MIA
University Of Miami
There’ssomething about the golden crackle of an enormous bonfire that I’m drawn to yet also frightens me. Perhaps it’s the dazzling flicker of the flames or the powerful feeling that grows inside my chest as I watch the luminous flames grow in height with each log thrown on the pyre. Something about it seems so ominous.
Maybe in a past life I was a witch who danced in the moonlight in nothing but her birthday suit, but tonight I dance with all of my teammates around the flames in joyful anticipation of our playoff game tomorrow against our rival, Florida State.
It’s so much fun to let loose after two weeks of intense preparation for one of the most important volleyball games of our lives. Not only do we want to win, but there will be a scout at the game for the US Olympic team and playing in the Olympics has always been my dream.
“You’re like a Wiccan minus the flowy white dress spinning around the fire like that.”
I spread my arms even wider as I twirl around the bonfire in my bare feet, laughing boisterously at my teammate, Pearl.
“You know I love to dance. This is the best stress reliever before a big game.”
I grow dizzy and almost fall to the moist Miami sand beneath my feet when my best friend, Rush, catches me just in the knick of time.
“Gotcha.”
I grin goofily when I see his stern face looking down at me while many of the other girls around the fire swoon. Rush is a big deal at our university. He plays tight end for the Hurricanes and is one of the more popular players to fantasize about.
“All those nights at the gym are paying off,” I say impressed. “You caught me with one arm and it’s not even shaking.”
Pearl plops herself into the sand and gawks at my unassuming friend like most girls do here at school whenever Rush is around.
“You’re going to break your neck one day,” he fusses. “Where are your sneakers?”
“Ha, you sound like mypaw-paw.”
“You need to be careful. You could step on a cracked seashell or a freakin’ beer bottle and put a hole in your foot. Then there’ll be no playoff game in your future.”
I ignore my curmudgeon of a friend. He’s a worrier by nature and isn’t the best with social graces and niceties, but I know he means well.
“Isn’t the fire magnificent?” I ask him.
“Yes, yes, the fire is big,” he answers dismissively.
“I can totally feel my ancestors sending me bountiful vibes tonight, Rush. We’re going to kill it tomorrow. We’re going to crush Florida State!” I say loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Yeah!!” My teammates collectively holler back. “Woo-hoo!”
“Of course you’re going to win,” Rush affirms. “You’re the best team in the region.”
“You’re going to be at the game, right?”
“I have my own game to get ready for. I have to practice.”
“Rush Bacchetti! I can’t believe you.”
“What do you want me to do, Mia? You know coach doesn’t make exceptions about practice, even when it comes to you. He’ll bench me if I don’t show up.”
I met Rush my freshman year. While we were both recruited to the university on athletic scholarships, let’s just say he has always been a lot more precious to the college than I ever was. Football players are like gods to this place and are treated as such. It only took me a second to understand the athletic hierarchy once I stepped inside the football team’s athletic dorm. It was like a damn Four Seasons Hotel compared to our accommodations, which looked more like a tidy Motel 6.
I was invited over by another ballplayer, an older sophomore, who probably wanted to get inside my pants that day, but once I started raising hell about the differences in the dorms and the privilege I was seeing (like free vending machines for them while ours were coin-operated), he was completely turned off. He shook his head and walked away, wanting no parts of my equality for all hissy fit.
Rush, on the other hand, was interested.
“What’s wrong with your dorm?” he asked, genuinely curious.
