by Lin Oliver
“I don’t think you have enough of those cute, furry stickers in here,” he said. “Look, you missed an inch.”
“For your information, they are not just cute, they also serve a purpose. I put one next to each picture of when Charlie and I won a match.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re matching them with your matches.” Then, realizing what he had said, he burst out laughing. “A match match, get it? Man, I crack myself up.”
“Apparently it doesn’t take much.”
“Come on, Sam. You have to admit that’s funny. Or at least punny.” Unbelievable as it seems, he laughed again at that not-even-a-little-bit-funny remark.
“You and your ace sense of humor can leave now,” I told Ryan. “I have to get dressed. And by the way, thanks for scaring me to death.”
“No problem, Sam-I-Am. Any time.” Ryan flashed me a smile and then—you’re not going to believe this—he winked at me. You heard me. My brother winked at me. Obviously, he was trying to work out some cool, new move that he could use on the girls at school, but I’m sorry, it is unacceptable to try it out on me. Totally unacceptable.
“I think you have something in your eye,” I said. “It looks really painful.”
Then he winked again as if it weren’t bad enough the first time. I had no choice but to throw my pillow directly at his head.
Ryan’s really athletic and has great reflexes, so he had no problem ducking out of the way. Instead, it hit the shelf on the wall behind him and knocked over three tennis trophies, a coffee can filled with my seagull feather collection, two tubes of suntan lotion, a jar of pennies, and a portable fan. This seemed to tickle him to death, and he left laughing like a two-year-old. I could hear him hollering to my dad, “Sammie will be out in a minute. She’s got a little mess to clean up first.”
Boys can be so easily amused.
I was late, so there was no time for good grooming. I pulled my hair into a ponytail without even brushing it, threw on some white shorts and a bleached-out tank top, grabbed my tennis shoes and socks, and hurried into the kitchen.
Our kitchen is more like a nook than a real kitchen, because the house is very small—way too small for all of us. Charlie and I share the front bedroom that looks out on the beach. It’s so tiny that our beds practically touch. Mom and Dad’s bedroom used to be a locker room and still has old wooden lockers all along one wall. Ryan sleeps on a foldout couch in the living room, which I sometimes wish would fold up with him in it.
Our old house in Culver City was much bigger, but we had to sell it when my dad lost his job last year. While we were figuring out where to live, my dad’s college buddy, Chip Wadsworth, asked him to be the athletic director of his beach club, the Sporty Forty. They call it that because the club has been owned by the same forty families since, like, forever. They’re all pretty rich, but none of them can play tennis like my dad, who was almost a professional until he messed up his knee and had to have surgery. When Chip said we could live in the caretaker’s cottage for free, that sealed the deal. Dad said we could save a lot of money while Mom went to cooking school, and when she came back, they would open a restaurant together and we could move into a real house again.
So one month ago we moved into the caretaker’s bungalow of the Sporty Forty, and two weeks ago, my mom left for Boston.
Even though we’re totally on top of one another all the time, living at the Sporty Forty is a pretty sweet arrangement. I mean, Charlie and I can see the waves breaking from our bedroom window. We can go to the beach all the time and use the club facilities, too. It has two tennis courts, so Charlie and I can practice whenever the members aren’t using them. And there’s constant beach volleyball for Ryan, who, besides being an idiot boy, is a major volleyball champion and all-around jock.
GoGo was in the kitchen when I came running in. She helps out at the club when there are parties and stuff, so I figured there must be a party that day. GoGo used to have a little shop near the Venice boardwalk called Moonstone, where she sold beautiful silver jewelry she made by hand. But business hadn’t been great lately, so she closed her shop and sells at craft fairs instead. When we moved into the Sporty Forty, Chip Wadsworth asked her if she’d have time to help organize their events, and she said sure. She loves parties, and besides, working there gives her extra money and plenty of time to make her jewelry and take care of us, too.
“Morning, Sammie,” she said. “I put some sliced cantaloupe for you on the counter.”
“Thanks, GoGo, but I’m late.”
“It’s never too late for fruit.”
She held the plate out for me with a look that said You will eat this cantaloupe and enjoy it. I grabbed a slice and stuffed it in my mouth, reaching down to tie my shoes at the same time. I must not have totally closed my lips because as soon as I bit down, some juice shot out of my mouth onto my shoe.
“Oh, great,” I groaned. “Now my shoes are all cantaloupey.”
GoGo laughed and handed me a napkin.
“When will you learn? You’re always late, always rushing. That makes life messy.”
“Squirty cantaloupe makes life messy.”
“You should have gotten up on time, Doodle. Noodle has been on the court with your father for a half hour already.”
In case you’re wondering why GoGo was speaking in rhyme, Doodle and Noodle are her special nicknames for us. My real name is Samantha Ellen Diamond, mostly known as Sammie, except that GoGo calls me Doodle. My sister is Charlotte Joy Diamond, mostly known as Charlie, but in GoGo-speak, she’s Noodle or, sometimes, The Noodle. I’m not sure how I got to be Doodle and she got to be Noodle, but I’m guessing it’s because she was always thin like a noodle and I was round like a doodlebug.
Oh, there it is again. The weight thing. Why is it always on my mind even when it’s not on my mind?
GoGo reached up to the shelves above the sink, pulled out a whole bunch of platters and trays, and started to wipe them off.
“I think the brownies will look really nice on this silver one,” she said, holding up a beautiful, shiny tray.
“Brownies? Yum. I love brownies!”
Oh, I forgot. No, Sammie. No brownies for you. Not at one two six and a half.
“Is there a party tonight?” I asked, stuffing another cantaloupe slice into my mouth to drive out the thought of those evil, chocolaty brownies.
“It’s Lauren Wadsworth’s thirteenth birthday party,” GoGo said. “She’s having about thirty people. Lots of kids from your new school will be there. I’m sure Lauren won’t mind if you and Charlie go.”
Grown-ups always think that just because you’re the same age as another kid, you’ll want to hang out with them and they’ll want to hang out with you. What even a cool grown-up like GoGo didn’t understand was that Lauren Wadsworth was the most perfect, most popular, most everything girl at Beachside Middle School. Charlie and I hadn’t even started school there yet, but we already knew about her. Even at Culver, our old middle school, she was famous for being rich, smart, beautiful, and everything else you’d ever want to be.
“We can’t go to her party, GoGo. We don’t even know Lauren Wadsworth.”
“I hear she’s a darling girl. And you are darling girls. So it’s a perfect fit.”
Yeah, right, a perfect fit. Charlie and I had seen Lauren a few times at the club over the last month, and she didn’t exactly come over and ask to be our new best friend. She just hung out with her group, the other girls from the club, like Brooke Addison, Jillian Kendall, and Lily March. None of those girls seemed like they were dying to get to know the two new, girl, jock tennis players who were living in the caretaker’s bungalow and transferring in from Culver City Middle School.
I grabbed my racket and headed outside. It was another perfect day: the sun shining, the red beach umbrellas of the club fluttering in the ocean breeze. On the
first court, four members were playing doubles— older women with floppy hats and even floppier upper arms. On the second court, Charlie was practicing her serve, and Dad was calling out instructions.
“Toss the ball higher, Charlie. Raise your point of contact. Don’t overpower it—go for accuracy!”
When Charlie saw me, she stopped serving and came running over. She gave me a hug, her hot cheek pressing against my cool one. I immediately felt guilty that she was out there working so hard and I was the slacker, as usual.
“Is he mad that I’m late?” I whispered.
“I told him you had to put new shoelaces in.”
“How’d you come up with that?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I amaze myself.” Charlie giggled.
I love my sister. She’s always there for me when I screw up. Of course, I’m there for her, too, but she doesn’t screw up nearly as often as I do, that’s for sure.
“Get your game face on,” she whispered as Dad came jogging up to us. “He’s very hyped-up about the tournament.”
“How’re the new shoelaces?” my dad asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his wristband.
“So much better, Dad. Those old ones were . . .” I hesitated and looked over at Charlie, not knowing what she had told him.
“Really ratty,” she chimed in, moving her body in front of mine so my shoelaces weren’t visible.
“And full of cantaloupe juice,” I added for an authentic touch.
“Glad you changed them,” he said. “You want to look your best for the tournament tomorrow. You do remember you girls are playing in a tournament tomorrow, don’t you, Sammie?”
“Course I do, Dad.”
How could I forget? The 12th Annual Sand and Surf Club Satellite Classic was the next day, and our dad had been talking about it nonstop for two weeks. It was a really important tournament, because if we won both of our matches, we’d get enough total points to qualify for a state ranking. And that was really, really important to Dad.
Charlie and I had been ranked twenty-second in the state in the Under-12 Girls Doubles category. Not to brag or anything, but that’s pretty good. I mean, California is a big state with a lot of very competitive tennis players. But after we turned twelve, we had to move up to an older category, the Under-14, and we were still trying to accumulate enough points to get our ranking back. You get so many points for each match you win, and when you get enough, you get a ranking.
Our dad is totally focused on our getting a ranking. He has it all planned out for us kids: Ryan is going to go to college on a volleyball scholarship, and Charlie and I are going to get tennis scholarships. At least that’s what he thinks. In our family, the purpose of sports isn’t to have fun and get exercise. It’s to win, to be the best. Our future, our education, everything depends on it.
I know what you’re thinking. “No pressure there!” Yeah, tell me about it.
“I’ll warm up Sammie,” my dad said to Charlie, “while you go hydrate.”
Hydrate is sports-guy talk for get a drink of water. I’ve learned that if you play sports seriously, you have to use the right vocab. I mean, if you say “I’m thirsty,” it just sounds like your mouth is dry. But if you say “I need some hydration,” well, that sounds like you’re ready to compete in the Olympics.
Charlie went in the kitchen, and my dad started hitting with me, yelling at me to move my feet, to lunge for the ball, to quicken my reaction time. He was right, of course, but what did he want from me? I mean, like five minutes before I had been sound asleep. You don’t just wake up and start lunging for the ball. At least I don’t.
When Charlie came back from “hydrating,” Ryan was tagging along behind her. He had tied a red bandanna around his head like he was the Karate Kid or something. It covered his forehead and held his long, blond hair back from his face. On anyone else, that bandanna would have looked totally stupid. But Ryan has a way of taking the oddest things and making them look cool. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t think he’s cool at all, but I happen to know that lots of other people do. All of our friends at our old school always acted really flirty when he was around and constantly told us how cute he was. They wouldn’t have thought that if they knew he puts green beans in his nose and makes monkey noises at the dinner table.
“There’s Ry Guy,” my dad said when he saw Ryan. “Tell you what, handsome: Let’s you and me play a doubles set against Sammie and Charlie. What do you say, girls? Can you whip us?”
“Them whip us?” Ryan laughed. “No way!”
“Oh, yes way,” Charlie shot back.
“We’ll eat you alive,” I added. “I have a certain tornado story I need to get even for.”
“I still can’t believe you bit on that one.”
Ryan was laughing about it all over again, which made me even more determined to whip his butt on the tennis court. I know it sounds impossible for Charlie and me to beat one almost-professional grown-up man and his total jock of a son, but it wasn’t out of the question. Charlie and I are very competitive. She’s light on her feet and quick at the net. I move slower, but I have a lot of power at the baseline. Each of us makes up for what the other doesn’t have. Dad says we are like two halves of a circle, born to play doubles tennis.
We started the set, and Charlie and I were playing great. We were tied at three games each, and I was beginning to think we had a chance. But then we had to quit because Mr. Hornblower arrived for his eleven o’clock tennis lesson with Dad. Ryan wanted to play a tiebreaker, but Mr. Hornblower didn’t want to wait. He’s a total grump, although I have to say, I would be, too, if my name were Mr. Hornblower.
Dad started his lesson, and Charlie and I headed into the kitchen. I really needed to hydrate because I was sweating like a pig. Charlie always manages to look good when she sweats. She just gets a moist glow all over her face. Me? I get these big globs of sweat that pop out on my upper lip, and no matter how many times I wipe them off, they just seem to bubble back out again. And my hair, which is normally dark blond, gets wet and stringy and turns the color of baby poop. I think we can all agree that’s not an attractive look.
So you can imagine how I felt when my baby-poop hair and I walked into the kitchen to find Lauren Wadsworth sitting at the counter with GoGo. She was wearing a sundress with swirly, yellow flowers and sandals with yellow jewels to match. Her hair, which is very shiny and the color of maple syrup, was held back in a yellow headband that totally matched her dress. She looked like she had just stepped out of a suntan lotion ad in Seventeen magazine. She and GoGo were in a deep discussion about whether the brownies should go on the silver tray or the blue tray with pink seashells.
“Hi, kids,” GoGo said. “You all know Lauren, don’t you?”
Lauren turned and gave us a really nice smile. I could smell her lip gloss—it was strawberry. She must have just put it on. I glanced at my reflection in the glass panes of the cupboard. Yup, those big globs of sweat were definitely there on my upper lip. I wiped them off with my arm, but I swear they squirted out again before I had even said hello to Lauren.
“Happy birthday,” Charlie said to her.
“Thanks.” Lauren looked at her jelly watch that had the cutest fluorescent-orange band you’ve ever seen. “I’ll be thirteen in three hours and twelve minutes.”
“Then you’ll officially be a teenager,” I added, tucking my sticky, loose hair back into my ratty ponytail. It was hopeless—why didn’t I just give up? I’m sure Lauren was thinking that I was the most disgusting creature she had ever seen.
But then I noticed that Lauren wasn’t looking at my hair—or at me at all. She wasn’t looking at Charlie, either. She was smiling at someone behind us, someone wearing a red bandanna and grinning right back at her.
“Hi, Ryan,” she said, her teeth looking very white against her strawberry lip gloss.
“Hey, Lauren. Nice tan.”
The two of them just stood there smiling at each other like goons. GoGo didn’t seem to notice that a major flirt-fest was going on. Or if she did, she didn’t let on.
“We’re making all kinds of critical decisions for Lauren’s party tonight,” she said, holding up the silver tray and the blue one with pink seashells. “Which one should we put the brownies on?”
“I’d go with the seashell one,” Ryan said. “We’re at the beach and all.”
Lauren nodded enthusiastically.
“Great thought, Ryan.”
Really? What’s so great about it? Look around: There’s the sand. There’s the ocean. There’s the beach. How hard is that to figure out?
“Sounds like you’re going to have a fun party,” Ryan said to her.
“Why don’t you come, Ryan? All my friends are going to be there.”
GoGo put the trays down and looked up, a big smile on her face.
“Oh, what a lovely invitation, Lauren. I’m sure the girls would be happy to join, too. Wouldn’t you, girls?”
GoGo! Are you kidding me???? She didn’t invite us; she invited Ryan. Did you not notice?
Lauren looked a little surprised, but GoGo put her tan arm around Lauren’s shoulder and gave her a really big smile.
“It will be such a nice opportunity for Charlie and Sammie to meet some kids from Beachside.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Lauren said. What else could she say? “Oh, I didn’t mean to invite them, I only wanted him”? No, only a total jerk would say that, and actually, she didn’t seem like a jerk at all—she seemed really friendly.
“It’s at six o’clock,” Lauren said. “Here on the beach.”
“Cool,” Charlie said. “We’ll see you later. What should we wear?”
“Shorts. Jeans. It’s totally whatever.”
“You’d better get a move on, Sam,” Ryan said. “If you’re going to be out in public, you’ve got some serious work to do on that hair.”
Lauren giggled like he had just said the funniest thing ever. It’s amazing what a guy can get away with when he looks good in a bandanna. I was about to open my mouth and let him know what I thought of his tennis-shoes-with-no-socks look, but Charlie grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the kitchen before I could say anything.
