19

THIS WAS A MISTAKE.

But I also had no choice. After what happened at the awards ceremony for Pepper —and all the other honorees —I owed Sydney for failing to come through on our agreement. Of course, if I thought about all the hours she’d coached me during high school, I’d never be able to repay her, but right now I was only thinking about the debacle eleven days ago. I didn’t even know what happened after I walked out, chasing a figment of my overemotional imagination.

I didn’t want to know.

“I was calling to see if you’d like to drop by and watch one of Club Brio’s practices. The fourteens and sixteens teams practice on Mondays and Wednesdays. What do you think?”

I’d replayed Sydney’s voice mail several times before calling her back and agreeing to come to a practice.

One.

Right after I hung up with Sydney, I wanted to call her back. Ask why she called me. What her ulterior motive was.

I should have said a polite “No, thank you” and changed the subject. Asked about her husband. Or her kids. Instead, I said, “Sounds fun.”

I hadn’t touched a volleyball since Pepper died. My grief had kept me from finishing out our club season. I didn’t even bother to try out my senior year. I went to school, attended classes, and went home. And then I graduated, survived my last summer at home, and left for college as soon as I could.

Now, here I was, standing just inside the doorway of a rec center gym, dressed in navy sweatpants, a T-shirt, and an old pair of tennis shoes I found in the back of my closet that I’d bought the last time I decided I needed to work out.

Two volleyball nets were set up in the center of the gym, each surrounded on both sides by a group of girls in typical volleyball garb —an assortment of club T-shirts, spandex shorts, and athletic shoes, their long hair braided or pulled back in ponytails or piled on top of their heads in messy buns. The far team —the fourteens —was doing run-throughs while Sydney ran the sixteens through the “W” drill.

How many hundreds of hours had Pepper and I spent in a gym just like this one after starting club ball when we were thirteen? Conditioning, running through drills, scrimmaging with other teams. Celebrating our victories and bemoaning our defeats. Watching videos of our games so we could figure out what worked and what didn’t. Celebrating team birthdays with cupcakes or cookies after practice.

Some coaches suggested to my parents that Pepper and I should split up —try playing on separate teams. But we insisted we were a duo —an identically matched set —and that we played volleyball together or not at all.

Together. Or not at all.

“Payton! You came.” Sydney waved and ran over from the court to hug me.

“Of course. Thanks for the invite.”

“I’m hoping you’ll do more than watch tonight. I need some help.”

“You need me to shag balls for you?”

“Actually, my assistant coach can’t make it. Her car broke down. I was hoping you’d stand in for her.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t played volleyball in years —”

“I’m not asking you to scrimmage with the girls.” Sydney looped her arm through mine, tugging me toward the court. “I just need help running them through some drills. No matter how long it’s been, you don’t forget stuff like that.”

No, there are some things you never forget . . . and all of this was so familiar. The sound of the girls’ voices blending together. Laughter mixed with shouts of “Three, three, three!” or “I’ve got it!” The repeated thump of volleyballs hitting the court. The sharp squeak of skin against wood as a girl dove for a ball and slammed her body onto the floor.

Even as the word no formed in my mind, the word sure came out of my mouth. “I guess I can run some drills for you.”

“Great. I thought I’d have you work with my middles.”

“Okay.” I ran my fingers through my hair, wishing for a headband. Or a bottle of water. Or the chance to run outside and hide in my car. “What do you want me to do?”

“Let me introduce you to my middles. They haven’t been getting out to the block in time. Can you work on some of the footwork with them?”

“Sure.” The real question was, would I remember the steps? “Let me, um, run to the bathroom and I’ll be right back.”

I fast-walked down the hall, muttering to myself, “Footwork. Footwork. What did we do?”

Once in the bathroom, I stood at one end of the elongated mirror, pretending that it was a volleyball net and that my reflection was an opponent.

Without analyzing my movements, I crossed over to the middle of the invisible “net,” pushing up to block an imaginary volleyball coming across the top. I did it again, and then I slowed my steps, reciting, “Open, cross, plant, up . . .”

Just as I went up, my hands over my head, a girl wearing a Club Brio T-shirt walked into the bathroom. Our eyes met in the mirror as I landed on my feet. Neither of us said a word. She entered a stall. I exited the bathroom.

Enough practice. Time to act like I knew what I was doing.

Sydney waited with a trio of girls. I couldn’t tell if they were bored or curious. “Payton, meet Jody, Katelyn, and Tiffany. Girls, this is Payton Thatcher. She and her sister were two of the best middles I ever coached.”

Huh. Nice of her to include me when she said that.

“I asked her to work with you tonight since Coach Alex couldn’t make it. Pay attention. Got it?” Sydney stepped back. “I’ll take the defenders to the other side of the court and slam some balls at them while you work with these guys. Sound good?”

“Perfect.”

Seconds later, I faced three girls. What happened next was up to me.

What would Pepper do?

“So tell me your names again. I figure if I’m working you hard tonight, which I will —” I grinned —“I ought to remember your names.”

The girls chorused their names at me, smiles on their faces.

“You and your sister played volleyball?” The tallest girl —Jody —asked the question.

“Yeah. My twin sister, Pepper.”

“You have a twin sister?”

“Yes.” I knew what the next question would be. “We’re identical twins.”

“You still play?”

“No.”

“Does she?” Katelyn rearranged her ponytail as she talked.

“No —we don’t.”

“Why not?”

The conversation had gotten too personal too fast. Time to be the coach.

“Listen, we could stand around and talk, but I think Coach wants me to work you guys. So line up, okay? Jody, you first, then Katelyn, and then Tiffany. Let’s talk about footwork. You’ve got one second to get to the outside. Your footwork needs to be . . .” I replayed the movements I’d practiced in the bathroom. “Open —you face the hitter. Cross —start planting your feet. Plant —anchor both feet and bend your knees to prepare to go up. Up —push off and jump.”

I ran the girls through the moves several times before emphasizing their hand position —reminding them that at “open” they framed the hitter with their hands and that at “cross” and “plant” their hands lowered to provide momentum to push up when they jumped and blocked the opposing hitter.

“Your hands always stay above your head at the net.” I demonstrated the position. “Okay, let’s switch and do this from the right side of the net, and then we’ll grab some volleyballs.”

Coaching was easier than I expected. Despite being away from the sport for a decade, the skills were second nature. Good old muscle memory kicked in. Helping the girls improve their abilities reminded me of all the different coaches who had made a difference in my life.

“Tiffany, if you jump like that, you’re falling into your right side. Make sure you don’t float when you block. Plant that right foot and go straight up.”

As they practiced the drill while holding on to a volleyball —moving in front of the net to jump and press the ball over the net before dropping it over to the other side —part of me wanted to join them. Just to feel a volleyball in my hands again. But I kept my feet on the ground and fisted my hands on my hips. I wasn’t a player. I was a coach —and a very temporary one, at that.

“If you’re doing this drill correctly —penetrating the net —you’re engaging your core and squeezing your shoulders. You’ll know you did it right if your abs are sore tomorrow.”

“Thanks for that.” Jody ran past me as she retrieved a stray ball.

“My pleasure.”

Just then, the lights dimmed in the gym. The universal warning sign for the end of practice.

“All right, girls. Good job tonight. Go ahead and take down the nets.”

I retrieved the rolling cart, depositing volleyballs in it as my contribution to cleanup. This was familiar, too. The postworkout wind-down. Girls from both teams took down the black-and-white nets, while others gathered up stray balls and disassembled the mats and poles. Sweatpants and jackets and boots covered workout gear as the noise level in the gym decreased and the girls headed for their homes —and probably a late-night snack of some sort while they did homework.

“Thanks for helping out tonight, Payton.” Sydney and I stood just inside the doorway, car lights sweeping across the parking lot.

“It was . . . fun.”

“More fun than you expected?” Sydney slipped into her coat, pulling her long hair out so that it fell across her shoulders.

“To be honest, yes.”

“Would you consider coming back?”

“Maybe.” I pulled on my lightweight gloves. “I’d have to think about it. See what my work schedule is like.”

“Just know you’re welcome anytime. You did a great job with those girls. You’re a natural.”

“I was afraid I’d forgotten everything I ever knew —”

“Not gonna happen.”

I shoved open the door, the cool air hitting me in the face like a jolt of reality. “I should let you get home to your family.”

“You’ve got my number,” Sydney called after me. “Call before you come —or just show up.”

She was assuming I’d come back.

Maybe I would. I hadn’t realized how much I missed the sport. All of it. Entering a gym full of teen girls walking, talking, playing volleyball. Their backpacks stitched with the Club Brio logo, their water bottles tossed alongside. The easy camaraderie. Jokes. Laughter. Pats on the back. Competition as the teams divided and lined up on either side of the net, girls rotating from back row to front row. Even the parents sitting on the metal bleachers, cheering their daughters on when they made a good serve or block.

So familiar. I almost heard the echo of Pepper’s voice follow me to my car. “Great practice tonight, Pay! I can’t wait for the tournament this weekend.”

With a shake of my head, I dispelled the thoughts. What had I been thinking? I had no right to visit Sydney’s club tonight. To help out. To have so much fun with those three girls as I ran them through the drills.

No right to want to go back.

“You have fun tonight?”

Pepper —asking the very question I dreaded. But where was she? I couldn’t see her in the all-encompassing blackness, so I stood still.

“Did you?”

“Are we having this conversation in the dark?”

The lights came up and there she was, facing away from me, at the back of a court, next to a cart filled with white-and-blue volleyballs. She could have been a Club Brio member in her white T-shirt and navy-blue spandex, her hair in its familiar long braid. She picked up a ball, balanced it on her palm, turning it around in her hands. Raised it up and then, in one fluid movement, jumped and served it over the net.

“Yes. I had a good time.”

Pepper ignored my answer. Picked up another ball. Took her time and launched another serve. “I always knew you’d be a good coach.”

“I’m not a coach.” I retrieved a ball, lining up on the other side of the cart. I used to have a killer serve —even better than Pepper’s.

“You wanted to be. What happened?”

Pepper was asking me that?

My palm slammed against the ball so that it skimmed across the top of the net and banged into the opposite wall.

“Too hard, Pay. That would have been out.”

My second serve hit the wall again.

“Why aren’t you coaching?”

“I quit volleyball after . . . after you died.”

“Why?”

My serve went wide.

“Pepper, you know why.” My voice broke. “You’re dead because of me.”

“That’s not true —”

“Yes, it is. I was the one who was supposed to race that night —not you.”

“It was my choice, Payton.”

“It’s my fault.”

“So I died . . . and you stopped living, too?”

I picked up another volleyball, ready to send it across the net.

“That’s crazy thinking. You might as well have been on the snowmobile with me.”

“I wish I had been.”

“Don’t say that. That’s not how it works.”

“Don’t tell me how things work!” I dropped the volleyball, and it bounced a few feet away. “Nothing’s worked since you died, Pepper. I don’t know how to do me without you. . . . Don’t you get it?”

“You start by telling the truth.”

“What?”

“Tell the truth.”

The lights went out in the gym.

I jolted awake. My laptop lay at my feet on the couch. So much for my plan to stay awake.

“Tell the truth.” After ten years of hiding everything from my parents, how was I supposed to tell them what had happened the night Pepper died? For all these years, it seemed easier to bear the weight of the secret myself. No matter how much I wanted to confess how I had caused Pepper’s death, I couldn’t figure out how to start the conversation. How to revisit that night.

But I wasn’t the only one who knew what had happened. The reality was like a slow-burning fuse in the back of my mind. Zach Gaines knew what I’d done. Maybe not the entire story —all the whys and hows —but he knew Pepper had pretended to be me. He’d thought I was the one injured in the crash . . . until I’d come running across the field, fallen to my knees, and screamed my sister’s name.