But lately when they find out I've won against a difficult girl or that my ranking has gone up again, they act weird. My dad suddenly takes the whole family to Baskin-Robbins for ice cream. Lets us order anything we want; he never does that. Then my mom surprises me with a subscription to Tennis magazine—without me asking.
I'm kind of suspicious, paranoid, ill over things like ice cream and magazine subscriptions. I wonder if all kids get paid off like this before they get shipped off to slave tennis academies.
I hopped in the front seat and threw my bag in back. My mom floored the gas and within seconds we were headed home.
“I've got to meet your dad in forty minutes, so I'm going to drop you off at the practice court on the way.”
“But it's nearly seven o'clock. I'm starving.”
Keeping her eyes on the road, she rummaged through her huge purse, producing a ham sandwich wrapped in plastic and a warm bottle of Evian. “Dinner is served,” she said.
“I ate a ham sandwich for lunch.”
“If we had a stove in the car I'd make you something else.”
“Why can't I go home and walk to the court after I eat real food?”
My mom sighed. “Honey, don't complain. I'm saving you from walking six blocks. I don't have the energy to argue. It's not going to kill you to eat a ham sandwich.”
Silence.
“Your dad doesn't have to work tonight. I snuck out of work early so I could drop you off and meet him on time for once. Don't argue.”
“OK.”
My dad works a second job at night to pay for my coaching. Trent isn't a hack who only knows the basics; he's a real coach. He develops talent, nurtures abilities. He's molded me into a player. Developing, nurturing, and molding cost piles of cash.
She pulled the car to the side of the court. “See you at home,” she said.
“Bye,” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich.
“Michael and Brad should be here soon. Don't walk home alone.”
“Yeah, OK.”
“Hall?” my mom said as I got out and started to shut the car door. “Did you talk to Trent about Janie yet?”
My mouth got dry. “Yes,” I lied. I stared at the zipper of my tennis bag.
“What did he say? Is he going to take you to see Janie?”
I stared at her, exhausted. My mom is the Essence of Momness—the type who makes sure I have lunch money and says the right thing when I'm sad. I know she wants to protect me from the crisis that's happened to my old doubles partner, Janie Alessandro. But there is no protection. And I think I know that more than she does. Still, Janie is our undercurrent of tension, the lump in our throats, her plight fresh in our minds.
“Hall, what did Trent say?”
“He said a lot of stuff, Mom. I told you before. I don't want to talk about it with you. You barely knew Janie.”
“And you don't have to talk about it—to me. But are you talking about it to Trent?”
“Yes, I talked to him,” I lied again. “I'm OK about it, I swear,” I said. Two lies in less than two minutes; that must be a record. I didn't want to think about how poor Janie had been ruined by tennis, much less discuss it.
“All right, Hall. You know I'm here if you want to talk,” she said, her thumb tapping the steering wheel.
“I know,” I said. “See you.”
“Have a good practice, honey.”
As I took a step toward the court déjà vu nudged me again. Polly. Her joy and ample cheeks—those were Janie's traits. That's why she seemed so familiar. No wonder I liked her.
I practice my serves in the dark. This old court is six blocks from my house. It's across from the Benet Hill Center, which used to be a monastery. No one except me plays here. The court backs up to the bluffs and the nearby street is quiet—great for practice. The gate is padlocked, but around back there's a place in the fence wide enough to shimmy through. The court itself is in terrible shape. Weeds grow out of its cracked surface. The windscreen is all but ripped off. I don't mind, though. It's the only court within walking distance.
Yesterday I rigged the sagging net with duct tape and heavy string to get it back to the regulation three feet. The right net height is important when I practice serves.
My parents don't want me out after dark because they're afraid I'll get kidnapped or something. My brothers, Michael and Brad, are supposed to walk me to the court at seven-thirty, then walk me home around nine-thirty. This thrills them in a way I can't express. The idea (my mom's) was that they'd ride bikes or play street hockey with their friends outside the court while I practiced. That's not what happens, though. They ditch me the minute the court is in sight and don't return until well after dark.
Protecting me is not high on my brothers’ list of priorities. But I never tell on them—I prefer to practice alone.
I usually warm up by hitting against the backboard. Then I move on to serves. At dusk they're precise. By the time darkness rests on the court I'm close to perfection. The wobbling court light still works. It flickers on automatically, causing my body to cast a huge, ominous shadow. I look eight feet tall. An Amazon armed with a racquet.
I practice half my serves with my eyes closed. Coach taught me how. Serving blind allows me to feel the serve instead of thinking the serve. Makes me trust myself rather than trying to bargain the ball inside the lines. Trent says there's no bargaining in tennis, only trust. His voice is inside my head guiding me as I hit each shot.
… take it on the rise…
… hustle, hustle…
… extend racquet…
… chip and charge, chip and charge…
I step to the baseline and look across the barren court. I see myself as Trent sees me; I am a warrior who hurls Penn balls over the net and crushes the bones of my weaker opponent. In the darkness each move I make is larger, bigger, more. Every shuffle of feet and turn of shoulder echoes of glory. The Penn balls throb with beauty.
I love this game.
Mentally, I let go of the barriers of my limits until I think of nothing. A blank head is where perfection rests. It's how I hear Coach's voice. It's how I get in the zone.
… thump…
… thump…
Stepping outside my flesh, I wait for each flawless hit to perfect me. Here I am not someone's little sister. Not someone's daughter. Not someone's friend. This game beckons me—chooses me. I am a warrior. An Amazon. I am beautiful. And I play to win.
I place my tennis shoes an inch from the baseline. Holding a ball and racquet, my hands are side by side. Slowly I separate them. As the ball floats upward, I move my racquet back. In one seamless motion my feet leave the ground and I force the strings to make contact with the yellow ball. My entire body, every cell in my body, hits the ball and brings it to life as it crosses the net.
… thump…
I open my eyes to see if it was positioned in the service court the way I intended. It was.
That's my typical practice: focused, intense, exhilarating.
But today as I unloaded my gear, the court looked amiss, as if it'd doubled in size. I wasn't sure why, but I felt different, too, like I'd shrunk a few inches. No matter. All I had to do was step to the baseline and invite the excellence in. I'd done it a million times. Racquet in my grip, I let the calm pour over me like water. Squeezing a Penn ball in my left hand, I made my muscles contract in sync with my heartbeat. I waited for Trent's voice to bubble up from my guts and into my head to guide my shots.
Hmmm … I couldn't hear him for some reason. I stopped squeezing the ball. And waited. I quieted my breathing. And waited. Still, my guts weren't bubbling. Hmmm. I closed my eyes, bowed my head slightly, listening … listening … I felt a light rumble, mumble, in my belly. It was Coach's voice, finally, but the volume was so low I couldn't decipher his commands. Hmmm.
I bounced up and down, waking my feet. Quickly I tossed the ball and slammed my racquet into it. Out. Anyone can mishit. No big deal.
Again. Toss. Slam th
e ball. Out.
Come on, Hall, I told myself. If s a serve to no one. Get it right!
Again. Toss. Racquet back. Extend racquet. Hit it lightly. Nice and easy. Can't miss this one.
But I did.
Trent's voice is a part of my game. Makes me win. My guts churned, writhed, twisted. I felt light-headed.
“Trent?” I said weakly.
Fear exploded in my belly. The court spun around and around. Bile backed up in my throat. Dropping to the court, I put my palms on the green surface, hoping to regain balance. Suddenly the thought of Bickford Tennis Academy seized my brain and scared the bejesus out of me.
I tried shaking it off. Maybe I was sick. Maybe I had the flu or food poisoning. Damn ham sandwich.
“Trent?” I said softly. The small mumble of his voice ceased altogether, choked by my fear.
I shoved my gear into my bag, sat with my back against the fence, and waited for Michael and Brad. I knew I couldn't tell anyone about this. If I did, it'd probably freak them out big-time.
Eve Jensen's house is two blocks away, an easy jog downhill. It's a redbrick house landscaped with an aspen tree and barrels of spring flowers, identical to the rest of the houses along Wynkoop Drive.
Eve's parents are divorced, and with just her and her mom living there, her house is filled with lace curtains, flowery comforters, and rose potpourri. Void of sports equipment, dirty socks, and ESPN, it's nothing like my house. Her mom works, so we have the house to ourselves five days a week.
Eve Jensen has been my best friend since our first day of kindergarten. We just hit it off. We're complete opposites, though. With her sturdy frame, blond hair, and eyes the color of the sky, she looks like an export from Norway. Aside from her light coloring, her face is largely about her nose and its four freckles, which she detests. My hair is the color of mud, as are my eyes. I'm tall but thin. My mom calls me a wisp of a girl.
Melissa opened the screen door. “Hey, Hall, what took you so long? Eve's making cookies.”
“I got here as soon as I—oh no …”
Melissa took a handful of cookie dough and smeared it down my bare arm, slightly petrified of the retaliation she'd face.
“Want some?” she taunted innocently.
Sometimes we made cookies the normal way—with an oven—and sometimes we didn't. The batter was inexplicably better than the baked cookie. I scraped dough from my arm, kneading it, deciding who to ambush. Inside, doubled over with laughter, Eve was an easy target.
“Think it's funny, do you?” I lunged toward her.
“No, no, nooo …” She tried to run.
“Ha!” I slapped a generous helping on the back of her sunburned neck. “Got you!”
But Eve quickly held her hand out, knowing I'd back into it, and coated my leg with mush. “Agg!”
Eve got hysterical with laughter. Hyena screeches echoed through the kitchen.
I nodded to Melissa. I started chanting, “Attack, attack, attack!”
“Attack, attack, attack!” Melissa joined in.
I emptied the bowl of cookie dough. Grinning, with two handfuls of ammunition, I took revenge. Eve backed up, cornered by the couch.
“No, no!” she wailed. “Stop!”
Her cries were in vain. Melissa fell to the floor, face purple with laughter, grateful it wasn't her. Eve responded as if tortured. “I'm gonna pee, I'm gonna pee!”
It was a popular phrase for Eve whenever things got tense. I considered it an accomplishment any time I managed to squeeze those three words out of her.
“I'm gonna pee … I'm gonna pee!” she screeched.
I wished for the moment she would lose control and spontaneously pee. That'd be a riot. She hadn't yet, but there was always hope.
I was both sucking some cookie batter from my thumb and dislodging a chocolate chip from my thigh when Polly bounded through Eve's screen door.
“You made cookies without me?” she said, surveying the damage. “No fair. Chocolate chip is my favorite.”
“Sorry,” Melissa said. “Maybe next time.”
Polly nodded. “That's what I get for being late. Oh, guess who rode past me on their bikes.”
“Who?” Eve asked.
“That guy you all love, Luke Kimberlin, and his friend, urn, that Bruce Weissman guy.”
Luke Kimberlin was the Greek god our thirteen-year-old existence revolved around. Polly had been sufficiently filled in on the saga.
“They did not,” I said.
“Oh yes they did,” Polly sang. “I saw them.”
“Did Luke talk to you?” I asked.
“No,” Polly said, “but he almost looked my way.”
“Almost doesn't count,” Eve said, touching the end of her nose, covering three out of four freckles.
“Where does he go to school again?” Polly asked.
“Westland Prep. It's a fancy private school,” I said. “So Luke is gorgeous, smart, and rich.”
“He got suspended from Westland last month for spraying cans of whipped cream onto the vice principal's new car. It stained the paint,” Eve said.
Polly fluffed up her bangs and pushed them out of the way. “He did not. “
“Yes he did,” I said.
“Now I'm hungry for an ice cream sundae,” Melissa announced. “With whipped cream.”
We burst out laughing.
Polly looked enviously at the cookie dough I ate. “Really, you should've waited for me,” she moaned, still upset.
Melissa scraped some spare dough from the bowl and smeared it on Polly's arm. “There you go,” she said.
As we gathered in Eve's kitchen, Polly turned to me and asked the question that everyone eventually asks. “What's your real name?”
“Hall is my real name,” I sighed. “Actually, Holloway.”
“Holloway Louise Braxton,” Eve helped.
“Everybody calls me Hall.”
“Hall,” Polly said, like I was a thing, not a person.
“You know, kitchen … living room … hall.”
“It's a family name,” Eve said in my defense.
Polly winced lightly. “I like it,” she lied.
“You don't have to like it. Sometimes it even gives me a headache, and it's my name,” I said, yawning.
“Her name should be Foghorn, she snores so loud,” Eve said.
Polly laughed. “Maren snores so loud her boyfriend has nightmares of a train running him over. He's got sensitive ears. Last week my brother, Teddy, and I had the TV on so low we practically had to read David Letter-man's lips and it still woke him.”
“Who is Maren?” I asked.
“My mom,” Polly said. “Somehow ‘Mom’ doesn't fit her.”
“How long has your mom been dating the guy?” Eve asked.
“Since New Year's. Maren was at a party, and Pete— that's his name—Pete spilled punch on her shoes. When midnight came around he said the least he could do was kiss her. Isn't that romantic?” Polly gushed.
“Enough chitchat,” Eve said. “Are we bike riding or what?”
It was no surprise that while I still had hunks of dough on me, Eve looked freshly scrubbed. She did everything fast: walking, eating, sucking cookie dough from her elbow. She liked being first.
“It's two o'clock,” Polly said. “Gotta go to math camp. Sorry.”
“We'll walk you,” I said.
Eve groaned.
We escorted Polly three blocks to the decrepit bus stop. Eve kept our pace brisk, walking a half step ahead while attempting to rub the freckles off her nose.
Polly offered us a weak smile as she scaled the bus steps, as if it was OK she had to spend her summer doing math problems while we remained free. Could anything be worse? She was a good actress; I had to admit it. She tapped the window, saying goodbye.
Once the bus pulled away the dissection began. Polly was our newest friend; her peculiarities were fair game.
“She calls her mom Maren?” Eve said, wiping sweat from her brow. “What is s
he, thirty-five?”
“That's nothing,” Melissa said. “I was at her house yesterday. Her mom said the f-word, like, five times.”
“Her mom?” I asked.
“Her mom,” Melissa said, “said that and a whole lot more.” We'd reached Melissa's driveway. She stopped. “I can't ride bikes, either. Got a piano lesson.”
“See you later, then,” Eve said.
“Bye,” Melissa called, and cut across her lawn.
I felt I was in a race—one I hadn't agreed to participate in. This was often my feeling with Eve and bikes. If she walked a half step ahead, she biked a full wheel ahead. She liked speed. Still, riding bikes was my favorite part of our friendship. We didn't have to talk all the time.
We rode in sweeping circles, spiraling under the sun. “We've got to find some shade—I'm cooking on this asphalt. How about the horse stables? That whole street has tree shade,” she said.
She'd taken horseback-riding lessons there last summer and liked biking there ever since.
“Go for it,” I said.
Eve sprinted out in front, face against the hot breeze. I let her lead the way; I didn't have a choice. If I led, she pedaled so fast her front tire continually bumped my rear wheel, causing her to apologize for twenty blocks.
Despite her natural agression, Eve disliked any kind of organized sports. A bike ride was one thing, but actual games with rules and regulations bored her immensely. That, more than anything else, was the reason she was my best friend. She cared nothing about my tennis game. Because she never asked about it, I was able to get away from it completely when I was with her. She was my one respite, oasis, haven from the sport.
I wondered if my former doubles partner, Janie, would've kept her sanity if she had a friend like Eve.
We rode for nearly two miles. She stopped under the first oak tree in a row of twenty, near the dirt entrance of the stables. I raised my hair off the back of my neck, fanned my face.
“So,” Eve said, “now that Melissa isn't here … What do you really think of Polly?”
“I like her. Don't you?”
She shrugged. “She's OK, I guess. Nothing special.”
Open Court Page 2
