Girl Against the Universe by Paula Stokes Page A

moves through the rest of the girls. A couple turn in my direction. I look down at my racquet, adjusting one of my bright green strings so it’s evenly spaced with the one next to it. Maybe there’s a school activity even lower-impact than tennis. Knitting? Too many sharp needles. Yearbook club, maybe?
    â€œNice one,” Jade whispers from behind me. “Way to make yourself known on the first day of tryouts.”
    â€œFirst and last day,” I hiss. “I’m never coming back.”
    â€œDon’t be dramatic.” Her eyes dance with amusement. “He probably deserved it.”
    Looking past her, I see the back door of the school swing open as Kimber disappears inside. I should have volunteered to go get the trainer. Then I could have sneaked out of the school, walked home, and begged my mom to homeschool me for the next two years.
    I pick at another one of my racquet strings. Jordy coughs. I look up. He slowly gets to his feet.
    â€œGo on, show’s over.” He makes shooing motions with his hands, and the girls clustered around him start to shuffle back to their own courts.
    â€œMaybe go easy on him for the rest of practice,” Jade murmurs. “More for your own sake than his.” She waggles her painted fingernails at me and then turns back to her own court.
    Jordy bounces up and down on the balls of his feet a couple of times. He gestures to me to head back to the baseline.
    â€œWe don’t have to keep playing,” I protest. “You should . . . take a break or something.”
    â€œI’m fine,” Jordy says. “Let’s see your serve.”
    Oh no. Just when I think things can’t possibly get any worse.
    After Dr. Leed and I agreed that I should try out for tennis, my mom took me to the local neighborhood park to practice, but I didn’t have much luck serving. She didn’t either, so we ended up just rallying and not playing for points. My ground strokes came back quickly, but I have a feeling my serve is going to be a disaster.
    And I’m right.
    I slam four balls straight into the net before Jordy crosses his hands in a time-out signal. He runs up the center of the court and vaults over the net. “Forgot how to serve?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    â€œYour toss is kind of low and wide. Try throwing the ball up higher.”
    I follow his advice and manage to land a serve in the box, but it’s painfully weak. A decent opponent would have cranked a winner right past me. “Crap,” I say.
    â€œBetter toss, though,” Jordy says. “Keep practicing.”
    I try a few more serves and only manage to get one of them over. Then Coach comes down to watch me and I revert to my lower toss, the one where I can at least put some power behind my serves.
    Too bad none of them go over the net.
    Coach Hoffman looks back and forth from Jordy to me. “Your ground strokes are impressive, but they’re not much good if you can’t put a ball in play.”
    I drop my eyes to the court. “I’ll work on it,” I mutter. Unfortunately, teaching yourself to serve is a lot harder than teaching yourself to hit forehands and backhands.
    Coach nods, makes a note on his clipboard, and then shuffles back down to the far courts. I swallow back the lump that’s forming in my throat, bite my lip so no one will see it shaking.
    â€œHey.” Jordy looks hard at me. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œMy serve sucks.” I blink hard and then look down at the court again, my eyes tracing a minuscule crack in the even green surface. “I’m totally going to get cut.”
    â€œAre you kidding me? You hit like a rocket launcher.You just have to tweak your form so you can get some serves over the net.”
    â€œEasier said than done.”
    â€œDon’t stress. I can help you.”
    I lift my eyes. “Why would you do that?”
    â€œBecause it’s why I’m here.” He