucks,” he told me apologetically as he dug into his jeans pockets twice. “Uh … I could come back and pay you in two minutes, or I can just put something back and pick it up later …,” he rambled.

“No, it’s okay,” I heard myself say. “It’s no biggie. I’ll just use a promotional code and that should cover it.” I made up what
I was saying as I went along. Meanwhile, my internal conversation went something like:
Why did I just decline his offers to swing by later? I just closed off my chance to see him again!

“Thank you.” He paused, looking at me as if for the first time. My stomach flip-flopped. The paper shopping bag I’d packed crinkled as he bashfully picked it up. Apparently our sudden stillness (and the sound of the bag) signaled to the waiting customer that it was time to ring up his manga artist brush-pen set and drawing pad. He slapped them onto the counter.

Nudged out, my crush turned away and walked out of the store.

Like a game-ending buzzer to a losing team, the door chime announcing his exit put me in a slight funk.

“Earth to London.” Pam waved her hands in front of my face. “
Gurl
, if you don’t hurry up …”

I guess I had zoned out after the unidentified-fly-object-of-my-affection sighting.

When I finally snapped out of it, I moved from behind the counter to follow Pam. Her timing couldn’t have been more perfect—I needed to step out for a break.

“I’ll tell you the highlight of my morning,” I answered, hoping my singsong voice piqued her curiosity. “This cu-TAY in
chief
got in my line when I was on register.”

“Really, London?” Pam was touched, like I’d just handed her a bouquet of flowers. She couldn’t hide her excitement over my interest in someone other than unslick Rick. There was something about Rick that she hadn’t liked from the get-go. Pam has a sixth sense for these things and she picked up on Rick’s superficial stench almost immediately. He cared too much about appearances for Pam’s taste. That’s an ironic opinion coming from a fashion
gearu
like herself, but it’s more about her disgust over his obsession with status.

Pam’s theory is that Rick only hangs with people he’s
expected
to hang out with. (This is unacceptable to a girl who learned at a tender age to ignore the stares her mixed-race family sometimes got when out in public.) Case in point: Last year, when Rick was a newbie freshman volleyballer, he
started dating me, a fellow newbie volley-baller. As soon as Rick was crowned Peak Performance’s Top Athlete, he upgraded me for a star v-ball girlfriend. And ever since the Incident, Pam
really
can’t stand even talking about him.

I for one am grateful Pam doesn’t care about status. She befriended me in my unpopular middle school days. And now that I’ve been branded the “jilted girlfriend,” she’s just as supportive.