2023 Short Story & Essay Contest: Honorable Mention, High School Short Story Contest
I slip a tennis ball into the waistband of my skirt just like I do each day with my feelings for Maddie. Secure, hidden, but always there to pull out in case of a fumbled serve or missed opportunity.
The sun sits low in the horizon. A long, webbed shadow cast from the net drags across the hardcourt. Sitting on a cheap plastic bench, Maddie chugs the last sips of an energy drink and wipes her mouth clean. She adjusts her high ponytail. Wispy strands stick on her neck, damp from sweat. I dab at my short curls with a towel.
“We have to choke them out.” The words slip over her tongue, now stained red from cherry, and through her clenched teeth. “Make your serve killer.”
This year, prom overlapped with the regional championship tournament. Other teams have already won, lost and then moved on with their life. The parking lot emptied quickly as high schoolers headed to get dressed, to pre-parties, and eventually to the dance. Some even forfeited their matches to make it to the most anticipated night of the year, much to the displeasure of the coaches. To them, there would always be other matches.
But not for Maddie.
She needed this win, and no matter how much I wished I could have swallowed my fears, the moment I found out prom and this tournament coincided, I knew I had to play with her. Maddie and I quickly advanced through each round, and we made it to the ultimate match against Lakefield. Now we fight for each point tooth and nail: the first match lost 6-1, the next won 6-3, and now the final match tied 6-6.
I flash her a smile full of bite. I take my place: feet pivoted, toe tucked behind the baseline. An inhale to steady my nerves, and I expand myself to the size of a mountain, to take up space on the court and rush the other team, pressuring them into a lack of preparedness.
Tennis is played with a ball and a racket, but it is won through mind games.
My racket strings gleam from the light of the setting sun. I drum my fingers along the frame and then trace the strings as if plucking at an instrument, creating a different kind of music. Then I trace an “M” across the center for good luck, a certain ritual completed before each game ever since I started playing doubles with Maddie in sophomore year.
From my waistband, I extract the neon green ball and bounce it down into the hardcourt. I feel the flex of my wrist and joints working in tandem. Whack. It returns to me. and I run my fingers over the short, soft fibers until I hit teeth.
Confused, my fingers roll the ball back toward me. Then I see it: the hot, angry face of Coach Barnes etched into the surface, growling at me.
Hey, Shiloh! The ball barks.
I look up to see if anyone else hears it. Nothing. Was I going crazy? The opponents move into position.
Make this the best goddamn game of your life. Coach Barnes in ball form flashes its teeth up at me then disappears like a trick of the light.
My heartbeat quickens and the court groans beneath my feet.
I glance down and breathe. It was just a squeak from my shoes.
“Shiloh!”
My attention cuts diagonal across the court where Maddie smiles at me, the smile of a predatory animal on the hunt. Playing doubles for the team was not a particularly prestigious position on the team, not compared to number one singles, but it took a certain kind of person who was kind, valued teamwork, and put in genuine effort. As long as we won points for the team, I was happy.
I watch Maddie turn back and readjust her hair again, a nervous tell. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other.
Ground her, the court murmurs.
Be grounded, I silently will Maddie, pushing the thought across the court.
I watch Maddie’s feet settle steady. I smile from this small moment of mental sameness.
“Love all,” I shout. A nod from the Lakefield opponents across the court sparked the following motions.
Bent knees. A ball released. The sudden wrist limp like hammering a nail. Ball colliding with strings and a smashing crack that sends it ricocheting all the way to the corner, into the sun. Hours of practice after school had engrained the technique into my bones. The sudden rush of serotonin as Maddie turns to me, grinning. An easy point.
As we switch positions on the court, we bump rackets.
It was all worth it just to have Maddie’s approval. Maddie, who wanted to be a nurse after taking care of three younger siblings her whole life. Maddie, who let me copy chemistry answers after a late night out playing a gig for a house party. Maddie, who swapped books with me and left notes in the margins, underlined certain passages, and scrawled: made me think of you. Maddie, who made me feel safe. Being with her felt like crawling inside the spiral of a conch shell and feeling the warm crash of the ocean hold me tight. Maddie, who doodles relentlessly on the knockoff Converse she thrifted on Eighth Avenue, but keeps her competition tennis shoes on her feet so clean an ant surgeon could operate on them.
Maddie, who I had wanted to ask to prom ever since freshman year, when we were both new to high school and the varsity team. And now, here we are, playing the match of our high school career while our classmates are dancing the night away at some rented-out classy hotel like a Marriott or Sheraton. But I should have known I never would have had a chance to be with Maddie at prom anyways. I was just happy to be here, with her, in this moment, seeing those dimples and the flash of happy teeth.
All I have to do is repeat that three more times, I remind myself. Easy.
I serve the ball. The Lakefield player sends it rocketing back. I hit back a shallow shot to hopefully throw them off kilter, but then they return with a quick strong volley. A swift rapport of volleys back and forth develops that unfortunately ends up in a lost point.
We bump rackets again but without the same joy. Maddie shakes her head in disappointment. Dread clenches in my stomach.
“Fifteen all!” I exclaim, my voice pitching unnaturally high.
Easy. Ground yourself. I send up a high arcing ball and then the racket whistles through air. I bite my inner cheek. I hate missing serves. I readjust my visor before taking a second shot. Then I choke it a second time.
The other team celebrates. I ball my hands up into fists. Coach Barnes and the team manager on the other side of the fence watch closely. They scribble something down on a clipboard.
As the frames of our rackets touch, Maddie growls, “Get it together, Shiloh.”
I nod. We did not come here to lose.
“15-30!” I announce. A tremble creeps into my voice. I send the ball into the serving box, not my best shot, but still in. Maddie secures the point at the net.
Bump of rackets. A thumbs up from Maddie, a gentle encouragement.
“30 all!” I shout, more confident.
The ball ricochets deep into the court, and I take pleasure in making the other player run back and forth across the doubles court.
Another point makes it 40-30. Just one more point to play, to win.
Then the ball has too much spin and I lose it in the end.
Get it together, I see Maddie’s heartbroken expression. I gasp and grasp for air. Get it together, ground yourself. It’s tied. You’ve already lost.
My hands shake as I retrieve the ball. I hold the round form firmly in my hand, let my fingers run across the soft fuzz. I traced another M across the strings.
Please. I let the ball exhale from my fingers. I hit it clean into the service box. The receiver sends it back into play, back and forth.
Get it together, I remind myself. You are here to win.
The ball thwacks and twangs crosscourt. A rhythm establishes.
The net player sprints toward the net and sends it shallow.
No.
My mind blanks as I race to hit the impossible shot. I am too far away.
I stretch my racket out in front of me.
The ball threatens to hit the ground a second time.
I follow instinct. I throw the racket to the ground.
Time stops.
The beautiful tear-dropped racket slides directly underneath the ball. The ball hits the strings. It arcs in a parabola back across the net. It soars. It hits the ground right by the doubles line. I hear the groans from the Lakefield players.
Was that in?
I stand, frozen.
“Shiloh! You hit it in!” Maddie’s racket falls to the ground as she runs toward me. “We won!”
“We won?” The tension in my body suddenly melts like a snapped string.
This overwhelming joy propels me through the sunset haze of celebrating with Coach Barnes and shaking hands with Lakefield losers.
Maddie grabs another cherry Gatorade and offers me some.
“Thanks.” I take a sip of the sweet nothingness.
“We did it. Wow, we did it. We missed prom, but we did it.”
“Hey….” I swallow my tongue and close my eyes tight. “If you still want to… it’s only 7:30. It takes 40 minutes to drive to the venue. We could still go….”
“In what—our tennis outfits?” Maddie looks at me, dimples rising.
“Yeah, we don’t have time to change, but we should go. Together.”
“Together,” Maddie repeats, with a wicked smile. “I like the sound of that.” She holds up her car keys and shakes them. “Let’s go!”
We shoulder our tennis bags and run to her car, the only one left in the dark parking lot. I could care less about the trophy or the medals or the points for our team. The real treasure sits right next to me in the driver’s seat, singing along to Avril Lavigne and Dolly Parton, the open road stretched out in front of us, full of endless possibilities.
