A New Reflection

6. High Hopes

"High Hopes" by Panic! At the Disco blasts through the sound system as we warm up, running a tight, intense bump-set-hit rotation over and over again. We're all immediately breathing hard. The music injects a rush of energy into my veins, and I push my body hard through each movement in the drill with laser focus. I imagine Steve has his eye on me, determining if I'm ready for increased playing time today, and I pretend Alex has his eye on me for other reasons. I've got high high hopes for this game.

Smack! I pound down another hit with supercharged power, and my teammates go crazy. This crush adrenaline is working wonders for my volleyball skills.

We gather up, and Steve scribbles out the starting formation on his scratched-up whiteboard. Kelsey leads us in a complex team cheer, which is so corny I'm normally rolling my eyes inwardly, but today my voice is a bit stronger as I call it out along with the other girls. "Go Bears!" we finish.

I take my place on the bleachers next to the other backup teammates, winding up at the far end. The girls start off strong, and I clap along with everyone else on the bleachers with my best façade of enthusiasm. I want our team to win as much as the person next to me, but my emotion naturally manifests inwardly, so I suppose I can appear uninvested. Maybe this is why Steve needed me to convince him to put me on the court.

Beck rotates out, high-fives all of us and plops down next to me at the edge of the row of bleachers. After a few seconds, she hops back up.

"Wait," says Beck, glancing down the line of girls. "I'm gonna move over here. Natalia doesn't talk."

Her words don't convey judgment; they are simply stating a fact. She wants to be by someone with whom she can chat. I feel shame and irritation bubbling inside me as I show zero reaction to her statement.

"I know, why don't you ever talk, Nati?" asks Holly. She's new to our school and team this year, and I suppose my extreme reservedness is still a novelty to her.

I feel like a prime idiot—a bizarre zoo animal on display that everyone is analyzing. What the hell am I supposed to respond to Holly's question?

I say nothing, only squirm and shrug my shoulders around as my face turns crimson.

Kelsey serves a spectacular ace, and my teammates leap up screaming in approval. I stand with them and clap, holding back a quivering lump in my throat.

Steve puts me in the middle hitter rotation for the second game of our match. My adrenaline from warmups has cooled significantly by this point, and I enter the court with stiff, self-conscious limbs. I make a couple decent blocks and a few mediocre hits before it's time to sub out again.

We win the match 3-0, though each set is close. In the locker room, everyone around me is abuzz with elated chatter; I attempt to squash my disappointment at the fact that, despite Steve's promise, I've played the same amount I always do—which is minimal.

"I'll see you all at practice tomorrow, 3:00 sharp. That means you're in the gym bumping with a partner by 3:00. Nice work, girls." Steve concludes his post-game wrap-up, and I hoist my gym bag onto my shoulder with a sigh of relief.

On my way out of the locker room, I cross paths with Alex, who had stepped outside earlier. We arrive at the doorway at the same time, and there's an awkward moment where we're both ceding the space to one another. My stomach immediately boils with frustration at the fact that I can't simply act like a normal person—moving and reacting gracefully in day-to-day situations such as walking through a door.

But Alex melts all my frustration in an instant, grabbing my arms in a dreamlike moment and pulling me across the threshold. It's like he senses I'm paralyzed and is guiding me as one might a lost child. He's smirking, making fun of me for my awkwardness.