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Inside the Ten-Foot Line

By Lori Z. Scott

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Chapter 1: Loser

Shrill cheers burst around me. I crouched, my breath ragged. The muscles in my legs tensed, ready to spring.
The spiker poised to attack.
I’d studied her moves. Deadly but predictable. One step, two steps, a fluid approach. And on a tight set, she would shy away from the net and push the ball lightly over with an open-handed—
“DINK!” I screamed, straining skyward. One inch. One inch more...but the volleyball skimmed over my fingertips.
I’m not sure which dropped faster, the ball or my stomach.
Our setter, Gwen, hesitated. Then she dove forward, hand smacking the ground. The ball bounced to the floor in front of her, untouched. Groans and shouts erupted from the crowd.
Match over.
Brows cinched, Gwen picked herself off the gym floor. “You missed the block, Lorali.”
She spat my name like a curse.
Heat rose in my cheeks. Catching my breath, I watched her storm off.
What was her problem anyway? My job was blocking hard strikes. Dinks belonged to the defense. But I knew better than to trade words with someone with a spear for a tongue. Mom taught me, “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but hard words stir up anger.”
Did no answer count as gentle?

I dropped my hands to my sides. My legs ached to sit, but Gwen dominated the bench, yanking on her sweats. Her lips flattened, as if she sensed something foul in the air. Pausing, she lifted her gaze and caught me staring at her. Loser, she mouthed.
Don’t respond. I ducked my head. As if answering would change anything.
“Hey, Gwen!” a boy called out.
A group of them hovered behind her, all boundless energy and testosterone like hairy ping pong balls in a blender “Party at Zeke’s tonight. Wanna come? I’ll drive you.”
Standing, Gwen shouldered her duffle bag. “Sorry, can’t. School rules. I gotta ride the bus home with the team.” Two saucy steps cozied her up next to the guy. “But maybe I’ll stop by when we get back.”
Audrey, a teammate, rushed to flank her. Leaning over, Gwen whispered something to her, and the two laughed.
Shooting a dark look in my direction, Audrey smirked.
I pretended not to notice their private conversation as they walked away. But I could guess who the topic of discussion was. Me.
Last year, as a junior, Audrey sat on the bench. She expected to start this year. Then I moved into the district and started instead of her. When Coach announced the lineup during practice, the look on Audrey’s face could have sliced leather From then on, she was quick to point out my mistakes.
Trying to turn myself invisible, I wandered to the bench and lowered myself onto it. I don’t mean for any harm. I studied my hands. I just want to play volleyball like everyone else on the court.
Our libero, Emily, plopped down next to me and slid her kneepads down. Grey dusted the cotton pads, proof of her effort. After all, as defensive specialists, liberos spent a lot of time on the floor digging up spikes. Clean kneepads would have been an insult to her game. Drawing a sharp breath, she shoved up the right-hand sleeve of her uniquely colored uniform and poked an angry red spot on her elbow.
“Another battle scar?” I winced. “That looks painful.”
“Yup.” Emily grinned. “I got a matching one on my hip too. Want to see it?”
I shook my head, which only made her grin even wider.
Typical Emily. She captured your attention like a puppy tangled in bubble wrap—cute, crazy, and loud . Unlike Gwen, Emily didn’t wear makeup when she played. Well, she did one time, but it ended up wiped down her shirt in grisly black-and-red streaks. After I pointed out her scary new stains, she hunched like a monster and scrabbled after loose balls screeching mine! The next practice, Coach brought her a full pack of facial wipes .
“Yeesh, stop looking so intense. I was only teasing. I know you don’t like seeing blood.” Emily craned her neck until it popped. “Besides, the match is over. Now we can eat. And that’s the important thing here. Food.”
I passed Emily a water bottle. She fire-hosed it into her mouth. A good portion dribbled onto her chin. Grunting, she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
An unsettled weight in my chest kept me from laughing. “We were so close.”
“We’ll get them next time.” Emily smacked her lips.
“Yeah.” I sighed. “Next time.”
Michelle, a junior and our best substitute, reached out. “I’ll take that if you’re done with it.”
“Thanks.” Emily handed her the water bottle.
“No worries.” Michelle tucked it into the six-slotted holder. “I mean, except for another loss. I guess we should worry about that.”
“Wrong.” Emily bobbed her head. “We should worry about food. Because I’m hungry enough to eat the ball cart right now.”
A smile brightened Michelle’s face. She pulled a brown bag out of her sweatsuit pocket. “Would you settle for M&Ms?”
“Settle?” Emily snatched it. “You’re a goddess.”
While Emily tore open the bag, Coach called out directions. As usual, her voice grated in a hoarse rasp, probably from too much sideline yelling. “Good effort, girls. Pack up, we’re headed home in five. Practice tomorrow, seventh period.”
As we left the building, Emily bounded along beside me. “It’s a relief to get out of that place. I miss our court.”
My mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding? Did you see that huge weight room we passed on the way in? Mirrored walls? Thick mats? Polished dumbbells? And the gym had vaulted ceilings, home team bleachers with chair backs, a state-of-the-art sound speaker, and multiple courts. That facility could have its own zip code in paradise.”
Emily wrinkled her nose. “It’s like every other oversized gym in our district. Big schools, big budgets, big bling. Big deal. Their gyms have no personality. Ours does.”
“Personality? You mean foundation issues.”
“Whatever.” Emily popped a candy into her mouth. “I know every inch of our gym. I love the creak of the hardwood floors. The smell of our rustic locker room.”
“Rustic or rusty?” I raised a brow. “Or maybe you’re the source of the odor.”
Lifting her arm, Emily sniffed the pit. “Nope. I smell much worse. At least I earned my scent.”
I stifled a laugh.
“The best part is the old relic painted on the wall.” Emily swept her arm out as if introducing the mural. “All hail the class of the 1965 Williamson Wildcats.”
“It’s probably a historical landmark, along with our uniforms,” I said. “Those are at least 30 years older than Coach.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t like our gym.” Emily planted her fists on her hips. “You spend more time in it than the cockroaches.”
“There is a difference between loving the facility and loving the sport. I’d play in a gravel pit if I had to. I wish we had better resources.”
Emily crumpled her empty bag. “That’s not why we have a losing streak.”
My eyes shifted toward Gwen and Audrey, charging ahead of our group. “I know.”
Our transportation sat in the parking lot like a rotted banana. Its doors squeaked open as we approached.
“Hello, bus.” Emily patted the battered hood. Her hand came back dirty, and she wiped it on her pant leg. “She’s a classic.”
I snorted. “So is a horse and carriage. But at least she’s reliable.”
The ride home was quiet. Everyone buried their heads in their phones, texting, flipping through videos, and taking selfies. I silenced mine and studied the storefronts with their neon signs popping in and out of view as we rumbled past.
Aunt Tina invaded my thoughts.
Both my mom and Aunt Tina loved volleyball, but it was my aunt who’d played outside hitter in college while my mom hit the books. When I joined the sixth-grade school team, Aunt Tina suggested that Mom enroll me in club ball—elite leagues that played competitively during the off-season.
Mom hadn’t responded well. “I’ve got two words for that. Cost and Commitment.” After an uncomfortable pause, she’d added, “Make that three words. No.”
I didn’t think much of the exchange. Back then, the sport was new to me, a refreshing challenge. I didn’t understand the depth of passion the game could inspire.
Midway through that school year, volleyball fever caught me. After promising my mom that I’d keep up with my homework, she finally agreed to let Aunt Tina work with me.
I spent hours with sport hero in the back yard. I begged her to teach me the crowd pleaser, the glorious spike, but she insisted I master other skills first. We focused on passing techniques, especially moving my feet the ball. She taught me an overhand serve, starting with a consistent toss and solid hand contact. Each small success spurred another. I couldn’t get enough. Like a toddler learning to walk, even a tiny step forward thrilled me.
I practiced on my own too, wanting to impress her with my improvement. Over and over, I bumped the ball against the garage door or served balls up the slope of the driveway and let gravity bring them back for another try.
I also convinced my mom to let me workout with a club team that summer. Aunt Tina cheered me on the whole way. When her schedule allowed it, my mom came to the court too. She wasn’t as vocal as Tina from the sidelines, but she always showed up decked out in enough bling to open her own accessory shop.
My seventh-grade year was the first time Aunt Tina arrived at my games with a camera in hand. “If we record everything, you’ll have plenty of footage you can submit to college recruiters,” she claimed. And, just like that, my game grew a bigger purpose.
After each match, Aunt Tina and I would grab a big bowl of popcorn and a bottle of water—she insisted on healthy eating for athletes—and curl up on the couch in her apartment. As we watched the replay, she’d analyze it, pointing out ways to improve. “Maybe you’ll be the second one in the family to win a volleyball scholarship,” she’d say.
More than anything, she wanted me to succeed at the sport.
Embracing that goal was the only meaningful thing left I could offer her .
Even though Mom refused to record games anymore, Aunt Tina’s habit of breaking down each play still plagued me. Even now, during the bus ride home, the urge to analyze overpowered my fatigue. Soon, the passing storefronts faded, replaced by mental replays. Sometimes when I blocked, the ball ricocheted out of bounds. I need to turn my hands inward. How many times has Coach reminded me of that? If I jumped four more inches, I could block better.
What if our middle hitter, Brianna, hadn’t missed her serve in the second game? Missed serves killed momentum.
Pain shot up my arm. I glanced down at my fisted hands. My fingernails, what little I had left, had pressed into the palms of my hands, leaving dark imprints.
Releasing the tension, I sighed. What was I doing? Was I even half as good as my aunt was at my age? If my insignificant team kept losing to those attention-seeking powerhouses, would I ever be noticed by a Division One coach?
I shook my head, tucking those doubts away. Aunt Tina had said that I if I believed, I could achieve. So, I would believe and focus on ways to improve.
A sudden idea made me sit straight up. Tonight, when we ran out of substitutes in the third set, Gwen had to rotate through the front row as a hitter and I had to stay in as a receiver in the back row. I was fine playing defense, but the other team capitalized on the height difference between Gwen’s 5’6” and their taller 6’2” blocker.
How could we avoid the situation?
The only way to do that would be for me to play all the way around—not as a hitter, but as a setter. With me in that position, we would only need one of our two setters, saving us an additional substitution every three rotations on the court. A plan like that would keep Audrey hitting in the front row in a tight match instead of the shorter player, Gwen.
But, again, it would mean me replacing one of our setters. How would Gwen react to that? Scary thought.
With a few clicks on my phone, I searched the internet. “Wow,” I whispered.
Emily crowded me. “What is it? A picture of a cheese puff shaped like a cross? For the record, holy or not, I’d still eat that thing.”
“It’s just some interesting information.” I scrolled to a table on the website. “Did you know the average height of a Division One setter is 5’10”? And college coaches prefer lefties.”
“How tall are you again?” Emily asked.
“5’10”. And I’m a lefty.”
Frowning, Emily cocked her head. “Too bad you’re not a setter.”
My mind raced. “Yeah.” I took a screenshot. “Too bad.”

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