from room to room, grabbing unsuspecting teammates as she goes, pulling them out of whatever conversation they’re having and making them dance with her for however long they’ll allow it, spinning each one like a top, dipping them until the ends of their hair sweep the floor.
Phoebe could dance all night. It feels that good to be back, the weight of making the cut finally and fully lifted off her shoulders. Phoebe hasn’t hung out with some girls since school ended last June. She hears about Stephanie Evans’s trip to Disneyland, where one of her cousins dresses up as Kristoff for some Frozen live show thingy. Anna Burgess’s family bought a new house directly across the street from their old house, because her mother had always loved it and the lady who lived there died. Or was it that the lady got put into one of those assisted living communities? Phoebe can’t remember. She’s just grateful there seems to be no hard feelings for the way she dropped off the grid.
After her ACL surgery in January, Phoebe scheduled her rehab appointments around the spring club schedule, so she could watch the games from the sidelines. But after her second operation—that staph infection was beyond shitty luck—she couldn’t bring herself to keep going.
It was one of the weirdest parts of her injury Phoebe had to contend with, her sudden loss of fortitude. Usually she had more than enough grit to face down any challenge, mental or physical, on the field or off. It was a well she could dip into any time, her reserves always at the highest watermark and instantly replenished by whatever stunt Phoebe managed to pull off.
But this past year took it out of her. Her grit became a more precious resource. One Phoebe needed to conserve for the greater good of returning to the field this season, not waste on dulling the torture of watching her teammates play without her.
Missing spring club was hard. Summer league was harder. It just about killed Phoebe when her doctor said she wasn’t cleared for Kissawa.
Mel had gotten her license, and the girls had been so stoked to drive themselves to the camp for the first time. They already knew the best gas stations to stop at for snacks, but now they could hit the outlet mall just past the halfway point, a detour their parents—who would immediately have to drive the return trip home—never let them take. Even though Phoebe couldn’t play, she was seriously considering riding up with Mel anyway and then taking a bus or whatever back. Phoebe missed Mel that much. They’d barely hung out at all this summer.
But Mel didn’t end up going to Kissawa either. She dropped out when the invitation came to visit Truman and attend a tryout with some other prospectives. Truman was Mel’s dream school, and thankfully, the Wildcats’ horrible performance in the championship game hadn’t completely screwed up her chance of going. This, for Phoebe, was enough good to drown out the bad of not getting an invitation to try out there herself. Phoebe always knew she’d be a long shot. And there were a bunch of other colleges Phoebe was considering. For Mel, it was only Truman.
Phoebe never got the full story from Mel about how it went. Mel never texted while she was at Truman, never sent Phoebe any pictures. There weren’t even any general social media updates Phoebe could stalk. Nothing. She knew the silence was Mel being a good friend to her. Mel being sensitive to how badly this sucked for Phoebe, who had been hoping to be there with her. In fact, Gordy was the one who told Phoebe when Mel officially committed. It was totally an unintentional slip; he assumed Phoebe already knew. And of course she played it off like she did.
“Dinner is served!” Mrs. Gingrich says, guiding everyone toward the buffet set up in the dining room.
Phoebe trails Mrs. Gingrich, and in her best impression, adds the caveat, “Seniors first!”
At Psych-Ups, the girls always eat in order of seniority. Seniors make their plates first, then juniors, then sophomores, and lastly—if there are any—freshmen. Only one girl made the cut this year.
Good thing because Phoebe is starving. She fills her plate—lemon chicken, pasta with vodka sauce, steamed veggies—but she barely eats it because she’s too busy talking with her fellow seniors, fake bitching about how their Psych-Up dinners are going to suck in comparison to Mel’s unless they hire like a sushi chef or