The final volley drops, and I drift slowly toward the stage with the others. We sink onto the steps and sip our once-cold water. A bead of sweat crawls its way down my neck. The humidity overwhelms me; the outdoors calls to me, telling me of clear air and a cooling breeze. Coach saunters over. A smirk, begging to be let free, tugs at her mouth.

“Tired?” she asks, her lips finally cracking open and up at the corners to reveal a row of even white teeth. We wearily nod our assent to her question.

“Well, good practice, guys,” she says. “Now we need to talk about some things.” She promptly begins discussing with us the possibility of team socks, sweatpants, and windbreakers. Next, she informs us of the fact that we must tell her if we intend to not show up to practice.

“Too many people have doctor’s appointments, or need to be somewhere, and they just don’t tell me. You guys NEED to let me know if you’re not going to be here for practice!”

Lastly, she brings up the final subject - food. “I know this is going to be hard,” she says, “but I have to do this. From now on, no sugar allowed. Which means, no soda, no ice cream, no candy.. you get the general idea. Basically no junk food, because it will most likely have a lot of sugar.

“How depressing!” I think, as questions fly, fast and furious, about certain foods people are hoping they can still eat. Finally, as the clamor gradually rises, she informs us that she will answer any questions we have, just not at the moment; practice ends at four-thirty, and it is already five.

Later, I heave my bags into the back seat of the van and scramble into the passenger seat next to my mom.

“How was practice?” she asks. I tell her, emphasizing the major issue of no more sugar for the next two months. “Oh, well, Dad made supper tonight, and I think he picked up whoopie pies at the store.”

I moan in agony. The one time my dad happens to buy junk food at the store, it is denied me by a certain volleyball coach.

That evening, after a delicious meal of spaghetti with homemade sauce, I watch in envy as my dad eats a whoopie pie. His eyes are closed in pure rapture; he appears to be experiencing something heavenly. He glances his green eyes toward me and grins at the obvious torture I am undergoing, then begins the slow chewing-and-closing-eyes-in-delight process again.

I think. I try to come up with some form of dessert that is not sugar-filled. I scrounge through the freezer, the cupboards, the fridge, and the freezer again. Nothing clicks in my brain. I sigh in disgust, about to give up.

Suddenly, a word marches into my head. “Smoothie!” I hear, repeated continuously. “Yes!” I shout, excitement filling me. I LOVE smoothies. Fruit and yogurt can turn into one amazing result.

I spend the next half hour (Yes, a long time, I realize, but you see, I don’t normally make smoothies, and between that, running around the house trying to figure out what I actually want in my smoothie, and the fact that I am an extreme perfectionist and everything needs to be just right, well, you get the point. Now back to my story.) blending together, well, fruit and yogurt. What else do you put in a fruit smoothie? The end product tastes decadent. Ecstasy fills my being.

I walk to the computer desk, holding my cup of joy tightly with both hands. Nothing will take this from me. Nothing, it seems, except gravity.

Without warning, I feel the glass vanish from between my hands. My heart drops simultaneously with the cupful of my pride and joy. The dull thud echoes with finality inside me as my creation collides with the ground. A deep, rich purple splatters the ground and wall like some grotesque piece of artwork. An anguished cry escapes my lips. The antagonizing death of my smoothie accomplished, I tread the ground slowly to the kitchen in search of the paper towels.