Page 58 of Mad Girl

I stood and quickly slipped into my white shorts. Even though my dad made me wear one-pieces, and I loved the pastel yellow one I’d chosen to wear that day, you’d never seen so much of my skin, either. Self-conscious, I lifted an arm over my small chest, toggling one of my tiny gold croissant earrings as I walked over to you guys.

“I call Casey,” Michael rushed to say as Bree and I approached the net.

“No way,” Bree said. “That leaves me with Elliot.”

“Well, I don’t want her on my team,” Michael said.

You glanced between them, confused.

“She hogs the ball,” Michael told you by way of explanation.

“Screw you, Michael.” I glared at him, arms crossed over my bathing suit. “Screw both of you.”

They rolled their eyes at me.

You picked up the ball, shot me a smile, and bumped my arm with yours. “Elliot can be on my team.”

You’ve got to remember our first game of beach volleyball, Casey. How could you not?

I remember being genuinely shocked at how good you were. I’d never pegged you as the sporty type—not on Michael’s level, anyway. But you were, your back muscles flexing with every serve and hit. You figured out pretty quickly that I was, in fact, a ball hog.

You ordered me to hang back, but I moved even closer, catching a whiff of your sunblock, mixed with the sweet tang of your sweat.

About ten minutes in, it happened: I caught your elbow to my nose. I stumbled back, then hit my knees, breathless from the pain. The white-hot rush of it.

“Oh my God,” you said, dropping next to me. “Elliot.”

Rocking back and forth, I dug one palm into the sand and clutched my nose with the other. But I held back the sounds—they wouldn’t have been appropriate in that setting. The taste of copper filled my mouth, liquid warmth oozing through my fingers and trickling down my arm. Then you saw it, too: the blood.

You grasped my shoulder. “Jesus.”

Everyone rushed over as you dipped your head to get a better look. “Here,” you said, gently pulling my hand from my face. “Let me see.”

Blood gushed down my mouth, and I caught your grimace, despite how blurry you were. Tinsley handed you a beach towel, which you told me—in a quiet voice—to hold to my nose. When you took my face in your hands and tilted it up, I braced my free hand against your chest.

I didn’t actually need to lean on you like that, Casey. I just wanted to touch your bare skin. To feel how solid and warm you were. To feel the stickiness of your sweat against my palm. My dirty imagination soared again, until you snapped me back to reality by turning my face from side to side, inspecting the profile of my nose.

“I can’t tell if it’s broken,” Michael said from above. “Every year she does this.”

“Does what?” you asked.

“Gets hurt playing volleyball. Last year, she caught my elbow to her eye. So she walked around with a black eye for weeks.”

“And the year before that, she hurt her nose,” Bree added, “but it was definitely broken then. She needed surgery to fix it.”

“Well, yeah, but it usually happens much closer to…” Tinsley drifted off.

“Closer to what?” you asked.

Everyone went silent, shuffling awkwardly in the sand.

“Closer to what, Michael?” you asked.

“Don’t,” I croaked.

But Michael sighed and told you, anyway: “Her birthday.”

You lowered your gaze back to mine, and so many emotions flickered across your face: shock, sadness, empathy, pain. That’s when you realized you’re not the only one who hates their birthday.