Time-Out (13 page)

Just the guys?

I
was a guy!

I looked at Jackson. At least I wasn't the only one who got left out.

“I can't believe they didn't invite us,” I said, shaking my head.

“Oh, I was invited,” Jackson said, like it was nothing.

“What?”

“I was—”

“No, I heard you. I'm just . . . really? They invited
you
?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking the way Russ did when I pointed out junk in his braces or the lameness of his high-water pants.

Like I'd hurt his feelings.

“You know what I mean,” I said, slapping him on the back.

He frowned. “Not really.”

“It's just . . . you're kind of . . . I mean . . . why didn't you go?”

He shrugged again. “I like hanging out with you.”

“Huh,” I said, thinking that over.

“We could still go, you know.”

“Where, the pool?”

“Yeah. It's not like you need an invitation, Owen.”

It sure seemed like it. “I didn't bring a bathing suit.”

“You're wearing shorts.”

He had me there.

The pool was packed with kids and when I saw how much fun everyone was having, I was glad Jackson had talked me into going.

I kind of left him behind, though, knowing it was time to meet some other people. I swam up to some guys who were playing Marco Polo and introduced myself.

“We know who you are,” a guy named Chas said, and several others nodded.

I wasn't sure if he meant it in a good or a bad way. He handed me the blindfold and told me I could be “It.”

I was psyched to be part of the game, so I tied it on and stood in the chest-deep water.

There was a ton of splashing and shouting coming from all over the place, so I knew it would be tough to hear the other guys.

“Marco!” I called, taking a careful step.

Somebody shouted, “Cannonball” from the deep end of the pool and there was a big splash.

“Marco!” I called again, taking another step and listening as hard as I could over all of the background noise.

I couldn't hear a single “Polo.”

“You have to answer louder,” I shouted. “Marco!”

Still nothing.

In fact, even the splashing had stopped.

It was . . . creepy.

I took a few more steps. “Marco!”

When there wasn't a single answer, I took off the blindfold.

I was the only one in the pool.

The guys I'd been “playing” with were all in the big Jacuzzi, laughing at me.

I couldn't believe it!

What did I ever do to them?

I climbed out of the pool and walked across the deck, ignoring the snickers and whispers I could hear from every side.

“Owen?” Jackson called out from the kiddie wading pool.

“I'll see you later,” I answered, in no mood to deal with him.

For the first time I could remember, I just wanted to be alone.

Just when I thought there might be a glimmer of hope for me and soccer, it was time for our group to move on to volleyball.

And I wasn't sure how I felt about
that
.

When we lined up in the gym, I was next to Sam and James.

“You're going to be good at this, Russ,” Sam said.

I stared at him, surprised. “What makes you say that?”

He shrugged. “You're tall.”

I sighed. “That isn't a free ticket to greatness.”

James smiled and said, “He didn't say great; he said good.”

I chuckled. “Well, I'll keep my fingers crossed.”

“Except when you're serving,” Sam said.

What did that mean?

“Serving what?”

“The ball,” Sam said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Wait,” James said, “you've never played volleyball either?”

“Never,” I told them.

“You'll be fine,” Sam said, patting me on the back. “It's all about blocking.”

And serving, apparently.

Coach Hernandez had been replaced with Coach Vickers, who was tall and skinny, like me. He had us stretch, warm up with jumping jacks, and run laps before giving us a brief overview of the positions and basics of volleyball.

I felt like I'd received the CliffsNotes rather than the whole story, but before I could raise my hand with the many questions racing through my mind, he was splitting us up into four teams to play.

Luckily, Sam was on my team.

“Where do I go?” I whispered as the four other players on our side of the net moved into position.

“Middle front's open,” he said.

“Where's that?”

“In the middle of the front row,” he said, laughing until he saw the expression on my face. “It's okay, Russ. It's just a game.”

I moved to the front and awaited further instructions.

Bweep!

I winced, certain I'd be having whistle nightmares for the rest of my life.

Suddenly, a ball soared over my head. I spun around to see one of the back row players fall to his knees and hit it with his joined wrists.

“Nice one, Garrett,” Sam said.

“Set!” the guy next to me shouted and tapped the ball into the air with both hands.

“Spike it, Russ!” Sam shouted.

“What?” I asked as the ball hit the floor next to me with a
thwack
.

Garrett retrieved the ball and rolled it under the net to the opposing team.

I turned to ask Sam, “Did you say
spike
?”

“Yeah,” he said, then illustrated the move by jumping off the floor and swinging one arm at the air.

“I've never seen anything like that.”

He squinted at me. “Do you have gym class at your school?”

“Yes,” I assured him. “We played kickball in our last class before break and when I go back, we'll be doing a couple of weeks of square dancing.”

“Whoa. Okay, well, this is a real sport. Like an
Olympic
sport.”

I took a deep breath and waited for the ball to fly over the net again. This time, it dropped right in front of me.

“Bump it, Russ,” Sam shouted.

What happened to the spiking?

I stumbled in an effort to reach the ball before it hit the floor. Amazingly, I got beneath it and sent it into the air.

“Good job!” Garrett said.

In a matter of seconds, my teammates made two hits and the ball bounced against the floor on the opposing side.

“Yes!” Sam said, slapping me on the back.

I got into position, but Garrett had moved into my space.

“Rotate,” he said.

“What?”

“You gotta rotate to left front.”

“But I'm playing center. I mean, middle.”

Coach Vickers blew his whistle and invited me to the sideline. I attempted to high-five my replacement on the way off the court, but missed.

“This is pretty new to you, huh?” Coach said.

“I've never played before,” I confessed.

To my great delight, he handed me a volleyball manual and directed me to the bench. “Assistant Coach Tanaka will go over this with you. I don't mean to pull you out, but a little tutorial will help. Just twenty minutes or so.”

“Thank you!” I said, delighted by the opportunity to make some sense of the madness.

Twenty minutes was a bit optimistic on Coach's part, but for the next hour and a half, I read and studied diagrams while Coach Tanaka carefully explained what was happening on the court.

It all started to come together as I read the rules and saw how the game played out right in front of me. I liked the simple math of it. Six players on the team, three hits to send the ball over the net. And the terminology made sense, too.

Serve, bump, set, spike.

Repeat.

“Are you ready to give it a try?” Coach Vickers asked.

I glanced at the court, then back at the manual. “Would the second session be an okay time to start? I'd like to study this a bit more.”

“Take your time,” he said, with a smile.

When we broke for lunch, I hurried to the cafeteria to grab some food for the room.

“Hey, Russ!” I heard Owen shout from behind me.

“Hey,” I said, turning to wave.

“Come and eat with me.”

“I'm heading up to my room,” I told him, but the disappointed look on his face made me change my mind. I couldn't give him the cold shoulder forever.

I waited for him to fill his lunch tray and followed him to the back corner.

“There are empty tables all over the place, O.”

“I like it back here.”

I had the sneaking suspicion he didn't want to be seen eating with me.

Typical Owen.

When we sat down, he poked at his grilled cheese sandwich but didn't pick it up.

“Are you okay?” I asked at the exact moment he said, “Still reading that book?”

“No,” I said, lifting up the volleyball manual so he could see the cover. “I'm studying.”

“Volleyball.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“What for?”

I stared at him. “I'm spending two full days in a gymnasium, playing this game, Owen. I'd like to have some idea of how to do it.”

“Easy. Hit the ball over the net.”

I smiled. “If only it were that simple. It takes a little more finesse than that. One of the most interesting—”

“I don't really want to talk about volleyball,” he interrupted.

“Oh.” I took a bite of my own grilled cheese. It was almost as good as Mom's. “What's going on?”

“Nothing,” he said glumly.

“Owen.”

He glanced at me and sighed. “Look, nothing is going the way it's supposed to.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don't know. I just thought camp would be . . . different.”

“Different how? You're playing basketball every day and sleeping over.”

“Spending the night,” he said.

“What?”

“
Sleepovers
are for seven-year-olds, Russ.”

I wanted to roll my eyes, but controlled myself. “What were you expecting? Better coaches?”

“No, they're awesome.”

“More drills? More playing?”

“No, it's not that at all.”

“Can you give me a hint?” I asked, exasperated. Wasting time with twenty questions when I could have been cramming for volleyball was not ideal.

Finally, he told me, “It's the guys.”

“What guys?”

“All of them,” he said, gesturing toward the rest of the cafeteria tables.

“What about them?”

“They're”—he cleared his throat—“better than I expected.”

“Well, that's good, isn't it?”

He shook his head. “I wanted to be one of the best players here. No,
the best
.”

“I'm sure you are, Owen.”

“I'm not,” he said firmly.

“Okay, but camp isn't about being the best. It's about getting better.”