Lisa's pov

The girls' room

"Geez, what did you do at church that got Shane so pissed off, Julie?" I ask, as she enters our room, still walking a little stiffly after her 'talk' with Mike and Shane. Her eyes are red and puffy so I know she was crying recently and no one spoke a word on the way home from church so I know something bad happened.

"It was nothing, really. Stacey and I were just goofing around and Shane saw an opportunity to punish me for mouthing off to Kimberly, so he pounced on it. Don't be surprised if he does the same thing to you," she responds, before crashing on her bed. Lying on her stomach, she grabs her pillow, bunching it under her head as she closes her eyes and says, "I'm gonna take a nap."

No, Shane wouldn't use an excuse to punish me for mouthing off to Kimberly. Would he? I try to push that nagging thought out of my head as I get my backpack ready for school tomorrow.

Two days later at school

Lisa's pov

Volleyball isn't my favorite sport. I don't dislike it or anything, it's just okay. I probably wouldn't have even tried out for the team if one of my friends hadn't talked me into it. Honestly, I'm glad she did. There are a lot of great girls on the team and we have a ton of fun. Our favorite pastime is annoying our coach Mr. Mott. Don't get me wrong, he's not a bad guy. He just gets a little too intense sometimes. You can only expect a certain amount of dedication from a group of seventh grade girls. Our minds tend to wander and let's face it, our current obsession changes by the hour. We're only ever going to be so invested in volleyball.

We're about halfway through practice, running our umpteenth drill and it's getting pretty monotonous. Bump, set, spike. Bump, set, spike. Occasional dig, serve, bump, set, spike.

"Hey, I dare you to call coach Mott, Fred," Radke says to me. Radke is her last name. We all call her Rad for short. I've been accused of having a smart mouth by many an authority figure but truth be told, I can't hold a candle to Rad. I don't know why I let her goad me into doing so many stupid things. Who am I kidding? I know exactly why. It's fun and exciting, sometimes even dangerous, and always an adrenaline rush. That's exactly what I need right now.

Normally, calling a teacher or coach by their first name would earn you a verbal reprimand, maybe a detention if you hit a nerve but Coach Mott was weirdly strict about how his p.e. students and athletes addressed him. He sent one of the boys in his second period gym class to the vice principal's office for calling him Mott. It's coach Mott, Mr. Mott, or sir, he told the kid. Get over yourself. I kinda feel like taking him down a peg. He can really be a pompous ass sometimes.

"Fred, can I go to the washroom?" I asked, running up to Coach Mott. Despite the sneakers squeaking on the gym floor and several volleyballs being bounced all over, you could have heard a pin drop.

Coach Mott looked at me, or rather through me, with the angriest look on his face.

"What did you call me?" he asked menacingly.

This was my pardon from the governor but instead of accepting my reprieve from death row, I said, "Fred."

"My office now!" he hissed. Grabbing my arm and pulling me roughly alongside him, he dragged me into his office and threw me into the chair next to his desk. He slammed the door behind him and grabbed the arms of my chair, bending down, placing his face within two inches of mine.

"Whom do you think you are, speaking to me that way?" he asked rhetorically, with the most terrifyingly icy tone. "How dare you disrespect me! I am your coach, not one of your school chums," he berated me, staring me directly in the eyes without blinking. "Here's what's going to happen," he said, pushing back from my chair, standing and turning his back to me.

I held my breath. My cheeks were flushed and hot from embarrassment and fear. I've only seen coach Mott this angry one other time. It was when the first referee blew a call, costing us our undefeated season.

Coach Mott stood with his back to me, hands on his hips, devising my punishment.

"You're going to run ladders for the remainder of practice." He paused, turning to face me, a mischievous grin on his face, "And you're going to write, Mr. Mott, one thousand times. Have a parent sign it and bring it to me before tomorrow's practice or you're not playing in the game on Thursday."

Well played, Coach Mott. I was actually looking forward to Thursday's game against Herrick. They're our fiercest rival. Physical pain in the guise of conditioning exercises by running ladders is a nice touch. I'll explain for those of you that don't know what running ladders (aka suicides) means. You start at the baseline of a basketball court and sprint to the freethrow line, bend down touch the line, run back to the baseline, bend down touch it, run to the half court line, bend down touch it, run back to the baseline, bend down touch it, sprint to the free throw line on the opposite end of the court, bend down touch it, sprint back to the baseline, bend down touch it, then sprint to the baseline on the opposite end of the court, bend down touch it and sprint back to the baseline you started at. All that constitutes ONE ladder. It's even exhausting to describe, let alone run.

By requiring a parent signature on my writing assignment, he ensures punishment at home as well. Of course, I would just forge that signature anyway, but it might be effective on a more trustworthy person.

"Get out of my office and start running." Coach Mott opens the door and ushers me out.

After practice

Lisa's pov

I was exhausted by the time the late bus dropped me back at the NJC. Running ladders for twenty-five minutes straight was brutal, to say the least. I still have two study guides and a math sheet to complete, plus I have a term paper to write for English class. It was eight o'clock by the time I finished my homework. Lights out is in an hour and I haven't even started on Coach Mott's assignment. I picked up a sheet of notebook paper and started to write Mr. Mott over and over. Before I knew it, Shane was knocking on the door yelling, lights out.

I looked down at my paper and quickly estimated how many entries I had finished. Fuck. I only wrote Mr. Mott one hundred forty-eight times and my hand was already cramping. That bastard knew this was an impossible task. He has no intention of letting me play in Thursday's game. I grabbed a clean sheet of paper and wrote one sentence at the top. Little did I know, that one sentence would teach me a very powerful lesson about writer's remorse.