“I don't give a crap what Polly does,” she said flatly.
“Then why are you trying to steal Bruce from her?”
Her jaw dropped. Disgust flooded her pale features. “Since when do I need Polly's permission to like someone? Or yours?”
“You and I have seen Luke and Bruce around the neighborhood for, like, over a year. You never once mentioned that you liked Bruce until you saw Polly talking to him that night on Naples Drive. You don't find that bizarre?”
The rims of her eyes turned pink like she might cry. Eve never cried. She was truly hurt. That killed me. I hadn't really meant to pick a fight.
“I liked him way before that,” she said. “I'm sick of bike riding. I'm going home,” she announced.
“Wait,” I pleaded.
“What?”
“I'll talk to Luke,” I offered, forcing the words from my mouth. “Maybe Bruce does like you.” What was I saying? I'd swallowed all common sense. “I'll ask Luke about it next time I see him. I promise.”
Eve softened. She nodded a little. “OK,” she said, her eyes returning to their normal color. “Yeah, ask Luke.”
She calmly turned her bike around.
“Eve, do you actually like him?”
“I just said I did,” she said, and took off, back the way we'd come, first, first, always first, expecting me to follow. I couldn't blame her for being upset. I'd neglected Eve for weeks; she only just now made the connection. Eve's distress seemed more about Polly than Bruce. But did Eve dislike Polly because I liked her first, or because I liked her at all?
Days later, I found a note in my tennis bag at the country club. It said: Holloway meet me in your yard at ten tonight. Don't get caught. Luke.
My obsession, like a pigeon, had come home to roost.
It was inexplicably easy to sneak out of my house. I took a bunch of dramatic precautions anyway: yawned, rubbed my eyes, told my family (like they cared) I was gonna turn in early. When the moment arrived, my parents were in bed and my brothers were comatose in front of the blaring TV. I could've had a double life as a burglar; no one would've noticed.
I eased the back door open. Luke stood in the middle of the deck, waiting. In plain view. The deck light shining on him! Fear was a fist squeezing my heart. Was he stupid?
“Are you crazy? What are you doing?”
“Hi,” he said.
“Shh!”
He grabbed my hand and we crept into the cool night air. Luke holding my hand was like me serving an ace: I knew it was a possibility, but it still thrilled me when it happened. The fragrance of mowed lawns filled our nostrils.
When we reached the entrance to Naples Drive Luke got quiet, whispering his words, the nearness of his own house making him cautious. “Holloway … I like that name … Holloway.”
“Only ‘cause you don't have to live with it.”
“Sounds like an actress. You could win an Oscar with a name like that.”
I chuckled. “Thanks. I mean—I'd like to thank the Academy …” But the only academy edging into my future was the tennis kind.
“My sister, Stacey, is watching our neighbors’ house. They're in Europe for the whole summer—”
“Your sister's name is Stacey? Stacey Kimberlin?”
“The one and only.”
“My brothers are in love with your sister. All their friends are, too.”
“Everybody loves Stacey,” the Greek God stated. “She's got a boyfriend; she's only seventeen, but he's a freshman in college. Anyway, she's watching our neighbors’ house for the summer, and I know where she hides the key. That's where we're going.”
“Cool.”
When Luke mentioned scaling the wall he wasn't kidding. We reached the gate north of his and scanned the premises like deviants, watching for headlights.
“You first.” He knelt down, intertwining his fingers to make a human step. I stepped in, resting my hand on his head until I got my balance. I propelled myself, skinning my wrist on the wall.
Oh no. Not my wrist. I needed my wrist to serve, to hit overheads, to hit anything. The Cherry Creek Invitational was tomorrow. Injure anything but my wrist—my thigh, my back, my neck … not my wrist! I checked it for blood. There wasn't any. It'd be OK. It would have to be.
“Don't worry,” Luke said as he shoved me over, his hands on my butt, “they don't have dogs.”
The drop was a good six feet. My grip slipped. “Oh crap.” My ankles hit the ground and buckled, making me topple over. I stayed in the grass, resting my hands on the cool earth, wondering if I was hurt. “Ouch!”
“Quiet!” he warned from the other side of the wall.
My ankle. One of them. The left one. Was it tender or twisted? Tender or broken? Tender or beyond repair? I moved it around in circles. The muscles loosened. Just tender. Only tender. Be fine by tomorrow. In good shape for the tournament. Thank God for tender.
“Do you need help?” I asked.
“No, I got it, watch out,” he whispered. He fell into the grass beside me.
We picked ourselves up off the ground. The estate was flawless, with a lawn the size of a football field. Rows of tiny cone-shaped trees aligned themselves along the driveway. The porch light was a beacon.
I said something incredibly intelligent, like, “Wow. That's the house? What if they have an alarm system?”
“Shh!” he ordered. “Someone might hear.”
I trailed Luke through a garden to the indoor pool, attatched to the main house. I tried to see the Greek God's house, without luck; the stucco walls were too high.
“Come on, Holloway.”
“I can't see you, it's so dark.”
“I'm right here.” He waved his hand. I felt him fanning air at me more than I could see his fingers.
At the base of the pool house's French doors lay a welcome mat. Kneeling down, Luke slid his hand underneath it, scraping the pulp of his fingertips along the flagstone until we heard a slight ping. Smiling, he held the key close to my face so I could witness the glory. Presto, we were in. It was that simple.
The pool's tile was dark, making the water look deep blue, like a lagoon. We kept the lights low so as not to be discovered. “Nice, huh?” Luke said.
“Yeah. Are you sure we won't—”
“Shh!”
My heart inflated. I wasn't that nervous around Luke particularly—but I definitely was about our circumstances. This element of danger, this click of peril fizzed inside me. If the owners of the house came back early, like right now, could I run fast enough to get away?
A slight cracking noise progressed across the room. We stopped cold. “What's that?” I asked.
“Shh.”
“Let's go, Luke. Please.”
He grabbed hold of my arm to keep me from bolting out the door.
“Luke—”
“Anybody there?” he said.
No response. Anybody there? What deranged killer would be polite enough to respond to that question?
“Luke, please.”
“Shh! Wait a sec.”
I backed up, positioning myself to run. “Are they home?” I asked.
“No, look.” Luke pointed at the many long windows. “The wind,” he said. “It's just the wind.” The moonlight proved him right: the leaves of aspen trees danced like clumsy ballerinas in the breeze, smacking against the windowpanes.
I exhaled, “Yes, wind.”
“Want to swim?” Luke asked, happy now.
“No suit.” I couldn't jump in with all my clothes on. If I had to walk home in sopping wet clothes I'd probably catch pneumonia and die in the middle of the night. I'd fail to show up at the Cherry Creek tournament in the morning. Coach would come looking for me. Stand over my deathbed. Raise me from the dead. Make me run sprints. And then kill me himself for my complete irresponsibility.
Still, I wanted to be here. With Luke.
“I guess I could leave my T-shirt on. And take off my shorts … but you cant look,” I said.
“Ill get stuff to eat.” He passed the wicker furniture at the far end of the room and disappeared into the main house's kitchen.
I shimmied out of my shorts. Crap—I was wearing ratty old Christmas underwear. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer covered the waistband. Half of my butt hung out the back. I made a mental note to throw them away when I got home.
I dipped a toe in the water. It was frigid; I'd have to jump in or I'd lose my nerve. Closing my eyes, I took a leap. Water struck my skin like a thousand needles. I was frozen but relieved: once I was in, the water was dark enough that I couldn't see anything but water. I wouldn't have to explain my stupid underwear to Luke.
I wasn't sure why Luke had brought me here, but I hoped we were going to kiss again. It would officially be kiss number 2. I was keeping count. I had a great need for more kissing. I didn't quite have the hang of it yet.
“Are you in?” Luke called. That was polite of him—to ask instead of vying for a glance at my butt.
“Yeah,” I called.
The Greek God entered, arms piled with a box of powdered-sugar doughnuts and cold sodas. I felt a pang for Melissa, being surrounded by the great snacks and all. “Want to eat now?” he asked.
“In a minute.”
He set our feast on a wooden table, flung off his shirt, left his shorts on, and did a backflip into the pool, splashing me.
“Are you surprised?” he asked when he came up for air.
“Definitely surprised.”
“Can't tell anyone. Stacey will freak if she knows we're here. I'll be grounded forever.”
“I won't tell,” I said. “Hey, can I ask you something that's none of my business?”
“Go for it.”
“Did you really put whipped cream on the vice principal's car at Westland?”
A mouthful of water choked him. “How'd you know?”
“It's a rumor going around.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Actually, me and two other friends. But they didn't get caught, and I didn't want to tell on them. It wasn't even my idea,” he said in his own defense. “It was stupid. His car was in the teachers’ parking lot when we did it.”
I, moved my legs up and down, marching underwater. The water felt like ice cubes. My body tensed up. My ankle had stopped aching, though. No tenderness, even. Too frozen to feel pain. “It was stupid because his car was in the teachers’ parking lot or because you did it at all?”
He raised his head, like he hadn't given it that much thought. “Both, I guess.”
“So you got suspended, not expelled, right? You're still going to Westland next year?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, making a face. “It's a tough school. There's so much homework it's hard to keep up sometimes.”
“Hmmm.”
We made our way into the deep end. I hung on to the edge of the pool with numb fingers. I was relieved he wasn't an actual juvenile delinquent. He was more carefree than troubled.
He got out of the pool, his waterlogged shorts heavy and pulling on his waist, but quickly dove back in as goose bumps formed. “Oh, by the way, Bruce likes Polly,” he said, surfacing, treading water.
Ugh. I'd almost forgotten my promise to Eve. “Are you sure? Eve sort of has a crush on him,” I humbly said.
“Who's Eve?”
“The blond girl you met when we saw you that night. Blue eyes. Pale skin. Looks Norwegian. Super nice.”
“Well, he likes Polly.”
“Maybe he could like Eve instead,” I said, and then laughed at myself. What a stupid thing to say.
Luke grinned, noting the absurdity. “He likes Polly. In fact, he went to the movies with her this afternoon.”
“He did?” I'd definitely have to call Polly and get the gossip. I wondered why she hadn't called me, but I'd been in and out all day—to the club and the practice court—and my brothers weren't the best at giving me messages. I was both delighted for Polly and sad for Eve. But Eve couldn't accuse me of not trying. I'd told her I'd ask about it, and I had.
Luke swam to me and held on to the edge, his hand touching mine. Kissing was bound to happen. I wiped chlorine water from my lips.
He leaned toward me.
“So tell me about your trophies,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Your tennis trophies. You've got, like, seven in that case at the club.”
“You counted them?”
He nodded and moved his hand so it no longer touched mine. He looked at our awaiting snacks, solemn. “I used to be on the chess team at Westland. I was the captain. I was good. We went to state one year. We won.”
What was he getting at? Who cared about trophies? My lips were officially numb from this freezing water. Kiss me! “So you have trophies?” I asked.
“Had,” he admitted. “I quit the team. My friends made fun of me. Called me a chess wuss. Even Bruce. It's not cool to be on the chess team,” he said, still not looking at me.
Apparently, this was a big box of pain to Luke and he'd chosen me as his confessional.
“You should play chess if you want to. If Bruce is your best friend, he'll understand, right?” I said. I thought about Eve. She'd never understood my tennis. She'd never been supportive. Who was I to give advice?
Luke got silent. Looked at me. “Maybe.”
“No, really. You could make it cool. Especially if you win.”
He laughed at that. “Well, you should know about winning,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess.” I was suddenly depressed. I'd be lucky to get five hours of sleep before the first match of my tournament tomorrow. I didn't want to face that tournament on eight hours of sleep, much less five. I shouldn't have come here. I let myself fall into the water and come back up. I swear my earlobes had icicles hanging off them. The water-laden walk home wasn't going to be fun.
“Bruce and I will be at the club tomorrow. Will you?” Luke asked.
“No, I have a tournament in Denver all week. The Cherry Creek Invitational.”
He looked blank.
“I'm supposed to win it. I won it last year.”
He leaned in and kissed my purple numb lips. Quick. No tongue. I'd risked pneumonia for that kiss.
“Good luck,” he said, and then proclaimed, “race you!” He took off across the pool, navy blue water splashing every which way. I probably could've beaten him, but my green T-shirt was full of water and weighed me down like an anchor.
I knew what I had to do.
I heaved myself out of the pool, quickly grabbed my shorts, and yanked them on while water drained off my body as if I was a faucet.
Luke reached the opposite edge and looked around, expecting me by his side. He turned in the water and faced me, confused. My pruney feet shivered in a puddle of water. My shorts were already drenched and sticking to my legs.
“What are you doing?” Luke asked.
“I gotta go,” I called across the water.
“Right now?” he said.
“Yeah, I have to be up at five a.m. to drive to Denver. Sorry,” I said, and squeezed a bucketful of water out of my hair.
Forget walking home—I planned on running.
Expectations kill tennis players. Happens all the time. Expectations rob the player of joy. A game? Who says this is a game? This is no game. High expectations turn the joy into pressure. The pressure festers and causes doubt, fear, causes a player to choke—to horribly lose a match she could've easily won. Expectations. Slow suffocation. Expectations laugh. Giggle. They mock me.
I win against a better player. Relief for a day. Only a day. Then pressure. Never lose to that player again. What's the problem? Go up in the rankings, not down. At any cost. No matter the cost. What is the cost? I will pay anything. Pay an arm? Leg? My soul?
Expectations come to steal my soul. Expectations shove their fist down my throat and tear out my soul. I give it gladly. Try to appease. Ask for rain. I will be soulless and not complain.
Expectations curse the core of me. Feel them in my bones. They are
my bones. Gnawing on my joints. Cracking into splinters. Sucking out the marrow. Broken bones ground to powder.
The catch? Yes, the catch! Expectations are never pleased. Fulfill expectations and the expectations rise. Refuse to be satisfied. They want more. More wins. Trophies. More Holloway Braxton, goddess of the tennis world. Pay more. Be more. Suffer more. Claw my way to be ranked in the top four. Only four? What's the matter? Why not three, two, one? Won. She won, didn't she? Wasn't this supposed to be fun?
The Cherry Creek Invitational is a six-day tournament with players from Colorado and the surrounding states participating. My mom drove me to Denver the first two days. I went without protest, but things were definitely wrong. Very wrong. I was making obvious mistakes. A missed serve here, a long return there—it adds up. The sum of it is losing.
As my mom watched proudly in the stands (proudly—gag!), I beat my opponents, but with tremendous effort. The scores were 6-4, 7-6 … I choked. Big-time.
On the third, fourth, and fifth days, Trent and his wife, Annie, drove me. I hoped having Trent close to me would spark my mind to its former ease. It didn't. Each match, against girls I'd beaten many times before, was a war. During changeovers, I gulped water like a fish. My feet were lead. This easy tournament was dismantling me.
Trent was clueless. He was so used to me winning that he and Annie skipped my matches in order to hobnob with other coaches and spouses. I knew he hadn't been watching because he was congratulating me on my wins.
On the day of the final we were driving on Highway 25 north to Cherry Creek. It was 6:30 a.m., the air outside was clear and dewy, the sun not yet bright.
I stared at the back of Coach's head: it was smooth like a river rock. That comforted me. Soothed my nerves. I've spent weeks of my life, months probably, staring at his head on the way to tournaments, and he's none the wiser. I don't want to suck at this game. I want to win, only win, and stare at the back of his head and be comforted.
Energy always encompasses Coach on the way to a tournament. He's electric. Full of cheer. My theory is that sometime in his early life Trent wanted to be a player rather than a coach. Maybe in the car he believes he's the player—that's why all the cheer. His cheer is a fact rather than an emotion. The hulking relentless man is not emotional. I found myself wishing I could touch my fingers to his temple and capture the cheer. I wondered if it could be held in the palm of my hand as if it was a bird or a penny.
Open Court Page 8
