This morning we’re meeting our student leaders for the school tour, pointers, etc.
I walk into the gym and we break up into our groups. Our group is all girls, and Peyton excitedly tells us about the welcome back dance, all the different clubs, things like curfews, visiting the boys dorms, places the boys like to hang out. I find it all very useful.
I do notice that not once does she mention the smoking spot we were at last night.
Then she leads us to the cafe, which is what they call the dining hall, where booths have been set up for each activity so we can learn about and sign up to be in clubs, activities, and sports. All the extracurricular activities are represented.
I sign up for student council, checking the box that says I'm interested in running for office. Peyton says, “Leadership material—good girl.”
Peyton seems really genuine and nice. Maybe I was wrong about her. Could Whitney be nice too?
I sign up for French club, spirit club, and, of course, soccer.
“So what all are you in?” I ask Peyton.
“I’m captain of the dance team. Soccer captain. I’m also student council secretary, president of the French club, founded the literary club, and I’m on the highly coveted social committee. Something you’re hand-selected to join. Something you would probably be good at, seeing as how you already discovered the cave.”
“The cave?”
“The place you were at last night.” She has that keep-it-on-the-down-low look in her eyes. I nod. Got it.
She signs me up for literary club because I told her I love to read, and then she says, “You should try out for dance team.”
“I thought I couldn’t. Weren’t tryouts in May?”
“They were, but due to unforeseen circumstances,” she lowers her voice, “as in one girl got pregnant and the other two got sent to rehab, we have three spots open. So far only fifteen girls have signed up. You have the body of a dancer. Do you dance?”
“I’ve taken a lot of dance classes over the years, so yeah, I guess.”
“Just try out,” she says and puts my name on the paper.
Her enthusiasm is catching, and she has all of her girls signed up for all sorts of clubs that fit their individual interests. She told us that getting involved in lots of things is how we’ll meet people, which, in turn, will make our time here really fun.
That and the tours take up most of the morning. We go to lunch, but I can’t eat a thing. I can never eat before a soccer game. And I’m not that nervous for soccer tryouts, but yet, I am. After my little soccer stunt, I feel like I need to do well. Plus, I love the game. I want to do well.
I find out from another girl trying out that since the school is smallish, everyone makes the team. Which makes me feel better. At least I know if the competition is really stiff, I won’t look like a loser who didn’t make it. And I know if I work hard, I’ll play. She said tryouts are just to determine your level of ability, so the coaches can decide what team they want you on. Freshman, JV, or Varsity.
I’m all suited up and jogging a few laps around the field when I notice the Hottie strolling down the bleachers with some friends.
Dammit. Doesn’t he have anything better to do? Isn’t he supposed to be practicing football or using his godly charms on someone?
But then I realize his sister Peyton is helping with tryouts, as are a few other girls from the team who are here to help with orientation.
So it’s not like he’s here just to watch me.
Except he’s staring at me, and then he gives me a little wave. Well, I think he waved at me. I turn around and see if there’s someone behind me that he could have been waving at.
No one’s back there.
When I turn back around, he points directly at me.
So I give him a little wave back.
Shit. Focus.
Do not let the Hottie distract you.
He's a player.
He's a player.
But I can’t quit thinking about how he looked last night. That hurt puppy dog look in his eyes when I was telling Dallas about his lameness.
I close my eyes and picture myself on a surfboard, slicing through the water. I’m instantly calm. I don't look back to the bleachers because I don't want to know if he’s still there or not.
I get in the zone and focus on the technical drills the coach has us doing. She times us running the 40-yard dash, then kicks us one ball after another that we are to kick into the unguarded goal. We do penalty shots, headers, dribbling, and then she splits us up to scrimmage. I was told to play the center attack position against a very solid looking girl. The kind of girl that looks like she could tear my head off and spit it out before lunch.
But the girl is surprisingly cool.