Cinderella Sidelined (21 page)

Russ blows out some air. "You're right, I'm sorry," he says, holding up his palms as if to say he surrenders. "I shouldn't have talked to Mary. But I really thought it would help you after you got hurt. If I was wrong, I'm sorry. If I shouldn't have gone behind your back, I'm sorry. But would you have even done the play if I told you in the beginning?"

"Nope. No way."
 

He nods once, as if this somehow validates his actions. "Exactly."
 

"That means nothing, Russ. You were wrong."
 

He shrugs. "Yeah, you keep saying that. But you know what else? You're not the same person you were when I met you last month. You're nicer, you have new friends, you ditched the scumbag without blinking twice. And you smile a lot more now than you used to."
 

I scoff. "How would you know?"
 

"I've already told you. I knew who you were long before you knew me," he says. "I always thought you looked like you didn't belong with that crowd."
 

"Well, congratu-freakin'-lations, Russ, you got me away from my life with Blaine and Stella and volleyball," I say. "And maybe you were right that it wasn't good for me. But you know what else? That doesn't mean being with you is right, either."
 

These feel like perfect words to make an exit on, and I really, really don't want to keep going around in circles arguing with him. He clearly thinks he's right, and I know he isn't, but it's obvious I'm not going to change his mind.

And it's not like there's anything he can say or do right now that'll fix it, anyway.
 

So I do the only thing I can.

I turn and hurry out of the classroom and sprint down the hall, still dressed in the petticoat and bonnet, and burst out of the building into the parking lot where I gulp in as much fresh air as I can.

It had been a quick conversation with Russ.

But sometimes all life needs is a second for everything to change.
 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Kneepads, sneakers and spandex shorts. A petticoat, a long-sleeved dress and a bonnet.
 

I stare at the two different outfits on my bed and gnaw anxiously on my bottom lip.

I'm torn, fifty-fifty, like there's a line running down the middle of my body. Half of me doesn't want to give up playing Miss Halpern -- I've sort of become attached to the crazy British umbrella-twirling math teacher --but the other half would be perfectly content never seeing Russ again.

And then there's the part of me that's starting to scream a little louder, the part that remembered Stella's words sometime around three in the morning and can't get them to shut up.
 

Should I be playing volleyball? Am I deserting my team when they need me the most? It's not an accusation I like, and I'd had an easy defense at the time -- I'd bowed out of the entire season, from the beginning to end, including all the playoffs -- but Stella's right.

I'm not hurt anymore.

And even if I can't actually make much of an impact on the court, I can still be there on the sideline, cheering on my teammates who've spent the last three years cheering on me.

With an aggravated, disappointed sigh, I pick up one outfit and stuff it into my bag, and I slip into the other one. I look at myself in the full-length mirror and nod once when I see my reflection.

I'm doing the right thing here.

This is who I am.

***
 

"Am I seeing things or is that really you?"
 

Stella Gonzalez squints at me when I push open the door to the girls' locker room in The Barn later in the afternoon.
 

I try to force a giant, genuine smile onto my face, but I'm confident I fail miserably. "It's me alright."
 

"And you're wearing your uniform," Stella, the ever-observant one, continues. "What's up with that?"
 

I roll my yes. "Jeez, and here I thought you wanted me to come back to the team, Stell."
 

She shakes her head and smiles. "Yeah, yeah, of course I do! I just didn't think you would, that's all. And definitely not after the other night. What happened?"
 

"Too much to get into now. When's the game start?"
 

She glances up at the clock hanging above the door. "In twenty minutes. Em, you're going to miss the play."
 

It's 4:10 now. The volleyball game'll get underway at 4:30, and Opening Night isn't until three hours after that, but I know as soon as Mary doesn't see me in the auditorium at 5:01, she'll call on Lana to replace me as Miss Halpern's understudy.
 

And don't think I haven't considered how irritating it is to know that Lana, of all people, will get to take over my part. But that's out of my control now.
 

"Well, well, well, if it ain't the cat comin' home!" Coach Morris grins widely when she sees me and Stella walk into the gymnasium.

"Hey, Coach."
 

"What the heck are you doin' here?" she asks, glancing down at the papers in her hand, then up at the clock. "I've already got my game plan set here, Emma, I'm not sure there's enough time to work you in."
 

"That's okay," I tell her. "I just want to be here for the team."
 

"It's nice to see you come home," she repeats and reaches out to ruffle my hair, which I immediately gather up into a ponytail. I've forgotten about that irritating habit of hers.

My old teammates trickle out on the court, each shooting strange, confused looks at each other when they see me on the sideline. Most are happy I'm back, of course, or at least, that's what they tell me.
 

But I know of at least one person who's probably not going to enjoy having me around too much:
 

Jasmine.

Coach Morris has the team go through a few minutes worth of warm ups just to stretch out their muscles but by then it's time for the game to start.

The ref blows her whistle and the teams take their places on the court. I watch, horrified, as Jasmine trots casually into the first service position.
 

Into my service position.

What the heck?

Hadn't she told me she was on the JV team at the party a month ago? And I know she wasn't varsity at the same time as me. I'd remember.
 

I swallow back the bile that's rising up the back of my throat.
 

That's when it happens.

Jasmine glances over at the bench, her eyes running over each person on the sideline until they land on me. Her mouth twitches up into a smirk and she winks -- she actually winks -- at me before she turns her attention back to the ref who tosses her the volleyball and she heads back behind the service line.

My stomach clenches.

What am I doing here?

This is wrong, completely wrong.
 

This isn't where I belong, not on the sideline. I know the volleyball court will always be my home, and I can't wait to get healthy to start playing again in college in the fall, but right now, this is the exact opposite of where I need to be.

"I have to go," I whisper so no one can hear it but me. "I have to go."
 

Without really thinking about it, I quickly gather up my stuff and jump up from my seat along the bench. Stella reaches out and grabs my arm.

"Emma! What are you doing?" she asks. "Coach hates bathroom breaks during play, you know that."
 

"I'm not -- I'm not going to the bathroom," I say distractedly, trying to get her to release her iron grip on me. "I have to leave."
 

Stella presses her lips together into a tight, thin line. "I should've known."
 

"I'm sorry. I love volleyball, but this isn't my season. I have nothing to do with this year's team. I came back because I felt like you guys were all counting on me, but you're not." I wave my hand in the direction of the court. "You're all more than fine without me and you have been this whole time. But there's another group of people that does need me, and I'd be kind of a hypocrite if I screwed them over now."
 

Stella sighs. "You might be right," she says at last, offering me a small smile. "Okay. Go kill 'em or knock 'em dead or break a leg or whatever the heck it is you theater folk say."
 

"Thanks, Stella," I say, and I mean it. I glance up at the clock and see it's 4:57 p.m. Three minutes to get from The Barn all the way to the auditorium. I might've made it when I was working out everyday, but I've been hitting the pizza more and the gym less these days. "I have to run!" I call out to her as I backpedal toward the door. "Good luck in the game!"
 

And then I'm out of the gymnasium and sprinting to the locker room to grab my bag.

Technically, all of my costumes are supposed to be in the dressing room, but after I sprinted out of school yesterday still wearing Miss Halpern's crazy petticoat outfit, I'm lucky I remembered to pack it.

I race across the campus, sweat pouring down my forehead, and it's not even like I have to go that far between places. I'd be embarrassed if I hadn't been so focused on getting my butt into the auditorium before 5:01 p.m. I'll worry about whipping myself into shape after the play.

I barge through the heavy oak doors which shriek under the force. "I'm here!" I shout out. "I'm here, I'm here, I'm here!"
 

Several heads swing in my direction. I see Lana first; she's standing on stage, script in hand, talking to no one.

Rehearsing.
 

And if she's rehearsing with a script, I have no doubt she's going over Miss Halpern's lines.

I smirk.
 

Better luck next time, Lana.
 

"Emma Thompson!" Mary screams my name as she gets up off the bench in front of the piano. "Get back into the dressing room and get out of that ridiculous outfit!"
 

I glance down at my clothes, completely forgetting that I'm still wearing my volleyball uniform.

"Mary!" Lana exclaims. "No! It's after five! You said anyone who isn't here by five is going to be replaced by an understudy." She points at me. "She wasn't here by five!"
 

I start walking toward the stage, ready to defend myself, when Mary glances down at her watch for a second, then shrugs.

"I've got 4:59," she tells Lana. "Maybe next time. Go get ready to play Margaret."
 

I sneak a glance at my phone and grimace when I see it's nearly five minutes past five. Lana stomps off the stage, and I look at Mary in surprise.
 

She shrugs at me. "Maybe my watch just runs slowly," she says with a wink, then goes back to dusting the baby grand.

I hurry back toward the dressing room, shocked that Mary hasn't been eager to replace me.

I'm not sure what it means. Maybe I hadn't deserved this part in the play from day one, but does this suggest Mary thinks I've earned it now? I shake my head, pushing the thought out. I don't want to consider it, especially if it means I'll have to admit Russ might've been right.

Russ.

I've barely thought about him in the last few hours after hardly getting any sleep, tossing and turning and having my dreams filled with his face when I did manage a few precious minutes of shut-eye.
 

And now I'm about to see him for the first time since I ran out on him in the classroom yesterday and pretty much ended whatever it is that we've had. My stomach twists into a knot at the thought.

I burst into the dressing room where most of my castmates are already in full costume and are just putting the finishing touches on their makeup. Wherever Lana had stormed off to, it isn't here.
 

"Emma!" Amanda cries when she catches sight of me in the reflection of her mirror. "What happened? Are you okay?" She frowns when she looks down at my clothes. "And what are you wearing?"

"Long story," I say dismissively. "I've got to get dressed!"
 

Amanda looks like she wants to ask more questions, but the girl doing her eyeliner shakes her head ever so slightly and picks up the charcoal pencil. Amanda shoots one last quizzical look at me before shrugging and closing her eyes.

I let out a small sigh of relief, glad I'm not going to have to explain how I thought volleyball was a better choice for me than Opening Night of the play, even if that might be obvious by now, and unzip my bag, pulling out the clothes for Miss Halpern's last few scenes and hanging them up in my locker. Within seconds, I've stripped out of my volleyball uniform and crumple it up to stuff back in the bag, and I pull the rain slicker and boots out.
 

I smile as I look at this silly, ridiculous outfit, but it's sort of funny now, how things change. For whatever reason, now I can't wait to put it on.

"You look great," Amanda says once I've finished tugging the boots on over my socks. "Ready for Opening Night for sure."
 

I check myself out in the mirror and nod.

She's right.

I am.

***

The next hour and a half is filled with total chaos as everyone runs around the auditorium getting things set for the performance. Mary's middle school son was supposed to show up to hand out programs at the door to fulfill some community requirement, but he's apparently gone AWOL, so I find myself hurrying through the rows and rows of seating, leaving a program on the back of each chair instead.
 

"The show must go on," Mary mutters as she whizzes by me, carrying an unexplained stack of white towels toward backstage.
 

I shrug and finish distributing the programs, looking up every few minutes -- or maybe seconds -- to see if Russ walks in.

He doesn't.

It's just fifteen minutes to showtime now and we're all gathered backstage, so much nervous energy pumping throughout the room, it's almost palpable.