THE ARENA IN YAKIMA is called the SunDome, so I had it in my head that it would be open and airy. I couldn't have been more wrong. The sun doesn't penetrate concrete. Watching games inside the dome was like watching games at Home Depot.
Kimi roamed the sidelines, snapping photos, while I sat up in the bleachers, laptop open, trying to find something to write about. During the breaks—and there were lots of them—she hung out with Marianne and Rachel. They slouched in the corners of the gym, talking and eating. Kimi never once looked up at me.
Between matches I interviewed Ms. Thomas. Great bunch of girls ... one game at a time ... important thing isn't wins and losses, it's playing the game right.
The tournament dragged. I was lonely, and the excited cheers around me made me lonelier. I ate more than I should have—a hot dog, fries, and Coke at noon. Another combo at three thirty. A little before six o'clock, when the team had a ninety-minute break, Kimi walked out with Marianne, Rachel, and Erica Stricker. So much for eating dinner with her.
I slipped my laptop into its case and headed out. People might let me down, but food I could count on. Three blocks from the SunDome is a Mexican restaurant, Santiago's. A menu was taped to the window: enchiladas, tamales, chili con queso, fish tacos, flan, fried ice cream. I started to push the door open—and then changed my mind.
I walked up Yakima Avenue until the stores drifted away, turned, and came back on the other side of the street. There was nothing to see, but after all those hours in a hot gym, it felt good to move.
I stopped at a mom-and-pop grocery store and bought a peach yogurt, an apple, and a roll, all of which I ate while sitting on a bench in a tiny park on a side street. The yogurt was warm, the apple mushy, and the roll stale, but I felt good about my meal.
I returned to the SunDome for the trophy round of the tournament. Early in the day when the Lincoln girls had been playing inferior opponents, they'd dominated. Terri Calvo, Loaloa Toloto, and Chelsea Braker were good. If a decent set came to any one of those three, she'd pound the ball down, making a kill. But against the better teams, Lincoln's flaws became glaring.
If a bump went wild or a set wasn't right, Chelsea, Loaloa, and Terri would look at one another, roll their eyes, and shake their heads. The other girls—Erica, Marianne, and Rachel—would glare right back. An earthquake fault ran right through the team. With a big lead, they were awesome. But in close games decided by a few rallies at the end—those they lost.
The real story would have been about the rift in the team, but no school newspaper prints negative stories about high school players. I slogged away on the preview article, pumping up their prospects, depressed because I knew what I was writing was neither true nor interesting. This kind of story wasn't why I ached to be a journalist.
Finally the awards were passed out—the Lincoln girls got ribbons for taking seventh—and the tournament was over. I expected nothing from Kimi on the ride back, and that's what I got. She scrunched down in her seat, wedged her backpack between her head and the window as if it were a pillow, leaned against it, and closed her eyes. Within ten minutes she was asleep. Thirty miles from Ellensburg, I called my mom, told her I was going to be really late, and then drove and drove.
When we exited the freeway, the change in speed woke Kimi. "Oh my God," she said. "What time is it?"
"Two," I answered.
She opened her cell phone and punched in a number. A second later she started talking. I couldn't understand a word, but I could figure out what she was saying. And I could figure out her father's angry replies, too.
From the freeway exit to her house takes about fifteen minutes. As soon as I pulled into her driveway, she swung the door open, jumped out of the car, and ran to the front door. It opened before she reached it.
I pulled the car door closed behind her. "You're welcome," I said to the empty seat, and I drove off.