The ball flew right towards me, I took a deep breath. It’s no use, my hands were shaking, I could barely hold up my arms.

With a perfect curve, my pass sent the ball flying out of bounds.

“Come on!” the player beside me screamed, I whirled around to face her. Aurora was two years older, with bright pink dye in her hair and heavy makeup. She was staring at me, her gaze drilling into mine.

She opened her mouth to say something, but the coach signaled for the game to continue, and her attention was drawn away. She wasn’t the only one looking at me, all the players had their attention fixed upon me. I could never forget the look in their eyes.

Brush it off, it doesn’t matter. Prove them wrong. I wanted so badly to be strong, to be better than them all, and laugh at them as they struggled at my feet.

Yet when the ball came at me again, my hands were still shaking, and it happened again. I guess they were already used to it by now. 

#

The training was over, I grabbed my bag and ran out of the gym. I turned back and saw Sylvie joking with Aurora, and I picked up my pace.

I climbed in the back seat of the car and threw off my bag, curling up in the corner and plugged in my headphones, allowing the music to wash over me. I stared outside the car window, watching the lamp posts go by. A notification lit up my phone, it was a text from Sylvie.

“Are you coming to training tomorrow? Aurora told me we are practicing new tactics.”

I sighed. I didn’t know how to reply.

Another notification. “Also, I just came up with a new ending to my novel and along with an entirely new side plot!”

I shut off my phone.

#

I first met her when she walked into the classroom at the public high school in Shanghai. Sylvie, the most popular girl in the entire school, her brown hair shining in the afternoon blaze. She paid no attention to me, busy talking and joking with the boys. The slimness and gracefulness of her body were amplified by her tight uniform, and the boys couldn’t take their eyes off her. I stood in a little corner at the edge of the classroom, watching everyone with a bored eye. I was fresh to the school, and I barely knew anyone.

Classes started and the teacher raised a few difficult questions, receiving no answers. I knew the answer, so I raised my hand. At first, no one paid much attention, but as I answered a few more questions, the teacher started praising me. I also noticed Sylvie kept glancing in my way and offering a friendly smile.

When the teacher asked us to find a partner for group activities, she went over and slipped her arm into mine. “I’m Sylvie. Do you want to be my partner?”

“Sure.” I was thrilled and didn’t even bother to hide my pleasure.

That was how we’ve met. Sylvie was athletic, smart, talented, and above all, beautiful. The boys loved her and followed her wherever she went, and she was always complaining about the male attention. I listened to her protests with awe and attention, she had received more than twenty declarations of love, or perhaps even more than thirty.

I often stared into the mirror at myself. I didn’t have the ironic brown hair that made her stand out against the rest, instead, mine was plain and black, straight without any distinguishing curves. I didn’t have her dynamic features, nor her slender figure. I’ve never paid much attention to my appearances before, but now that I have, I realized there were so many dissatisfying features.

She often talked about the glorious novel she had been planning to write. She talked about it all day long, about the elaborate plots, the complex characters, the crazy backstories. She would write four books, each one told from the view of multiple characters. She said she was going to be famous one day, because her writing was better than J.K Rowling, better than George R. R. Martin, even better than Charles Dickens and Jane Austen. She said her novel would be her masterpiece.

I looked up at her with awe, her face gleaming with pride and pleasure. I was so glad I could be her friend, the girl who would be famous someday and could write better than Jane Austen.

She sent me an English short story she wrote once and asked me to read it. Though she asked for criticism, her demand for compliments was clearly expressed through her eager expression. It was about a boy wanting to be a painter, but his mom forced him to be a pianist. The portray of the mother was strict, mean, almost psycho and mad. She eventually got cancer and refused to call the boy her son before she died.

I frowned, why did she come up with something like this? A broken family, an abusive parent, death, and shattered dreams.

“It was a very good story”, I told her.

 She took it away with a proud smile. “I am going to show it to the rest of my friends. “

She talked all day about how the English teacher loved her, giving her full scores on her essay. She was always the first one to raise her hand during class and watch in triumph at the teacher’s reaction as she gave the most perfect answer, the most precise analysis of a piece of prose, the best interpretation of a line of poetry. The teacher adored her, signed her up for multiple extra activities, and made her stay after class to discuss her writing. Each time I turn around as I left the classroom, she was always engaged in deep conversation with the teacher, her brown eyes gleaming with pleasure.

Once I told her I was also working on some English short stories. She tried her best to sound happy and excited, “That’s great! We can work on our stories together!”

After that, she never stopped asking for my writing, even though I’ve made it clear that it wasn’t finished, that I didn’t want to show it to anyone. “Come on, I’ve shown all of mine! Just a little bit, please.” Then I would sigh and anxiously hand her my laptop and watched with frightened eyes as she scrolled through the pages with a little smile on her face.

“Can I be honest? You need to develop a style, that is what the teacher told me today.”

#

She was also the one who encouraged me to join the volleyball team. “Come on, nearly every girl in our grade is playing volleyball, you should try it. We can be partners!”

“Sure.”

I had dedicated my life to become more like Sylvie, so I heartily agreed. I went to training with her and she introduced me to all the team members, including Aurora. She seemed nice at first, her pink hair flaring everywhere as she smiled.

I thought varsity training would be filled with laughter, each of us running around and passing the ball to our friends, having the best time of our lives.

After a few training sessions, I realized there was no way I could keep up. Each time I saw Sylvie in the middle of the court, passing with the most perfect precision, I hated myself.

I started training harder than the rest of them. When they were laughing and joking together, I was getting extra hours of practice. Again, and again, passing, setting, defending, serving. Yet I still couldn’t catch up with them.

I wanted to be good, better than the rest of them. Each time I walk past the varsity team playing in the tournaments and defeating other teams, there was an unstoppable longing to be there within them. I kept telling myself that it would work out someday, that I would be accepted by the rest of the players, that I could be as good as I wanted to be. I kept telling myself that after I joined the team, I would be happy again.

Sylvie was the only reason I joined volleyball, and each time I see the triumph in her eyes as she made a better pass than I did, the competitive monster inside me grew stronger. I wanted to be a miracle worker.

#

The next week, we were getting our grades back for the essay we wrote on Othello, the teacher came around the classroom to hand back our assignments.

I smiled as I looked down on my paper: twenty three out of twenty-five. It was the best mark I’ve gotten since the beginning of the year. I flipped to the comments page and the teacher said he was impressed with my analysis of “the green-eyed monster” and how Othello was altered by his emotions.

I looked towards Sylvie who had just gotten her paper. She buried her face in her palms, and I felt a tinge of victory: maybe I could beat her this time.

How many? She mouthed towards me.

I put up twenty-three with my fingers with a smile. She nodded and gave a thumbs up.

Then I pointed to her: you?

She put up twenty-four point five. I turned away.

After class, she ran to me and threw her arms around me, dragging me along as we hurried to the next classroom, “Oh, I am so distressed! Why did he give me that disgusting score! I went and asked him for that last mark, and he didn’t even give me any constructive feedback, just kept saying that I’ve done well! What teacher teaches like that?

“This just means that my abilities are still within the curriculum, that I’m still not above and beyond. When can he ever give me full marks? If I can’t get full marks, there is always the possibility of someone else getting them and being better than me. How am I supposed to make a career out of writing when I’m not even the best in the grade?”

Then she hugged me a bit tighter, “I’m sorry for whining, but my other friends don’t understand me. They just think I’m crazy, being obsessed over these tiny details. But you’d understand, you are also a writer. Right?”

“Yeah.” I breathed through tight lips, trying my best to put on a smile.

I snuck out of bed in the dorms that night. Sylvie was fast asleep on the bed below me, and I tried my best not to wake her as I climbed down at two in the morning. I turned on the lamp, the bright light pierced the darkness and for a second, I was afraid I’d wake her, but she only turned in her sleep. I fumbled through her documents, her neat handwriting covering the blank pages with delicate grace. I got to her essay on Othello and pulled it out of her bag. I sat down and pulled out my own essay. In the silence of the night, I read them side by side, comparing each word, each phrase, each argument, and each sentence.

Her writing was like a diamond, beautiful at first glance, and even more spectacular when examined closely. Each sentence is a tiny spark, and one after another, these tiny sparks join to form a ball of fire that became her essay. I flipped to the comments page. “You are absolutely brilliant! This is beyond expectations.” With a large smiley face drawn beneath. How I longed for that comment to be directed towards me.

I stared outside the window and turned off the light.

I missed my old school. I was so distressed when I graduated. Back there, nothing was ever complicated. We just had fun all day long, never with a tinge of trouble in our smiling faces. I loved running down the green hills with my arms spread open, laughing, and rolling on the grass.

I was always the top of my class, and the English teacher used to adore me. I read more English novels than any of my friends, who buried themselves in Chinese comics while I consumed pages and pages of Dickens, Hemingway, and Austen. I’ve never worried about competition, I just let my dreams and fantasies take over me and write elaborate stories. I was always the best, at the top of the pyramid.

I would give anything to be in the same position now.

#

I hated it when the coach split us into two groups and practice serving and receiving.

Whenever I toss up the ball, my hands would always start shaking. I could feel the critical eyes of the other players all fixed upon me, and my cheeks would start burning. As the ball reached its peak, I would swing my arm forward, aiming for the bottom of the ball, praying that my serve could go past the net. Then my fingers would miss the ball and sent it hurdling out of bonds, leaving a burning sensation at the tips of my fingers. Then I would swear silently, clutch my hands into fists, and try my best not to let the tears run down my cheeks. I would give anything to be out of my position.

“Serve well!” The coach instructed as we each grabbed a ball, “remember, the tryout for the varsity team is next week. Practice hard!”

It was my turn to serve. The coach had made it clear that our team had to get in ten serves in a row to take a break. I glanced at the scoreboard: nine serves. If I miss, we’ll have to start all over again. I could feel the eyes drilling into me, and my cheeks flushed red as if on cue.

I picked up the ball. I could feel my fingers turning soft, shaking so hard that I nearly dropped the ball. I took a deep breath and saw Sylvie’s face. She was smiling.

I threw the ball up into the air and watched it reach its peak. I raised my hand and aimed, preparing to strike it with all my energy.

“Out of bounds!” Aurora shouted across the field. I lost focus, and my fingers swept past the ball, sending it hurdling out of bounds.

The coach blew the whistle, and our score was flipped to zero.

I reminded myself that the tryout was on next week.

#

“This is so exciting!” Sylvie shouted as she rushed out of the English classroom, grabbing my arm, and holding my hand. “An English writing contest for the entire school! And above all, no word limit!” She rubbed her temples as if trying to comprehend how amazing the announcement was, “This is it! I finally have a chance to compete with the older students!

I smiled politely as she went on and on about that story she was going to write, what characters she would design, and how would she tell the story. I tried my best to distract myself.

“Are you going to attend the contest?” She asked suddenly, her face filled with expectation.

“I don’t know, probably not.”

She looked disappointed, “Why not? It’s going to be fun.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Come on,” She smiled and tightened her grip on my arm, “Join the contest! You are a writer, and this is going to be a great opportunity!”

I looked at her. “Sure.”

I immediately regretted it as I uttered the word. I could already foresee the future: Sylvie would show me her amazing work, filled with death and revenge and broken characters, I would complement her, then she would smile and submit it, and finally she would win the prize while I would win nothing. But how could I say no?

#

“Who are they?”

“They are the new members and started playing just this month. I was planning to let one of our teammates lead their training today, introduce them to our drills.”

I stared at these new faces. They were younger, fresher, their faces flushed from embarrassment as they watched Sylvie spiked on the court. They winced as the ball hit the ground with a loud “boom”, the expression turning into one of adoration.

“Can I lead their training today?”

The coach glanced at me, surprised, “Oh. Of course! I was hoping Sylvie and Aurora could teach them… But never mind, you can do the job instead.”

I walked over to the new members. They looked up at me with awe and fear, moving their bodies a little closer to each other, huddling together like a group of preys facing their predator.

So, this is what it tastes like! The pleasure of being in control. I ordered them to run around the court until their hair were pasted upon their foreheads, their faces gleaming with sweat. I watched in awe as they followed my every movement, listened to every one of my words as I demonstrated how to pass, set, and serve. I wanted them to go through everything that I had been through.

I yelled at them. One of girls with two small pig tails on her head, missed a pass and sent the ball hurdling out of bonds. I wasn’t angry at all, but I screamed at her only to see what it felt like.

“Come on!” I shouted, and all the new members had their eyes fixed upon the little girl. She was trembling, her hands shaking. I felt a tinge of shame upon the realization that her expression of fear mirrored mine.

“Why can’t you pass properly? Again!”

To be honest, I’ve never felt better in my life as the little girl burst into tears.

#

I started writing. I flipped through the old stories that I would use to write, filled with fantasies and adventure, stuffed with the innocent dreams of a child. Each story ended with the main characters living happily ever after. I made a face, repelled by my ignorant old self, and tossed the notebook aside. If I wanted to win, if I ever want to triumph and be satisfied, I needed to change.

I picked up a new stack of paper. I held it to my nose and breathed in the light smell of wood, fresh and untainted. It almost made me sad to disrupt this beautiful blank space with my scribbles. I made the main character an artist, who had a talent for brushes and paints but could never get into the best art schools. The administration officers always turned her down, saying she wasn’t good enough. She had a friend, who was even better at art than she was. They were both members of the local basketball team, yet her friend was always better than she was. She was constantly intimidated by the older and stronger girl in the varsity team who often shouted at her, her bright green hair flaring each time she raised her voice.

I was still thinking about the ending. I really wanted my main character to triumph against all odds, but I found it difficult to picture my character standing on the top of the pedestal, adored by the masses. I put down my pen and stared at the pages I filled and stacked them all together inside my bag.

I missed being the best, being in control.

#

I walked past the varsity team again, as they were playing a tournament against another school. I stopped at the door of the gym. I saw Aurora, her pink hair flaring as she jumped up and spiked. Sylvie was right beside her.

The coach spotted me and rushed over. His face was flushed and agitated, “Can you be the setter for this round? Our setter just sprained her ankle on the court, and we have no substitute players.”

I stared at him, “Me? Right now?”

“Yes!” The coach pulled me inside the gym, “This is the final round of the tournament, and we can’t afford to lose!”

“But…”

“Do you have your uniform? Your shoes?”

“I don’t have a uniform…”

“Never mind then. Just put on your sneakers and get on to the court.”

I obeyed with bewilderment. I could feel the eyes of the other players and my hands started shaking automatically.

I walked onto the court and took the place of the setter. My footsteps echoed unnaturally loud in the quiet gym as everyone stared at me: shorter than any other player, not wearing the varsity uniform, my hair let down. I didn’t look nor felt like an athlete.

Aurora stared at me as I walked up to the net. After a while, she finally hissed, “It’s your turn to serve. You are at the wrong spot.”

“Oh.” My face burned red as I tried my best to hide it. I heard giggles from the other side of the court, as the opposite team laughed at my inexperience. Sylvie threw me a ball and I missed it. Even more laughter burst from the opposite team, and my fellow players grew even more stern.

I rushed to the finishing line, and held out the ball, ready to toss it. We came right back here again, me at the finishing line, with a ball in my hand, ready to serve, with an entire court of people focused on me. My hands were shaking again. I took a deep breath and tossed up the ball.

“Out of bounds!”

My hand trembled, and it missed the ball entirely. It just fell back onto the ground. I whirled around to look for the person who shouted at me, but all the players just stared back at me instead. Their faces were raw with anger and hatred.

#

I was finally back in the locker room. I slammed my body against the wall and tried my best to stifle the sobs. Why am I always so clumsy? I messed up everything, I could never get to the place I wanted to be, no matter how hard I worked. They were just better than me. That is an inevitable fact that I cannot change.

Can I give up now?

I thought of an ending to my story. The main character could simply give up, and she wouldn’t hurt anyone. She could return her basketball uniform and sell all her paints. She and all the other characters could all go on about their lives as if nothing had happened. This is perfect.

I walked over to my locker and reached for the door. I yanked back my hand and nearly cried in pain, as the handle of my locker was burning hot. Smoke was coming out of the bottom of the locker door.

I put my hand over my mouth to stop a scream from escaping. I quickly grabbed a damp napkin from the bathroom and yanked open the locker door. Flames burst out as the heatwave washed over me. The burnt paper fell out and landed on the floor.

I took a few steps back and stared in horror. The fire was spreading, consuming my story, my pen case, my school bag, slowly eating away the posters I’ve put up on the locker wall.

I dashed back into the bathroom, filled a bucket with water, and poured it all over my locker. The burnt pages floated in the puddle as steam came off the writing.

“You call yourself a writer, uh?”

I whirled around, only to face Aurora, strolling casually down the school hallway, her pink hair illuminated by the glow of the setting sun. She must have caught the horror in my face, then she smiled and said, “Oh yes, we’ve read your little story. Really good, almost as if it’s real.”

Other members of the volleyball teams started appearing behind her, surrounding me, each one with a hateful look in their eyes.

“You know, if you can’t play volleyball, then just simply stop trying.” Aurora snapped her fingers in front of my face, “It’s that easy. Never in a million years would I afford to lose only because a single player on my team couldn’t play properly.”

“I am already working hard! Just give me another chance!”

“Oh, young lady, you’ve had a lot of chances. And you let them slip away. Now, you can get out of this gym and think about your next story in your tiny little dorm.”

“Who told you about the story?”

“Oh? You don’t know? It’s a friend of yours.”

I pushed past Aurora and ran out of the locker room. It was pouring outside. The sun was hidden behind the horizon, leaving me in utter darkness, and my uniform soon got soaked by the rain. A text lit up my phone, it was from Sylvie.

Saw you at the game today! By the way, do you want to see my story for the contest?

I knew exactly what I would do as I blindly ran through the rain. I am going to get there. Just wait and see.

#

It was finally perfect.

I walked proudly onto the court. It was the day for varsity tryouts.

There were hardly any people present on the court. There were the new members, sitting in a row by the bench, their feet handling off the edge, barely long enough to reach the floor. The little girl with the pig tails winced as she saw me and turned away to wipe her tears. I didn’t even try to hide my smile.  

There was Aurora and her group of friends, except each of them had bandages wrapped around their bodies. Aurora glared at me angrily as I walked past, her left arm in a sling around her neck. I gave her an expression of sympathy.

I approached the coach, “What happened to them?”

“Oh, during the game, someone spilled a slippery liquid all over the court, most of the girls fell and hurt themselves.”

“Oh god, is it bad?”

“Well, they got hurt pretty badly. They will heal, but not soon enough for the tournament this year, and definitely not soon enough for the varsity tryout.” The coach sighed and rubbed his forehead, “I’ll suppose we’ll have to compromise this year.”

I glanced around the court, “Where is Sylvie?”

“She got the worst fall. She’s still in the hospital.”

I played like I’ve never had before. Every pass was perfect, every serve right to the spot. The coach couldn’t stop complimenting my performance. I watched in triumph as he scribbled down notes under my name with a smile on his face. I strolled out of the gym like a conquer, fully aware of Aurora’s angry stare at the back of my head.

A message lit up my phone. It was an email from my English teacher.

“You are absolutely brilliant! This is beyond expectations. I’ve already submitted your story to the competition.  I think you really have a shot in winning. This story is so beautifully written and so rich in language. The judges would be stupid to not pick you for the top spot.”

I smiled. This is finally happening.

I squeezed my way through the crowd to the poster board. The winners for the competition and varsity team were out. I scanned through the posters, fully aware of the results I would receive. My eyes rested on the one that said, “English Writing”, and my name was right there, printed in capitals with black ink, at the top of the list.

I turned my gaze to the varsity list, there I was, with “CAPTAIN” printed in capital letters right next to it.

I walked away as a string of messages sent my phone buzzing, each of them congratulating me.

I have been wanting this for so long. All it took was a few emails and an hour’s work of covering the gym floor with oil. I didn’t even have to write anything myself, and I didn’t even have to train for the tryout. Victory was so easy when you start taking shortcuts.

I scrolled through the wave of messages, reading each of them with a smile. I felt so grown up, I wasn’t a child anymore. I felt I have learned everything I will ever need to learn.

#

“I have received reports that your story was copied form one of our fellow students, Sylvie.” The principle eyed me through his thick glasses, “What do you have to say?”

“It’s not true. I wrote it myself.”

“This is a really big deal, and I believe you are aware of that. The school had always taken academic honesty seriously. You can assure that you are telling the truth.”

“Yes. You can ask any one of my friends, or even my teachers. I sometimes discuss my creative process with them.” I fumbled in my bag and handed a notebook to him, “This is my diary, you can see how I pieced the story from my experiences.

The principle picked up the notebook and flipped through the pages, with a little smile of approval on his face.

The principle handed back my notebook and smiled. “Good. We have always encouraged students to record their creative processes, and this is an excellent example. We put our trust in you, given your perfect record and top grades. I believe the matter is settled for now. Good day.”

“Thank you, principle. Good day.”

I walked out of the principle’s office. I should be triumphant.

Of course, I copied Sylvie’s story. I couldn’t be that good to win the competition. The diary entries were all written after I submitted her story. 

Her new story was like all the others, filled with broken characters with tragic backstories, abusive family, disloyal friends, and stuffed with battle scenes and disease. I guess people just enjoy watching others suffer, the more they suffer, the happier the readers are. That’s why Sylvie got so popular. 

I climbed up onto the hillside. I spread my arms and allowed the setting sun to wash over me, covering me with golden glitter. I smiled as I realized that this moment is something Sylvie and her readers could never appreciate.

I already have everything I wanted, but am I satisfied? I got a place on the varsity team – and I was the captain! I won the writing competition, and the English teacher adored me now even more than he had adored Sylvie. Everything is finally back on the right track.

Or is it?

I’ve always felt that if I won, if I beat Sylvie and Aurora, everything would be perfect. I would finally return to my happy self, without a tinge of sorrow or worries.

I longed for none of this to happen. I closed my eyes, trying to picture myself carefree and happy, running down the green hills with my arms spread open, laughing, and rolling in the grass. I realized I couldn’t conjure up that beautiful image anymore.

I lay down on the grass and folded my arms behind my head. The stars were poking through the clouds, blinking down at me. The evening breezes brushed through my hair. I closed my eye as it ruffled my hair and made the grass bow beside my cheeks. I was changing, but the process was not over. It was far from over.

What now?

#

I slumped onto my bed face down, throwing my bag onto the floor. It was my second year of work.

 They say this is the way into writing. They say that if I do this job well, it can open infinite doors to countless magazines, publishing houses, and newspapers. Yet in two years’ time, I had never laid eyes on a single manuscript, nor have I met single publisher.

 I smiled with my face buried in the bedsheets: I was just as productive as yesterday. I counted the things I did today: made coffee for my boss, fetched her steak for lunch and salad for dinner, answered her calls and managed her schedule, memorized the guestlist for the next dinner party, and nearly killed myself for running around the office fetching random accessories for my boss. I had a phone dedicated to answering her calls, and it rung about twice every five minutes.

Her last call was one minute away, I could have a second of peace. I turned on my bed and stared at the pictures sticking on my wall. There she was, Sylvie with her arms wrapped around my shoulder. I reminded myself that high school was only a couple of years ago.

I still remembered the story I wrote for myself when I was fifteen. That was the last story I wrote. I still wished I could be as ruthless and decisive as I was in that story. Stealing Sylvie’s story, injuring the other players. I kept wondering if I did those things in real life instead of putting them on paper, maybe my life would have been a little different. Maybe the best-selling author could be me instead of Sylvie, maybe the captain of the national team could be me instead of Aurora. Maybe I wouldn’t be needing to listen to my boss’s orders just to barely manage to pay the rent.

My phone rang.