The girl didn’t budge from her yoga pose. After a moment Emma was forced to lower her hand awkwardly. It was only then that the girl gracefully dropped back to a standing position, opened her eyes, and gave Emma a big smile.
“Sorry about that—I like to see how long I can balance in vrksasana. My record is twelve minutes thirteen seconds.” She blinked placidly. “My name’s Celeste. Do you practice yoga?”
Emma pursed her lips. “Uh, no …”
“You totally should,” Celeste said, a languid smile on her face. “Not only does it improve your focus, but it can really put you in touch with the flow of the universe. My tennis game has improved so much since I started. Once you learn to move with the racket, it’s like it just finds its way to the ball.”
“That’s … cool,” Emma said.
Celeste grabbed a SmartWater from the bench and took a long swig. “We moved here from Taos. Daddy got a new position in the art department at the U. He’s a painter. He just finished a big exhibition in Berlin.”
Emma perked up. This at least sounded more interesting—she was a huge fan of art, especially photography. Ethan had taken her to an opening a month ago, and she’d loved it. “What kind of work does he do?”
“You like art?” A hint of skepticism had entered the girl’s voice. “I wouldn’t have guessed that. Daddy’s work is very conceptual. People don’t get it most of the time, at least not in Arizona.” She wrinkled her nose.
Emma frowned. “Arizona’s not so bad.”
“Oh, it’s fine, I suppose,” Celeste said. “I’m just used to Taos. It’s so beautiful there, and the people are all brilliant. They all live in such harmony with the earth. Tucson is, well … different.”
“The university has a great art department. I’m sure your dad will be really happy there.” Emma glanced around her, looking for a way to escape the conversation. Celeste was kind of snooty. She took a step backward. “Anyway, it’s nice to …”
But then Celeste cocked her head curiously. “You know, Coach Maggie told me all about you, Sutton. But I thought you’d look … stronger.” Her eyes went up and down Emma’s frame, clearly giving her the once-over, and she smiled dismissively.
Emma gritted her teeth. “Good things come in small packages,” she mumbled.
Thankfully, Coach Maggie chose that exact moment to blow her whistle. “Gather round, girls!”
The team trotted over to Maggie, a short, muscular woman who wore a baseball cap over her strawberry-blond hair. When Maggie put a hand on Celeste’s shoulder, Celeste bowed her head like a Buddhist monk. “All right, everyone, this is our newest Lady Chaparelle, Celeste Echols,” Maggie said. “She just moved here from New Mexico.”
Laurel nudged Emma. “What did she say to you?”
“You know who she is, right?” Clara whispered beside them in a reverent tone. “Her grandma is Jeanette Echols.”
“Who’s that?” Laurel crinkled her nose.
“The novelist?” Emma asked, before she could stop herself.
Charlotte, Laurel, and Nisha turned to stare at her. “When was the last time you opened a book?” Charlotte asked, a hand on one hip.
Emma feigned a cough to hide her misstep. One of her foster moms used to be into Jeanette Echols, who wrote fat paperbacks about vampires and witches and bloodthirsty fairies. When she was bored one day and couldn’t catch a ride to the library, Emma had finally caved and started to read the whole series. But they definitely weren’t the kind of thing Sutton would have read.
“Please make her feel welcome,” Maggie continued. She looked at Emma. “Sutton, are you ready to scrimmage?”
“Born ready,” Emma said, marching toward the court. For once she actually believed her own Sutton bravado. How big of a threat could Celeste be?
Celeste pulled her mass of braids up into one large ponytail and gave Emma a placid smile. “I should warn you, Mercury’s in retrograde and I’m really sensitive to that. I’m a Virgo.”
“Got it,” Emma said. She exchanged glances with Nisha, the only girl close enough to overhear. Nisha made a tiny index-finger-circling-the-ear gesture. Crazy, she mouthed. Emma giggled.
Maggie blew her whistle as a signal to play. Emma bounced the ball twice on the ground, stepped up to the baseline, and hit a hard serve over the net. Celeste returned it effortlessly, dropping the shot in the far left corner of the court. The ball sailed easily past Emma’s outstretched racket.
“Love-fifteen,” Maggie called out, pointing to Celeste’s side.
Emma gritted her teeth, twirling her racket. She crouched low and tried to refocus, but the same thing happened on the next serve. Celeste sent the ball back to Emma with a graceful swing, somehow finding a pocket of the court Emma couldn’t reach in time.
“Emma!” I groaned, wishing I could cover my eyes. She was destroying my badass tennis image.