Cinderella Sidelined (6 page)

He opens the door with the same squeak that set this whole stupid chain of events in motion and smiles at me. "Emma, I'm Russ. It's good to meet ya."
 

I'm not positive, but I'm pretty sure he winks before disappearing behind the heavy wooden doors.

***

"Don't laugh," Russ says to me ten minutes later as we walk through the senior parking lot. He digs a set of keys out of the back pocket of his khaki shorts and a car beeps nearby.

"What am I -- oh."
 

I don't even need to finish my question before I figure out the answer. Russ has led us straight to an old -- seriously, it might've been around for my dad to take my mom to prom in -- brown two-door car with several rust spots decorating the side.

"It runs," he says with a shrug. "Probably not what you're used to driving around in, but she's been good to me."
 

He's right. Blaine's sporty black BMW is just a little bit different than this.
 

"A ride is a ride," I say at last, and go over to open the passenger side door. Russ rushes past me before I have a chance to tug on the handle.

"Here, here, let me." He jiggles the handle a few times and the door pops open. He offers me an apologetic smile, and I can't help but return it. "Sticks sometimes."

I gingerly climb into the front seat and keep my backpack resting on my lap. I look around the car, expecting the inside to match the exterior with empty fast food wrappers and trash all over the place, but there's nothing, not even dust.
 

"I don't have the money for a paint job," Russ says, sliding into the driver's seat and pulling the squeaking door shut behind him. He sticks the key in the ignition and it sputters once, then twice, then finally catches and roars to life.

"Or a muffler?"
 

He grins. "I do what I can. But keeping the inside clean is free."

I don't say anything else as Russ guides the car out of the parking spot and toward the highway. I give him a few basic instructions to point him in the right direction toward my house and stick to looking out the window. The silence is, weirdly, kind of comfortable, but I also don't know what to say to him.
 

It's pretty clear now we're from two totally different worlds that haven't managed to collide until now.

"What happened there?" Russ asks, and I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and see he's pointing at my cast.

"My stupid teammate wasn't paying attention during the game yesterday and ran into me," I blurt out without thinking about it, and I surprise myself with the bluntness of my comments. I hadn't thought that I blamed Marybeth for what happened, but maybe I do. Interesting. "Now it's broken."
 

"You sound mad."
 

I shift in my seat so I'm facing him and don't bother trying to hide the incredulous look on my face. "Uh, yeah. I'm mad. You could probably say that."
 

"What's the point?"
 

The crease in my forehead deepens. "The point? The point of what?"
 

"Of being mad about it," Russ says without taking his eyes off the road.
 

"Because it pisses me off."
 

"Right, I get that. But why?"

"Are you serious?"

"I'm asking the question, right?"

I throw my arms up in the air. "Because I was a volleyball player and now I'm not!"

"What do you mean, now you're not?"

"I can't play with this stupid thing on my arm," I say, holding the cast up. "So yeah. Now I'm not."
 

"That's stupid."
 

I glare at him. "Thanks a lot."
 

Russ rolls his eyes. "I didn't call you stupid. I just think suddenly deciding you're not a volleyball player because of some injury that's not even permanent is lame."
 

"It's how I feel," I say defensively, clutching the backpack in my lap.
 

"That's fair," he agrees. "Probably not rational, but fair."

"Happy to have your approval."
 

He grins at me, and it's kind of infuriating. "I knew you'd come around." He pauses for a second. "So what are you going to do now?"

"What?"

"Well, aren't you going to do something?"

"It's not like I can go break Marybeth's wrist to get back at her."
 

Russ laughs and shakes his head. "Come on, Emma. That's not what I meant."
 

"I don't know. I don't do anything else. Make a left here."
 

"Come out for the play."
 

I snort back a laugh. "I hope you're joking."
 

"Why?"

"I'm not an actress. I'm an athlete."
 

"You're sidelined," he points out. "You're gonna need something to take up your time now."
 

"I'll get back on the court eventually."
 

"But not right now."
 

I sigh. "No, not right now."
 

"So do it. We're still holding auditions for the new play," he says. "That's what you walked in on today."
 

"I don't sing."
 

"It's not a musical. The director just thinks it's the best way to see if people can get over stage fright. Nothing like singing to a crowd to freak people out."
 

"I also don't want some stupid role where I'm only on stage for ten seconds and that's it."
 

"I thought you just said you're not an actress."
 

"If I'm gonna do it, I'm gonna go all in."
 

He laughs. "I like your style."
 

"I don't have a scholarship to Michigan Tech for nothing, you know."
 

He raises his eyebrows. "Didn't know that."
 

"You don't know a lot."

"Ain't that the truth."

"Make a right at the next light."
 

Russ does as I tell him and within a minute, we're parked in front of my house, and I'm left wondering what the heck I'm supposed to do now. I pick up my backpack and put my hand on the door handle.

"Don't," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt and hopping out of the car. "I'll get that for you." He comes around the car and wiggles the door open for me, which I'm pretty sure is only going to make this weirder since I can't just yell good-bye through the car window and run inside as fast as possible.

"Uh, thanks," I say as he shuts the door once I'm on the sidewalk. "And thanks for the ride."
 

He grins at me. "Anytime. I'll see you at tryouts? They end on Friday so don't wait too long."
 

"Um, yeah. Don't hold your breath."

"Have a good night, Emma," he says, backing away from me and walking back around to the driver's side of his car. "See you around."
 

He gets back behind the wheel, the engine sputters to life and roars, making it sound like six fighter jets are flying by overhead, and with a small, quick wave, Russ pulls away from the curb and drives down the street, leaving me standing here, wondering what the heck just happened...and what the heck I'm supposed to do next.
 

CHAPTER SEVEN

I grimace as I walk into the cafeteria a little after noon the next day. Everything I've done so far today has felt...off.

It's not that it necessarily feels wrong, exactly, but it's like nothing is the same as it once was, and it may never be that way again.
 

And I gotta say, I really don't like it. Part of me feels like I should forget what happened and go on with my life as usual. Outside of Marybeth, the girls on the team aren't treating me any differently just because I'm hurt, and it's not like I've become a social pariah. I'm just not going to practice or play in games like I used to. Not a big deal.

But the other part? Well, that part can't get the girl's singing out of her head.
 

Not because I have any plans to start up a singing and acting career because let's be real here. Stella hates it when my favorite song comes on in the car because I'll belt it out at the top of my lungs and she says it's always the most painful three minutes of her life. But...I don't know. I can't stop thinking about yesterday.

And then there's another part that's wondering what's gonna happen if I run into Russ in the halls. I don't know if I've passed him before, if I have classes with him, nothing. He's a total mystery to me, one that I think I might want to solve.

It kinda feels like I'm tiptoeing around a bunch of land mines and waiting for the one I can't see to go off and explode.
 

Even now, walking through the familiar lanes of the cafeteria toward the table I always sit at with Stella, Blaine and some other guys from the team, there's an uneasiness that's settling into my stomach, making me lose my appetite.
 

It's like when your gut is warning you that something bad's going to happen, but you don't want to pay attention and you hope it's just the second cheeseburger you knew you shouldn't have eaten instead.

Stella is alone at the table when I sit down with my tray.

"Eating light today?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at the side salad and apple I picked up.
 

I shrug. "Not feeling great."
 

"What's up?"

"Just a bug, I bet."
 

"Well, stay away," she says, scooting her chair a few inches away from mine.

"Ha, ha."
 

A tray loaded with a turkey sandwich, potato chips, a salad, and four pickles drops onto the table next to me, and I don't have to look up to know my boyfriend's arrived. He's eaten the same lunch at school everyday for the last three years.
 

Even on days where seniors are allowed to go off campus for lunch and we grab pizza or hit up Saloon Sal's, it doesn't matter to Blaine. It's always turkey and pickles.

"Doing better today?" he asks, sliding into the seat next to me and giving me a quick kiss on the lips.

"Yeah. I think so." I don't look up from my salad because I don't want to see the quizzical look on Stella's face after I just told her I think I have the stomach flu.

"Good!" Blaine's voice is cheerful, like he's happy to put it all behind us and move on without probing too deep.

Maybe that's part of the problem. I'm not really sure if his indifference bothers me yet.

A small, barely audible sigh squeaks out between my lips as I dig my fork through the wilting iceberg lettuce and shredded carrots on the plate in front of me. I'm about to shovel it into my mouth when I happen to look up and immediately drop the fork. It hits the table with a clang, and Stella and Blaine both jump, then look over at me.

"Oops!" I say, absently reaching for the fork.

I don't look away in time to miss the small smirk that masks Russ' face as he walks by our table.

"Emma! You okay?" Blaine looks at me like I have all the brainpower and motor skills of a six-month-old. "What the hell?"

I shake my head back and forth, trying to snap back to reality and to the life I have; a life without the stupid theater and obnoxious guys with old beaters who go roaming through school hallways dressed up as princes.
 

To a comfortable, familiar place, a place I like.

"Why are you looking at me like that? I just dropped my fork. Jeez."
 

Blaine eyes me like he's not quite sure what to make of me right now, and, truthfully, I can't blame him all that much. I think this might be what it feels like when you lose your mind.

I fight the urge to look over my shoulder to see where Russ has ended up. I'm not sure why I care, except I kinda want to know more about these theater people he hangs out with.

Have I ever mentioned that I'm not so great with willpower?

With a yawn, I casually -- at least, I think it's casual -- glance behind me. No sign of Russ. I put my hands on the back of my chair like I'm trying to stretch and crack my back and scan the entire cafeteria.
 

Nothing.

I'm still looking when I finally catch sight of him near the door at a large round table tucked in the corner. He's sitting with a bunch of other people, and for whatever reason, this surprises me.

Russ doesn't seem like the kind of guy to enjoy a lot of company. He's struck me as the strong, silent, sarcastic type -- not the popular guy. That's Blaine and Richie and sometimes the guys on the basketball team, but only if they're having a good season.
 

I guess I'm wrong. I watch as he engages the redhead next to him in conversation. From the smile on his face and the way she's angled her body to face his even though they're sitting beside each other makes me think she's his girlfriend.

So there's something else I wouldn't have expected.

I'm not thinking about much as I watch their table, and I wonder if she's the girl I heard singing yesterday. She's got a great voice if it is, and I realize my eyes are narrowing as I study her.

"Earth to Emma. Come in, Emma. Paging Emma."

I snap my attention back to the table and turn around. Blaine and Stella are both staring at me like I've gone totally cuckoo.

"What's got you so flustered?" Stella asks at last. I don't miss the worried look she exchanges with Blaine.

"What? Nothing, I'm not flustered," I say quickly, and I hope they don't notice the squeakiness in my voice that sounds so obvious to me.

Another glance passes between them and I dig into my salad, trying to escape more prying, unwanted questions.
 

Obviously this whole thing is a mistake. I've got to get the theater out of my head. It's stupid, it's silly, and it's definitely not for me. I think that's clear now, since I have absolutely no desire to tell either Stella or Blaine about it.

Because if it doesn't feel right to share it with the two people closest to me, then it clearly isn't right for me.