Page 89 of It’s All in How You Fall
Epilogue
“Match point, Miss Kepler.”
The words are mine—the athletes keep score in the annals of non-championship high school tennis. I let them pinball around the gray matter and viscera of my mind, cordoned off from my laser focus.
On the ball, on my opponent, on my serve.
The crowd is silent—all eyes on me as I dribble the ball three times.
Coach Brandt’s voice cuts through it all, a reminder from practice just days ago as much as it is a mantra:Coil, elbow up, loose arm on the release.
I check my opponent across the court. A freshman from Central in head-to-toe red because apparently their uniforms are meant to be completely distracting.
I toss the ball straight up, coil back, twist up for more power on my release. My elbow is high for a fluid motion. And when the ball is at the right height, I smash it down with everything I have.
The ball skids straight off the far ad corner, and the girl from Central raises her racket to return. I bounce on the balls of my feet, ready to chase down whatever she’s got. The girl manages a clean forehand, but the direction is listless, and it ends up coming straight back at me.
I wind up, new, stronger backhand at the ready, and plow a winner straight into the opposite corner. My opponent is running on fumes and doesn’t make it, the ball skipping past the reach of her racket before drilling itself into the covered fence.
Holy shit. A winner for the win.
That focused dam in my mind bursts open, all my thoughts and fears and hopes and excitement pouring out as I do something that never would’ve been truly acceptable as a gymnast.
I scream. At the top of my lungs.
My first tennis victory. In straight sets, 6–3, 6–2. In my inaugural high school tournament.
I’m on the junior varsity, but who the heck cares.
I tried a new sport. I worked hard. I won.
I pump my racket and face the mini stands with a huge grin. Dad and Nat are on their feet—Dad jostling his phone and trying to clap, Nat being as loud and obnoxious as an off-duty cheerleader is expected to be. On the other side of the two-rung bleachers is Alex in full grass-stained soccer gear—straight from practice of his own, a late joiner sneaking into the corner.
I jog to the net to shake my opponent’s hand. Next, I crash into the crowd, which is small because it’s high school girls’ tennis on a weeknight. Not, you know, the level ten state gymnastics meet. In rapid succession, I thank Coach Brandt, my teammates, and finally Dad and Nat. I wave at Alex, who is, in true Alex Zavala fashion, being polite—standing to the side to let the Central team skirt by to head back to the bus.
“Say something to the girls,” Dad says, handing his phone to me.
I bobble my water bottle and racket to accept it, wondering if I’d misheard him and he actually meant Mom. But as soon as I view the screen, things suddenly make a little more sense—Olga, Sunny, and Peregrine crowd into a single FaceTime camera view.
“We saw the last two points. Incredible!” Olga shouts, so excited her accent makes an appearance. “That strong gymnastics core—it will take you places in life.”
“Also hard work, dedication, good coaching—” Peregrine lists off all my advantages until Olga pats her head hard enough she ducks from view, the phone clearly Olga’s. It would be super weird if Dad called my friends instead of his girlfriend.
“Really great work, Caro,” Sunny says, gym mom tone proud. I thank them all before handing the phone back to Dad as he tries to get Olga to hang on for one second longer, saying something about their reservations for Saturday night.
Arms wrap around my waist and lift me off the bottom step of the bleachers. “Your first win!” Alex whisper-shouts in my ear, twirling me around and then setting me down gently on the court.
“I know! How much did you see?”
“The last three games. But Nat recorded the whole thing and already airdropped it to me.”
Good use of school Wi-Fi, bro. Sheesh.
“I don’t know that I ever want to watch that tape.” I cringe even though, truly, I can’t stop grinning.
Alex’s dimples wink. “I hear video is the best way to learn about a new sport…”
I look up at him from under the brim of my orange Northland visor (yeah, I know—but it’s not as distracting as the red-on-red monstrosities the other team wore). “How about I order us a pizza and we do a little crash course sometime?”
