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Anything But Groovy

By Amanda Lauer

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Chapter 1
With my focus on the direction of the spike, I didn’t
notice Hailey land off-balance. The next thing I
knew, she slammed into me, and my head bounced
off the gleaming hardwood floor.
Just what I need, a huge goose egg for the first day
of school tomorrow. It took a few seconds to shake
away the stars floating in front of my eyes.
Grabbing Hailey’s extended hand, I accepted her
apology and popped up into position for the next
serve. A whistle shrilled. Coach called it a night.
That wasn’t good. Tryouts for club volleyball were
only a week away. Competition for the libero spot
was intense. The last thing I needed was to look like
a wuss. If they thought I was injured, the coaches
would hand the spot to Sydney in a heartbeat.
It's not that Sydney didn’t deserve a place on the
team, but I’d been busting my tail in the weight room
and at open gyms all summer trying to earn my way
onto the elite squad.
Besides, after the craptastic last two weeks, I
deserved to have something go right in my life. One
stupid picture and I was the laughingstock of social
media.
The afternoon at the pool the week before last had
started off well enough. Then came the swimsuit
malfunction. The bell had sounded for everyone to
clear the pool for the ten-minute mandatory
lifeguard break. As I pushed myself up onto the
concrete ledge, the tie came loose on my bikini
bottom, and I ended up mooning the entire city.
Madison, the quintessential “mean girl” in our class,
happened to have her phone at hand and got a shot
before I could pull the back end of my suit up.
That picture made the cyberspace rounds before I
even got back to the house. Now I’m dubbed “The
Coppertone Girl,” after some dumb suntan lotion ad
from when Mom was a kid. Even people I don’t know
are calling me Copper. If I was a redhead, it might be
cute, but seeing that I’m not, it was just plain
embarrassing.
And, if that wasn’t bad enough, Trinity had zero
empathy for me. All those times I came to her rescue
when she was having boy drama in sixth grade, and
this was how I get repaid? Some best friend she is.
With her height, Trinity was an awesome right-sider hitter. What if she made the team and I didn’t?
Waiting for Mom to pull up to the curb, a sigh
escaped my lips.
Volleyball was a bust, who knew what would
happen with me and Trinity, summer was over, and I
was scheduled to take the PSATs next week. Even
though I’m only going into seventh grade, Dad says
that “bright students” need to start the process in
middle school to get a leg up applying for college.
Seriously, I’d like to see one actual thirteen-year-old
thinking about college applications.
On top of that, we had school pictures in the
morning. I’d look like an alien if I had some huge
bump coming out of the side of my head. All this
stress and school hasn’t even started yet.
“How was practice?” Mom inquired when I slid onto
the passenger seat of the SUV.
“It was all right until I got wiped out by Hailey.”
“Oh my gosh. Are you okay, Morgan?”
“I’m fine. It was no big deal.”
Buckled in, I posted a picture of me sitting on the
volleyball court, giving the thumbs up. “Gym floor =
1, Morgan Miller = 0.” Maybe if I put this out there
and poked some fun at myself, the popularity of the
Coppertone picture would diminish.
“Didn’t you just get done talking with your
friends?”
“Yah,” I replied, eyes locked on the screen.
“What are you texting about now?”
Instinctively, my eyes rolled. “Wasn’t texting…
posting a picture.”
Mom gave that, “Really, Morgan?” sigh before
pulling out onto the street.
Is it just her, or is every teenager’s mom weirdly
interested in their kids’ lives?
My focus riveted back to the phone. A few blocks
into the trip home, Mom spoke up again. “Other
than getting wiped out, how was practice?”
“Lame.”
“You know, Dad and I have put a lot of money into
your ‘lame’ training the last two years.”
Here we go again, the my-parents-never-evenwent-to-one-of-my-sporting-events-in-my-life-letalone-paid-for-professional-training speech.
Cutting her off before she could begin, I spouted
out, “It’s ridiculous, though, Mom. Why such an
intense practice the night before the first day of
school? Us girls didn’t even get a minute to talk.”
Mom gave me a doubtful look before turning her
eyes to the road again. I went back to posting as we
drove the last couple blocks.
At home, I tossed a bag of popcorn in the
microwave, devoured half of it, scrolled through
more pictures, sent a few texts for the final word of
what everyone would be wearing to school in the
morning, then took out my contacts. That done, I
stepped into the downstairs bathroom to take a
shower.
Afterwards, as I walked through the den, Mom
patted a spot on the couch next to her. Instinctively,
I took a seat.
“Remember when you were in grade school, and
every day after school, you came home and sat on
my lap and gave me a report with every last detail of
your day?”
“Uh-huh,” I replied.
“I miss those days,” Mom noted.
I dropped my head to her shoulder.
“Are you looking forward to your first day of
seventh grade?”
“I guess.”
“It seems like it was just yesterday when I was
starting junior high.”
“They don’t call it junior high anymore, Mom. It’s
middle school.”
“I know; old habits die hard.”
I sank further into the couch, snuggling into
Mom’s side.
“Are you worried about school?” she inquired.
“Not necessarily. There’s just so much going on
right now. Things are more complicated than when
you were growing up. There’s a lot more pressure on
kids nowadays.”
“Trust me. We had our share of pressure then too.
It’s just different than it is today.”
I looked at her skeptically.
“Seventh grade was one of my most challenging
years,” she added.
“What happened?”
“Just like for you, it wasn’t just one thing. There
was school, Girl Scouts, friend issues, family issues,
and…classmate issues.”
“Classmate issues?”
Mom pulled me into her arms. “That’s a story for
another time. But, let me say this, in the words of
Winnie the Pooh’s friend, Christopher Robin, ‘You
are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem,
and smarter than you think.’”
She gave me a reassuring hug. “I wish someone
would have told me that when I was your age,” she
whispered in my ear.
I pulled back to look at her. The expression in her
eyes was hard to decipher. Regret? Sadness?
“Good night, Morgan.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, hugging her tightly. “Night,
love you!”
“Love you, too.”

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