Chapter Thirteen

CeCe

I looked across the net and anticipated the spike. I crouched low, balancing on my toes like a cheetah getting ready to pounce. My forearms burned bright red from the slap of the leather volleyball. A spike is unforgiving and relentless, flying eighty miles an hour like a canon. A normal person would duck, would run, would avoid the blow. But athletes are extremists. We don’t run from danger, we embrace it, head on. The trick is allowing yourself to fall, over and over, until you master your defenses. Then, you can deflect the hardest hit. 

Coach Castle blew his whistle to start our practice scrimmage. Tuba jumped up and hammered a serve across the net. The instant the ball left her fingers, my fighting instinct took over and every other concern drained away.

I watched the angle of Tuba’s shoulders the second before she served. I dove to the side, falling to my knees in time for the pass. I jumped onto my feet, watching the ball sail directly to the front center of the net like an obedient bird, arching slowly over our setter’s fingertips. Mac took the middle hit, pounded the ball with so much force it hammered the floor.

These moments in the gym reminded me what I could control, and better yet, what I could forget: time, thoughts, myself, my problems, my face. All the things I couldn’t fix. All the things that were out of my control, their worries, were GONE, as if I could sweat my problems out through my pores.

After practice I showered and changed. I stepped in front of the steamy mirror in the locker room and stared into the foggy glass. I wrung my hair out in a white towel and watched my blurry reflection. What if this were the way everyone saw me? Just the rough outline of a person—pink skin, dark hair, a movement in silhouette. No details. Or what if people only saw in infrared, in bright swirls of red, blue, and yellow? What if they only saw the energy we transmitted? What if.

I swiped my hand over the thin moisture, and there was my reflection, sharp and clear, the shiny pink scar that crossed the right side of my face beginning near my temple and ending at my jaw. After the broken bones had been set, the doctors had to stitch the deepest gash up in layers. Then it got infected and they had to open it up to let it drain, and what might have been a smaller scar was made dramatically worse. A year after it healed up, I had another round of reconstructive surgery. Then I had laser resurfacing. I could still try dermabrasion. I could wear makeup. But a long time ago I decided I wouldn’t live in the prison of having to cover it up all the time.

My mind drifted back to Emmett’s house the other night, how he looked at me like he was seeing me, not my flaws. Not my imperfections. No man had ever looked at me like that before, so openly, so intently.

I mentally kicked myself for daydreaming. What was I thinking? He was drunk.

My brain quickly clicked into a detached mode. It was a survival mechanism I had perfected a few years ago—the art of disconnect. It was my way of holding people at arm’s length, that way I could reject them before they rejected me. It started my freshman year, when I transferred to Edgelake. My parents wanted me to play in a larger city, with a visible volleyball program and a reputable coach. I won scholarship money to help pay the private school expenses, and extended family helped us out to pay the rest of the annual admission fees.

My parents wanted the best for me. The drawback was I suddenly stood out to everyone. That’s when the staring began.

Bryn walked up next to me and swiped her hand across the mirror. Her palm left a clear path on the glass. I looked away and concentrated on towel drying my hair. Standing next to her, in front of a mirror, I felt like we could be a billboard advertisement, marketing the coming attraction of Beauty and the Beast.

Bryn set a makeup bag on the counter and unzipped it. A black headband pulled the hair back from her face, showcasing every porcelain feature. Even without makeup, she was beautiful. She dabbed moisturizer on her cheekbones and forehead. She handed the uncapped bottle to me.

“It’s tinted,” she said. “It’s really great stuff.” I looked at the tube in her hand. I never wore makeup. Embellishments weren’t really necessary on my face, at least on half of it.

Tuba walked past in her flip-flops, a towel wrapped around her chest. She was about to head into the showers but stopped when she noticed what Bryn was holding.

“It has concealer in it,” Bryn explained, pushing the tube at me.

I smiled at the word. Concealer. As if a dab would do the trick, as if I were hiding a blemish.

“We tried that on CeCe before,” Tuba offered. “She let us give her a makeover sophomore year on New Year’s Eve.”

I laughed at the memory. “I think you guys managed to actually make it look worse,” I said.

“I drank champagne that night,” Tuba defended herself. “My brain was a little fuzzy.”

“It would help make it all one even tone,” Bryn said, pointing to my scar. I knew she was only trying to be nice. “That way you could take out some of the redness,” she offered.

I shook my head. A little mascara and tinted lip gloss was my idea of primping.

“You should try it again,” Tuba said. “Come on, CeCe. You’re totally hot. You’re like Natalie Portman, but with boobs. I would kill to have Ds.”

I laughed at Tuba’s comment. I supposedly had a body every male couldn’t peel their eyes away from, yet the face that repelled every glance. Cruel irony at its best.

Tuba headed for the shower room. I could hear the hiss of spray when she turned on the water.

Bryn stuffed the tube of moisturizer into her cosmetic bag. I looked back at my reflection, something I rarely did. At my last doctor’s visit, my dermatologist told me it had healed nicely. It’s strange to hear the word healed when all you can see is your face split into two. Most people get to internalize their weaknesses, and I’ve always been jealous of that ability to hide. If they’re depressed, angry, heartbroken, lonely, afraid—no one else has to know. They can fake it. They can get medication to help curb it. I can’t hide my struggle. I have to wear it.

I couldn’t see myself anymore. The vapor from Tuba’s shower had clouded the mirror once again.

“Sorry, CeCe,” Bryn said to me. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know. I appreciate it,” I told her, which was true.

…

Emmett

I looked around the living room of CeCe’s apartment. Most student housing had the typical generic feel. Movie posters like Quentin Tarantino cult classics, Star Wars, or maybe Guardians of the Galaxy. A lot of girls opted for random French café scenes, or those hallmark quotes written over a sunset background. Décor brought to you by Target back-to-school ads. This place actually felt like a…home. Braided rugs, coffee tables, end tables crowded with books and lamps and windows lined in curtains instead of half-broken blinds. The mantel was cluttered with vases and candles. It reminded me of my dad’s old apartment, all thrift store finds and cheeky artwork.

The only thing that hinted it was an apartment full of teenage girls was the strange parade of lingerie hanging from the staircase banister which appeared to be doubling as a clothesline. My eyes couldn’t help but linger on a particular black bra, edged in lace.

“Has anyone seen my purple bra?” CeCe’s voice hollered from somewhere upstairs.

I sat down in a brown recliner and waited. CeCe and I were meeting to prepare for our second class discussion. Since I played a sick card and bailed on Tuesday’s class, I was determined to make it up to her. I got out of practice early and decided to stop by her apartment, instead of meet her at the coffee shop. I figured she’d applaud my newfound dedication.

“What?” someone shouted.

“Purple bra?” CeCe shouted back.

I looked up toward the second floor and saw CeCe combing through an assortment of lingerie. Through the railing beams I could see a thin, white towel practically hanging off of her. She made a meager attempt to clasp the top from falling down her chest. I realized I was staring and I picked up a magazine. I pretended to be captivated by Women’s Health.

“CeCe,” Tuba hollered up from the first floor. She passed me, holding a bread tin in one hand and a Pop Tart in the other. A bathrobe was strapped around her tall figure. Don’t these girls ever get dressed?

“I need some good music to bake to,” Tuba shouted.

CeCe groaned in response. “I’m having an underwear emergency,” she said.

“Music emergency trumps all!” Tuba declared.

CeCe turned down the last flight of stairs and gave me a great view of her curves, which were threatening to break free from the hold of the flimsy cotton.

I set the magazine down on the coffee table. It was a pointless distraction.

“Jazz,” CeCe decided.

“Like Norah Jones?” Tuba asked.

“Jazz, not easy listening,” she clarified. “Rosemary Clooney, Cole Porter, Frank Sinatra. Judy Garland’s voice is classic. The way she sings Embraceable You… I’m telling you, it’s like rubbing silk against your soul.”

I smiled. It was different to observe CeCe in the comfort of her house. She let down her walls. And most of her clothes.

“Great! Let me borrow your phone,” Tuba said.

“I can’t, I have to be somewhere.”

Tuba waved a Pop Tart. “All we have is crap food. I want a real goddamn pastry,” Tuba declared.

CeCe grabbed the Pop Tart out of Tuba’s fingers and took an enormous bite. She scanned the mixed assortment of bras.

“Maybe Kelsey took it,” she pointed blame.

“Your boobs are twice as big as anyone in this house. No one’s going to borrow your bra.”

CeCe inhaled the rest of the pop tart and licked the crumbs off her fingers.

“I’m in a hurry,” she said. “I have a study date for Shakespeare.”

“Why don’t you guys just study here?” Tuba asked.

“Because I’m meeting him at a coffee shop,” she said.

“You mean Emmett? He’s right here.” Tuba pointed toward the living room.

CeCe looked over her shoulder and the rest of her body followed until she faced me. I smiled and lifted my hand off my knee, offering her a casual wave. Her mouth dropped open.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I walked over after practice,” I said. “I texted you.”

“Didn’t you hear me yell?” Tuba asked her.

“I was in the shower,” she said. She looked down and realized her chest was barely covered. She hiked the towel up, which only added a better view of her thighs. Her cheeks flushed and I waved my hand in the air.

“Don’t worry about it,” I assured her. “I’ve been in plenty of locker rooms.”

“This isn’t a locker room,” Tuba declared.

“Are you sure about that?” I asked and stood up out of the chair. “One of your roommates answered the door in her sports bra, you’re wearing a bath robe,” I said, pointing to Tuba’s silk kimono. “You guys have underwear hung all over your railing—”

“We use it as a clothes line sometimes—” CeCe clarified.

“Now look what you’re walking around in,” I said to her.

“No, let’s stop looking at what I’m walking around in,” CeCe said.

“Why don’t you guys study here?” Tuba said. “I’ll make coffee.” Before either of us could respond, Tuba turned and disappeared down the hall.

I looked over at CeCe. “Fine with me,” I said.

She sighed and clasped the towel tighter around her chest. She yanked a bra off the banister before she turned and headed up the stairs. I couldn’t help but notice it was the black bra, edged in lace.

I grabbed my backpack and followed Tuba down the hall into the kitchen. She turned on a playlist and started spooning coffee grounds into a filter. I pulled a chair back and sat down at a long, wooden table that filled up most of the kitchen space. I took out a spiral notebook and paged through Watford’s lecture notes.

“I get the feeling CeCe doesn’t want me here,” I said.

Tuba sighed. “CeCe likes to think our apartment is some kind of sequestered island.” She looked over at me. “This is good for her.”

I thought about what she said. “Did she have a bad break up or something?” I asked.

Tuba laughed. “CeCe would have to date in order for that to happen.”

Footsteps pounded down the stairs and CeCe walked in. Her dark, wet hair was combed straight. She had on a pair of blue jeans and a black T-shirt boasting the molecular composition of coffee. She pulled the chair back and Tuba handed each of us mugs big enough to be cereal bowls.

CeCe unzipped her backpack and started pulling things out. She organized the table like this was some kind of a science lab.

She set her class binder down, then two pencils which she examined to make sure they were freshly sharpened. She layed out highlighters in a row: blue, yellow, and orange. She set out pink and green Post-It notes. She grabbed a stack of note cards and tapped them into a neat pile. Finally, she pulled out a clear container of colored paperclips. She regarded her studying area with a satisfied nod.

“There,” she said.

I looked at her spread of school supplies. “Are we shooting an infomercial for Office Max?” I asked her.

She looked over at me with surprise, as if she’d forgotten I was sitting in her kitchen.

“Nerd alert,” Tuba barked in her best NASA operator impression.

“Houston, operation study is a go,” I mocked. Tuba and I laughed.

CeCe pursed her lips together and gave me a deadpan expression.

“Ninety percent of successful studying is due to organization.”

“You totally made that up,” I said. She tried to lay another poker face on me, but her face broke into smile.

“Can’t I embrace my inner nerd and be left alone about it?” she asked.

“I love your inner nerd,” Tuba said.

CeCe assessed her layout. “I think we’re ready,” she said.

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Maybe we should gear up a blank PowerPoint template for typing in some questions or feedback that comes up?”

CeCe’s eyebrows rose up in excitement. “That’s a great idea.” When she realized I was kidding, her foot found mine under the table and kicked it. Hard. Right in the toes.

I winced and shook out my foot.

“Okay, no more nerd jokes,” I promised.

“I’m telling you, this works,” she stated. She pointed to the highlighters. “Blue is for quotes, yellow is for themes, orange is for symbols and motifs.” She pointed to the Post-It’s. “For characters and pivotal plot points.” She pointed to the paper clips. “For act separations.”

“The note cards?” I asked. “Can we say overkill on three? Two, one—”

Tuba laughed and CeCe’s face broke into another smile.

“It helps for memorizing quotes,” she pointed out.

I leaned closer to her over the table. I wiggled my finger for her to come closer.

“I have a secret,” I said.

She leaned toward me and I cupped my fingers around my mouth to whisper. “It’s an open note test.”

She leaned back. “I know.” She picked her pencil up and rolled it between her fingers. “I just happen to like memorizing quotes,” she admitted.

My smile faded. I couldn’t make fun of her for that. “Me, too,” I said. I tapped my pen against the paper. “It’s just the sun in my eyes, staring too long, but half in shadow I can bear it.”

CeCe’s pencil froze on her notebook.

“Damn. That’s a good one,” Tuba said. “What’s that from?”

CeCe’s face flushed.

“It’s from one of Bryn’s emails,” I said. I couldn’t hide the giddy smile from breaking out on my face. I looked down at the table and ran my finger along the knotted pattern in the wood. “It wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Bryn wrote that?” Tuba asked and I nodded.

CeCe’s shoulders straightened up and she started paging through her notes.

I looked over at her. “You’re not the only one who likes to memorize good lines,” I told her.

CeCe studied her notes. “You go for that sentimental chick stuff?” she asked.

“Have we met?” I asked.

“You’re a football player,” she said.

“And a songwriter,” I reminded her. “I know good lines when I hear them.”

Tuba looked between us, at a loss.

“So, you liked what Bryn wrote?” CeCe asked.

My voice fell an octave lower. “I loved it.” I quoted from memory, again. “When I’m burning up, I close my eyes and hear your voice. You hit me like a cool wind…”

“You’ve memorized them?” she asked, unbelieving.

“It’s all worth remembering. That’s why Bryn’s such a mystery to me. She writes like she knows me intimately. But when I see her in person, she acts like we’ve never met.”

It was a relief to finally admit this to someone. Maybe Tuba and CeCe had the same experience with Bryn.

“Maybe her personality doesn’t match, you know, all the rest,” CeCe said.

I had considered the same thing. But not anymore. Her emails proved it wrong. I sat back in the kitchen chair and shook my head.

“I know it does. She drops me hints, with music she likes or a book she’s reading. It’s like a scavenger hunt. The more pieces I pick up, the more intrigued I get.”

“What kind of clues?” CeCe asked.

“The song she was playing in the weight room by The Strokes. Carrying around a copy of The Unbearable Lightness of Being?” I said. “That’s one of my favorite books of all time. It’s like she sets these traps and completely knows how to bait me.”

CeCe just blinked at me, her face unbelieving.

“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” I said. “But she’s also the cleverest woman I’ve ever met. To find both in one person, it’s just too good to be true.”

“By that logic a clever woman couldn’t possibly be beautiful,” CeCe argued.

“She’s so much more than clever. She’s unpredictable, and funny, and has this complete other side to her.”

CeCe looked down at her notebook. “She’s never shared that part of herself with me,” she said.

“I’m surprised Bryn can write,” Tuba piped in. “She’s not exactly deep.”

I looked over at her. “She is. I’m telling you, you need to read her emails,” I said. “You would appreciate her so much more.”

CeCe slapped her hand over her forehead with frustration. I guess I wasn’t the only one confused with Bryn.

“But it’s all cryptic,” I said.

“Does it matter?” CeCe asked.

“Of course it matters. I thought maybe she was copying stuff, but damned if I can find where she’s getting it.”

“So, what’s going on with you and Bryn?” Tuba asked him. CeCe looked over at me like she was wondering the same thing.

“I have no idea,” I said. “I can’t figure her out. At first I thought she just wanted to be friends. I wasn’t even sure if she was interested until this one night when we texted lyrics back and forth. I felt like that was the moment we hit it off.”

Tuba turned and looked over CeCe.

“You texted song lyrics?” Tuba asked. I nodded and CeCe shifted in her seat.

“You guys hit it off?” Tuba repeated, and raised her eyebrows at me.

“When she messages me she’s smart and strange and sexy as hell. I love that side of her. But in person, I don’t think she’s said more than ten words to me.”

I looked at CeCe but her eyes were staring off, like she was daydreaming.

“CeCe?” I asked. She was still stuck in a daze. “CeCe?” I said louder this time. She looked over at me and blinked hard like she was coming back to reality. “Has she said anything to you? About me?” I asked.

“Who? Bryn?” she asked.

“Of course Bryn. Who else would we be talking about? Has she said anything?”

CeCe shook her head. “No, I’m not going to be your go-between with Bryn.”

She blew out a sigh, clearly annoyed with the conversation. I tipped my head to the side. I realized the issue.

“You don’t like Bryn, do you?” I asked.

CeCe narrowed her eyes. I knew it wasn’t a fair question. If she said yes, she was a fraud since I could clearly read her. If she said no, she could be lots of things: jealous, arrogant, bitchy. Although none of those traits fit CeCe. It was something else.

“Of course I like Bryn,” CeCe said. “What’s not to like? But, I’m trying to organize a project on sub nuclear particles’ effect on the moon’s gravitational pull. Bryn is trying to organize matching team manicures before our tournament games. Different interests.”

“Come on. Give me one thing to go off of here,” I pressed. “I want to take her out next week when we’re both in town, but not if she’s still pining for her old high school ex boyfriend.”

“No pining. No crazy ex. She’s single,” CeCe said. She opened the study guide and skimmed through the discussion outline. She sighed, gazing at the list of questions.

“We have our work cut out for us,” she said.