“That's what I'm saying. I'll ice it when I get home.”
“Ice?” he said, disbelieving. He ran his finger over it, his touch full of fear. It was a toe, not a bomb. I'd never seen him like this. Maybe he'd been in the sun too long and was delirious from the heat.
I removed my toe from his gentle grasp. “I'll ice it.”
“Can you walk?”
“Walk? Hello? Been running after tennis balls for half an hour, Coach.”
“Could be broken.” My six-foot-three, 220-pound tennis coach looked to the heavens for help. “Broken, “ he said, gasping.
“It's not broken. I swear.”
“The Cherry Creek Invitational is coming up. You'll be a sitting duck!”
“It's not broken,” Why all the fuss? I played injured all the time. Once when my elbow was the size of a grapefruit, even.
“Wiggle it,” he screamed.
I wiggled. It wiggled fine.
“It's not broken,” I said for the third time.
Holding my bloody sock in one hand and my sweaty shoe in the other, I hobbled to a poolside table, squinting in the hazy afternoon sun. Compassion got the best of Trent; he cut practice short and bought us glasses of iced tea. He sat with me while I waited for my ride home.
“Well practice an extra hour tomorrow. What a hassle. Braxton, next time put some shoes on or watch where you're going. Trying to give a man a heart attack or what?”
“It'll be fine.”
“I talked to Janie yesterday,” Trent said softly, changing the subject from the pain of my toe to the pain of Janie's mind.
My heart sort of sank. “How's she doing?”
“She's getting better. I don't think she'll be coming home right away. They're trying to find the right medication for her.”
“Oh,” I said.
In addition to being my doubles partner, Janie was my fiercest competition and the only close friend I'd made in all my years on the junior tennis circuit. Trent used to be her coach, too.
She'd trained with Trent for eight months. Eight months of fun, as far as I was concerned. Janie was a goofball, an expert at cracking dumb jokes. She lived, breathed, and slept tennis. On court her apt skills kept me hustling. But tennis aside, the girl hated, and I mean hated, her dad.
There are two kinds of tennis parents: the kind I have, encouraging but semi-removed (until lately, that is), and the kind Janie Alessandro had, demanding and mean. Janie Alessandro's father was the scariest tennis parent I've ever seen, and I've seen them all. He screamed constantly. Red-faced. Vein at his temple surging. Ugly eyes bulging. He shouted insults at Janie for minor tennis infractions. It was humiliating.
Trent banned him from practices, claiming Janie's father was “detrimental to her ability to succeed.” He couldn't ban him from tournaments, though. No father, after spending all that cash, skips the tournaments.
“Know what I hate about tennis?” Janie would ask, her voice like a songbird's.
“What?”
“My dad.”
“Understandable. “
Her brow would crinkle. “My brain is gonna explode. I think I'm getting an ulcer.”
“Hang in there,” I'd say. “It'll be OK.”
She'd be eased, her tension softened. “Know what I like about tennis?”
“What?”
“I've got the strokes,” she'd say. “I especially like it that one day I'm going to be ranked higher than you—”
“Not likely.”
“—be better than you, leave your butt in the dust.”
“Yeah, right. I'm ranked number four, Janie darling. Four! You're what, seventeenth now?”
“Seventh, excuse you. And quickly rising.”
“Wow, I'm scared.”
“You will be.”
The USTA National Open Girls 14's in Utah last month was where it all went down. Neither Janie's parents nor mine could make the trip, so Trent and his wife, Annie, drove us. I'd just won my semifinal match and settled into the stands, Trent on one side of me, Annie on the other, to watch Janie grind out her semifinal. Her opponent, Caitlin Stark, was a wily player, but Janie had won their last match.
I always rooted for Janie, but more so that day because if she prevailed, we'd face each other in the final. I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather battle for a trophy.
And then I saw him, Janie Alessandro's father, standing courtside like a stalker, watching Janie serve.
“Oh no,” I'd said, pointing. “Coach, look!”
Just then the lineswoman made a bad call in Caitlin's favor. Janie's maniac father leapt onto the court and threatened to slap the lineswoman. All hell broke loose, as one could expect. Out of nowhere, Caitlin's parents and outraged spectators rushed the court as well, yelling and shoving. The umpire was frantic.
Trent said something like, “Now he's done it, the bastard.” Tournament security started arresting people. Standing in the middle of the chaos, Janie somehow got punched in the jaw. No one to this day knows who did it.
When the melee settled, Janie was found passed out cold on the service line, her hand still expertly gripping her racquet. Trent had to carry her off the court. When she finally came to, she wasn't Janie Alessandro any-more. Tennis pressure had turned her into a basket case. Babbling incoherently, she was unable to make eye contact with Trent, or anyone else. She lost her edge, I guess, along with her mind.
She's housed in a “special care” hospital called Well-springs Mental Health Facility—a loony bin. Janie Alessandro is now a cautionary tale to tennis parents everywhere.
It's happened before—fierce, talented girls dropping off the circuit suddenly, never to be heard from again. I always figured they were flawed in some way. Weak. But I knew Janie; heck, that girl could play. If it could happen to Janie Alessandro, it could happen to anyone.
It could happen to me.
I didn't want to go to practice after the Janie fiasco, but Coach made me—said I should take out my frustrations on court, that it would help. It hadn't yet. But I didn't want to tell him that, because then he'd keep talking about her even more than he already did. The only way I knew how to deal with what happened to Janie was to not think about her. But I was struggling; lately, Polly's similar personality kept Janie on my mind.
“Janie asked about you. She's curious to know why you haven't gone to see her. Why haven't you?”
My voice wobbled. “I don't know.”
That was a lie. I did know. What happened to her scared the crap out of me, and I didn't want to see her.
Oddly, I didn't think about Janie when I was on court. It came in small slices, usually when I was alone: the throaty cackle of her laugh, or the baby-blue shoestrings on her tennis shoes, or the image of her pained face dropping to that Utah court popped into my head.
“But you said you were going to. I told your mother we had it all worked out,” Coach said.
I shrugged.
Coach sighed. “Janie doesn't have the mental toughness for the game, Hall,” he said. “She didn't do anything wrong; she just doesn't have the head for it.”
Coach had tried convincing me of it before. But it was a lie. That girl was tennis. Tennis balls worshiped her. “I know,” I said, hoping we could stop talking about it.
“Janie isn't like you, Hall. You have the talent and the head. You're tough. She isn't.”
I shrank in my seat. That killed me—Coach disrespecting her like that. Plus, it wasn't true, about my toughness. He didn't know I was fighting to find his once omnipresent voice; he didn't know I needed that voice to win. Lately, I felt I was this close to becoming Janie.
Coach stopped talking for a while. I moved my chair, getting the sun out of my eyes. We'd solved nothing here concerning Janie. He knew it and so did I.
“And another thing,” Coach said, as if suddenly remembering. “I don't want you bringing people to practice, either. You're here to work, not to show off for a bunch of boys.”
“Show off?”
; “I'm not asking. I'm telling.”
“Are you mad at me, Coach?”
“Tennis is an individual sport. And I—”
“He's the finest boy I've ever seen. Except for Roger Fédérer.”
“Hmpf.” Coach's body remained calm, hands relaxed on the table, but his eyes were stricken by my remark. Nostrils flared. A general look of Oh my God settled into his features. As in Oh my God—she's discovered boys.
This shift happened before my eyes. I was no longer a person to Trent, but a player. A valuable prodigy that needed every bone unbroken. Every spare ounce of energy needed to be devoted to hitting a ball over a net, not to boys. Boys were worse than broken toes.
But nothing was worse than Janie Alessandro's broken mind. Coach said nothing more. It was the way he said nothing more that bothered me. I felt I should apologize. But I was afraid to see Janie, and how could I truly be sorry for liking the Greek God?
The doors slid open, welcoming us. They know us here, my mom and me, by name. Employees at Tennis Emporium get a commission on each sale, and for a long time now our salesman, Wesley, who looks like a Ken doll, has had dibs on the commission we generate. We purchase a lot. The commission is high. Wesley loves us. The strain on my mom's face prompts him to give us a straight ten percent discount every time. My mother says he's a “nice boy.”
“Did you remember the list?” my mom asked.
I dug it from my pocket. “I could use some new underwear.”
“Let's concentrate on tennis gear. I don't have time to be running all over town.”
“I wear underwear when I play tennis. I suppose I don't have to, though. Course, if it's breezy and my tennis skirt flies up, it could be quite a spectacle, could be—”
“Fine, we'll stop at Target on the way home. You're full of sass for a girl who didn't empty the dishwasher this morning.”
“Not my turn. Brad's turn.”
“That's what he said about you.”
“Ladies, ladies, hello.”
“Hi, Wes.”
“Hello, Wesley,” my mom said. “Shoes first?”
“Sure thing.”
I walked ahead.
“Have you heard anything about Janie? How's she doing?” Wes called from behind me.
I felt my mom's eyes on the back of my head, hot, burning. I looked straight ahead, pretending I hadn't heard, and stopped at a shoe bench.
“Wesley,” my mom said, “Hall doesn't really want to discuss it. She and her tennis coach are dealing with it.”
Way to go, Mom! I caught her eye. She winked. I exhaled. Answering to Coach about it was one thing; having to answer to Wes wasn't necessary.
“Oh, OK. No problem,” Wes said, having realized his blunder. “Shoes, then …”
He grabbed a pair, lacing them as I took a seat.
“What size is that?” I asked.
“Your size.”
“Ill need a half size bigger. My toes feel too tight in the ones I've been wearing.”
Selecting a different shoe, he laced again. I slid my foot in, making noises so everyone would laugh.
“Ahh … Wilson DST 02, women's size eight. Pure bliss, ladies and gentlemen. Pure bliss.”
“Room enough?”
“Perfect.”
Wes looked to my mom. “Mrs. Braxton?” He referred to her, always, for the quantity because she possessed the credit card.
“Three pair.”
“I only need two,” I said.
Sweaty shoes cause blisters, to which I'm prone. Alternating shoes is important so sweat-soaked shoes have a chance to dry before they're worn again (gross, I know). I don't need three pair. I can make do with two.
“We'll get three.”
“But I only need—”
“Three,” she said to Wes. He headed to the stockroom.
Perfect example of the weird stuff that's been happening. Three pair! I used to have to beg for one new pair, and now she's ponying up for three pair of Wilson DST 02s at ninety-five dollars a pop, willingly. We argue over underwear, but suddenly tennis gear is a necessity, like oxygen or water. It's unsettling.
Tennis is a hugely expensive sport. Coaches, shoes, tournament entry fees—it adds up. Some out-of-state tournaments require plane tickets and hotel stays. Heck, even the gas to get me to the country club my own family can't afford to join costs an easy thousand a year! We scrimp and save any way we can. We never buy three pair!
“What's next?” my mom asked.
“Racquets,” I said.
“Wesley will catch up.”
Prince. Best stick ever. Great for my game. Two hundred bucks apiece, unstrung. Coach will string them for me later. He likes to do it himself, wants it done right. I grabbed two. This isn't negotiable. Have to have racquets. This racquet. Others mess up my game.
As I searched for my racquets my mom moved down the aisle to study rows of thick sport socks.
Wes caught up to me, balancing shoe boxes. “New racquets? I thought you were getting free Prince racquets.”
I shook my head, indicating my mom's ignorance of the matter. We stepped aside. “I am. But I left my club locker unlocked and my bag got hauled off to the lost and found. My racquets weren't in it when I got it back. My fault, really. And I'm not due another shipment of Prince racquets for a month. I thought I had a spare in my room, but turns out that was the one that sort of broke a few weeks ago,” I said.
“Broke? How?” he asked. Wes enjoyed scandals.
“It sort of got slammed into the court after a lousy point. I sort of slammed it.”
Wes made an O with his mouth. “I see.”
“For racquet abuse, Coach made me do laps around the court while singing the theme song from Rocky. You believe that?”
“That was harsh of him.”
“No kidding.”
My mom rejoined us, holding five pair of Thorlo socks. Eleven bucks a pair. “Are we done?”
“I need more blister crap.”
“Don't say ‘crap.’ “
“Blister stuff.”
I gathered Blister Band-Aids, Dr. Scholl's Molefoam, Coban tape, and extra Coban tape since I lose it constantly.
“I'm done.”
“Step right to the register, ladies. Ill get you squared away.”
I prepared myself for the strained look on my mom's face as she handed Wesley her credit card. Never enough money, everything so expensive. A good stick costs two hundred dollars. It's no one's fault. She knows this. I know this. My talent requires equipment; the equipment costs money. So I braced myself for the strain, except this time it wasn't there. A hint of something else rested on her face … it was hope, I think. I'm pretty sure it was hope.
I walked down the street, finding Polly loitering on the barren curb in front of Eve's house. She drank what looked like lemonade out of a clear plastic pitcher. Her lips were bright orange with lip gloss. It made me want to laugh. “What are you sitting out here for? Eve gone?”
She motioned to the opened garage door. “You'll see.”
I ambled up the driveway just as Eve came out of the garage. “Hey,” she said. “I just tried to call you. My mom and I are going to the Castle Rock outlet mall. So I can't hang out. Sorry.”
Her mom stepped out of the house, digging through her purse, getting into their car. Eve glanced back, knowing she had to go.
Now was as good a time as any. I pulled out the crumpled, cola-stained cup from my pocket and held it up. “Guess what this is.”
Eve shrugged impatiently. “A piece of trash?”
“Luke Kimberlin,” I proclaimed, “drank from this cup! My cup. He watched me practice at the club!”
That got her attention. “Really? Cool. Has he called you?”
“Well, no. Should he have?”
“When are you gonna see him again?” she asked, wanting something solid.
“Maybe at the club.”
“When is that gonna be?” she pressed.
I expected celebration, not
an interrogation. “Eve, you don't get it—Luke talked to me on purpose. It's a big deal.”
Brake lights pulsed red as Eve's mom backed out. We stepped to the grass. Polly hadn't moved from the curb. Eve's eyes darted toward the car, preoccupied.
“But you don't know if he likes you. He only watched you play tennis. That doesn't mean—”
“Eve—”
Her mom beeped the horn. Eve edged away. “I gotta go. We're meeting my aunt up there. It's an hour drive. Tell me about Luke later, OK?”
“Sure,” I said, feeling drowned.
As Eve drove away, Polly walked over, orange lips blazing. “Told you,” she said. “Want some lemonade?”
I handed her my used Diet Coke cup. “Guess what this is,” I said.
With no other shade in sight, we trudged across the blacktop of the nearby grade school, our steps clumsy in the swelling afternoon heat. The playground was deserted save for a few boys riding bikes in the dirt. We situated ourselves under the shade of an awning. Polly was genuinely interested, and I was grateful.
“Luke Kimberlin!” she said, riled up. “I can't believe you didn't tell me before. Luke Kimberlin … wow … this is exactly what you wanted!”
I know it was silly, but hearing his name made me happy. I shook myself out of my own little world and glanced at my watch. “Hey, Polly, aren't you supposed to be at math camp today? Like right now?”
She smacked her orange lips defiantly. “I'm supposed to be a genius, too, and I'm not that, either.”
“You ditched?” I asked, astonished.
“Math camp blows.”
“I bet.”
“Sucks to have math homework in June. Besides, it's not like I'm stupid. But A's aren't good enough, I've got to get A-pluses. Maren wants me to be a chemist like her. I can't do that being average. I've got to be exceptional. Do I look like I want to be a chemist?” she asked, hugging the nearly empty plastic pitcher.
“No.”
She sighed. “I've been to work with Maren. It sucked.”
I felt the need to hug her or something, but she didn't look like she wanted a hug. Looked more like she wanted to punch someone.
Open Court Page 4
