Open Court

by Carol Clippinger

  Lively jabber filled Stacey's car. “I'm freaking out … Driving around … We're already an hour late … The car runs out of gas … My cell phone's battery is dead … Have to walk …”

  BMWs really are driving machines, just like the ad claims. They corner well. Travel at top speed. I wouldn't have known we were doing fifty in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone had I not been looking at the speedometer. Stacey Kimberlin, goddess, sister of Luke, was the worst driver ever. She would need that pretty face of hers to thwart many traffic tickets. Already she'd cut off two drivers and didn't even say whoops.

  Stacey was chirpy. Spastic. All sorts of cutesy tales were flying out of her mouth. The girl was a Rolodex of unimportant stories. Occasionally I've wished I was as dumb as a chirpy girl like Stacey, but I'm not. I rarely rattle off cute stories to people I don't know.

  “… I go to the gas station for help, and there's Bran-don!” she said, as if we cared.

  Luke glanced at me, rolling his eyes at Stacey's tirade. Bruce sighed heavily, looking out the window. Polly and I got the giggles.

  Oblivious, Stacey stared at me from the rearview mirror. “I know your brothers,” she said. “Mark and Ben, right?”

  I bit my tongue. “Michael and Brad.”

  “That's right,” she said as she sped through a yellow light. She possessed the same flawless forehead as Luke.

  “They're in love with you,” I said.

  “Isn't that sweet. How cute!” She was already turning my comment into some bit of whimsy to tell her friends. I was sorry I'd said anything.

  “Yes, it's very cute,” I said. “Adorable.”

  We survived the car ride, barely, and ventured into the splendor of the country club. I was here as an actual guest—experiencing the club as one of the pretend wealthy instead of by the sweat of my brow and near-great backhand. My stomach churned. I wasn't supposed to be having fun; I was supposed to be packing for Florida.

  “Gotta put my sportsmanship essay in Coach's office first,” I said.

  “Lead the way,” Luke said.

  The club delighted Polly. Her body sort of unfolded, taking everything in, eyes wide. “Ooh. You get to come here every day,” she said.

  “I'm here for work, not enjoyment. It's not the same thing.” If she only knew. Coach had already called me at home and warned me not to be late for practice later on today, and not to bring spectators. “Last practice before going to Bickford, Hall,” he'd warned. “Better be prepared to play. We're going through every shot you've got,” he'd said.

  “I figured as much,” I'd said.

  “And by the way, I'll be visiting Janie again when you get back. You're coming with me. You can't ignore her, Hall. It'll be good for you to see her.”

  I was going with him?

  I held the phone, unable to answer him. Thoughts of Janie rattling me.

  We filed into Coach's spacious office. Polly gazed out his windows, which overlooked the golf course. I was glad that Coach was on court, teaching club women the basics. He wouldn't have wanted everyone here. Bruce tapped a large glass jar filled with quarters, nickels, and dimes—Trent hated the jingle of change in his pockets. I often raided the jar to buy myself Diet Cokes while waiting for a ride home.

  “Whoa, look at this!” Luke said, gazing in awe at the baseball on Trent's desk. Bruce rushed over, both of them smothering the ball with hot breath and greedy hands.

  “You're not supposed to pick it up,” I said.

  “What is it?” Polly asked.

  “It's a Roger—”

  “It's a Roger Maris baseball,” Luke said. “Roger Maris! The real thing. Look how old it is!”

  “Please don't pick it up. Trent'll freak.”

  “Put it down, Luke,” Bruce said.

  “Make me, “ Luke spat.

  The ball was protected by a plastic case; he wasn't going to hurt it, really. But Coach didn't like people touching his baseball. It was an authentic signed ball. People had offered to buy it, but Trent never even considered it. He liked it in his office, where they could be jealous.

  “It's old,” said Polly.

  “That's the point. This is Roger Maris's signaturer Luke said.

  “So?” Polly said. I could sympathize with her lack of enthusiasm. I rarely understood the stupid stuff guys got excited about, either.

  Bruce looked at her, disappointed. “He's a legend, Polly. He's dead now. He played for the Yankees.”

  “Luke, quit picking it up. I'm serious,” I said.

  “I'm not hurting it.”

  “Coach will be mad if he sees fingerprints on the case, though.”

  Begrudgingly, he lowered it back down.

  I tossed my sportsmanship essay on Trent's desk and turned to my followers. I was happy: for once I didn't have to eat lunch alone. “Let's eat first. I'm starved.”

  Polly clucked her tongue like a duck, agreeing.

  We clomped down the stairs, toward the snack bar. When Luke suggested we all meet tonight at his neighbors’ house to swim, Polly kicked me so hard I was certain my shin was bloodied. She'd been highly jealous when I told her about sneaking into the pool house—I'd embellished the details, since the girl was dramatic and always expected firecrackers.

  “I don't know which house. Bruce, meet me halfway? And you can show me?” Polly said.

  “Sure, halfway. At ten,” Bruce said.

  “At ten,” everyone agreed.

  We swam after lunch. Polly and I fiddled around in the shallow end, trying not to get our hair wet.

  “Dodgeball!” Luke screamed, smacking Bruce in the face with a ball. “Two points!”

  Stunned by the blow, Bruce fell beneath the water's surface, not moving.

  “Did you see that?” Polly asked. “That had to hurt.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  The water moved gently, with no Bruce in sight.

  “He isn't moving,” Polly said, voice low.

  “Luke! You better help him!” I yelled.

  “Luke, “ Polly pleaded.

  Luke took tentative steps toward Bruce, closer, closer … The water trembled, and Bruce sprang forth, red-faced, ball in hand, and launched it into Luke's neck with all his might. Thunk!

  “Two points,” Bruce hollered.

  Polly looked at me with disgust. “How clever.”

  I scooped the chlorinated water onto my arms. “Wish I were that easily entertained.”

  She held out her arm for me to inspect. “Do I look burned?”

  “A little pink, maybe. It'll be gone by tomorrow.”

  “Did I tell you Maren loves Bruce?”

  “Why, what's the big deal?”

  “Westland Prep is one of the top private schools in America. Did you know over sixty percent of their graduates go on to Ivy League universities? Their math department is intense. “

  “Luke says it's pretty tough,” I agreed.

  “I'm just saying that's why Maren likes him—Bruce is academically inclined.” She glanced at the water bobbing around her. “I wonder what that would be like, going to Westland,” she said, deep in thought. “I wonder what it takes to get in.”

  “Are you joking? You've whined about math camp all summer. Polly, you need more math homework like you need a hole in your head,” I said.

  “I guess,” she said.

  “Holloway, do you guys want to play?” Luke called, holding up the ball coyly.

  “No thanks.”

  “We won't hit you in the face, promise. I'll spot you ten points?”

  “No thanks.”

  Luke shrugged and thrust the ball into Bruce's gut. “Two points!”

  Polly pulled her hair up in a makeshift ponytail and just as quickly let it drop back down. That small movement made me gasp. Hair in a makeshift ponytail and then back down—I'd seen Janie do that maybe a hundred times on court. Exactly like that. Ponytail up, then down. On court. Her face showing the stress of the game. Her maniac father screaming. Me watching her play. Me watchin
g her father scream. Hair in a ponytail, then down. Just like that.

  Me watching her fall to the court. Lost. Gone. Mind gone … to where? Where had Janie's mind gone? Where was my mind going? Was I Janie? Drop to the court and she was gone. Drop to the court and have no mind. Not a blank head. Not perfection. But no head. A headless Janie on that court.

  Janie sent Polly here, to me. Not an angel to comfort me. Polly was no angel. She was a ghost. Here to torment me. Pouty cheeks. No comfort for me in those cheeks. Only pain. Agony. Defeat.

  Polly was here to tell me I'd be defeated on the courts of Bickford tomorrow. Drop to the court, mind gone. Like headless Janie. Polly was a ghost. She was not real.

  I rocked in the water, trying to slow my reeling brain. Trying to run from Janie, wherever she was. In a strait-jacket somewhere. Babbling incoherently. On a court. Me watching.

  I moved my hands through the cool water. It sloshed upward, dotting my face with single wet droplets.

  “What's the matter, Hall?” Polly asked.

  Was she Polly or a ghost?

  “Nothing's the matter,” I said. Breathe in. Breathe out. Stop thinking. Get a blank head. Polly doesn't even know Janie. Janie didn't send her. Doesn't even know her. Breathe in. Breathe out.

  “You look like you're going to throw up,” Polly said.

  Fingers splayed, I separated the water with slow swoops, wishing I was Moses and it was the Red Sea. Swoop, swoop. I didn't have the power of Moses, though, and my sea of Janie and expectations flooded me. “I'm OK,” I said. “I'm OK.”

  Bruce caught Polly's attention. She smiled big as he jumped wildly off the diving board. I let the waves I created lull me, cleanse me. Drain my thoughts.

  “Have you ever peed in a pool?” Polly said absently, still watching Bruce.

  I exhaled and then laughed.

  “When I was little I used to pee in the pool all the time—too cold to get out. There's all that water there anyway,” she explained.

  I sent a wave of water toward her, forcing a hollow smile onto my face. “Me too,” I said. “Me too.”

  It was five after ten. I sat in the pitch-darkness of my back deck, on a lawn chair. The night air was soggy, windy. Smelled of rain. I was supposed to be in bed, asleep. And I was also supposed to be at Luke's neighbors’ house, swimming with him, Bruce, and Polly. But I hadn't been able to force myself to go and called Luke, canceling. Seeing Polly morph into a ghost before my eyes still freaked me out. I couldn't face her again tonight. Besides, I didn't want to have to walk home sopping wet like I did the last time. I hadn't packed yet for Bickford. I didn't know what to pack besides my racquets.

  The skies were moist. Specks of rain fell lightly onto my face. I situated myself further into the chair cushion, with a big beach towel over my clothes for warmth.

  The sky lit angrily. The backyard trees looked stark and timid in the harsh light. Like pretend trees. In a pretend yard.

  I braced my feet on the deck planks.

  Lightning struck the earth with deafening shrieks of thunder.

  My shoulder blades bound tightly into knots as I looked up into the black night.

  My hair was damp on top, dry underneath. I bit my lip, forcing my mind to be quiet. I wasn't sure what I feared more, heading to Bickford Tennis Academy in the morning or visiting Janie in a loony bin upon my return. Would Janie be in a straitjacket? Would she be able to speak? Would she hate me for playing tennis without her? Would she take one look at me and know I was a fraud?

  The sky lit again. My house shrank in the brightness. It looked like a dollhouse, like a child's toy. I felt non-human here on the deck, a plaything, a tennis-playing action figure with a plastic racquet permanently glued into my plastic hand.

  Thunder rolled evilly.

  Raindrops started falling hard. They actually hurt as they made contact with my skin, tearing into my flesh like bullets. I tucked myself further into the towel. But I liked it that they hurt. That meant I could focus on the hurt, on the rain, and not on Janie. Or Bickford. Or that maybe I was turning into Janie.

  I knew I'd forget about her the minute I stepped onto the Bickford courts. I always forgot about Janie when on a court—I was too busy trying to find Coach's voice in my head to think of Janie.

  I suddenly felt insignificant. My life didn't feel real.

  The back door creaked open. “Hall?” my mom called, stunned. “What are you doing up so late? And what are you doing out here? In the rain?”

  “Needed some air.”

  “You better get to bed. The plane will leave without us. I hope you're all packed.”

  I nodded and lifted myself up off the chair.

  “Get some sleep, honey,” my mom said. “Big day tomorrow.”

  “Not, much further,” the driver said. “A couple more miles. Come from Colorado, huh?”

  Bickford Academy sent one of their lackeys to pick up my mom and me from the airport. I was stuck in the backseat while my mom rode shotgun. It was seven at night, and we had yet to eat dinner. The driver said one of the academy coaches planned on feeding us.

  “Most of the kids here are from out of state, but you'll be our first from Colorado. This year we'll have twenty-five students from different countries, too,” the driver said.

  “How lovely,” my mom said.

  “The kids are divided by ages and skill levels.”

  “I imagine they'd have to be,” my mom said.

  “Of course, we aren't in full session right now. Official check-in doesn't happen until August twenty-seventh. I suppose you already know that from the literature we sent …”

  I didn't know why this stupid man kept talking. Apparently he thought I was going to attend Bickford Academy. Not likely. I was only here so my mom, the Weak Link, could see how atrocious the place was. So far it wasn't working. Though I'd played tournaments in Florida before, Trent and Annie, not my mom, had acted as my chaperones. Now she took in each trivial sight like an excited tourist.

  “Look at all the palm trees!” my mom squealed.

  “Gee, a palm tree, neat,” I said inaudibly.

  “The atmosphere is so relaxing,” she continued. “I feel a sudden urge for a banana daiquiri.”

  “I feel the urge for a barf bag.”

  “Did you say something, Hall?” the driver asked.

  “The air feels swampy,” I said. “Feel that? Muggy.”

  My mom shook her head. “It doesn't. It's nice.”

  “It's swampy.”

  “It's no such thing.”

  About thirty boys decked out in wrinkled white and navy Bickford Academy T-shirts ran down the middle of the street like a pack of rabid wolves. Each seemed to have a wealthy-looking forehead and tanned skin. Several of them could be considered downright gorgeous. The whole mess of them bobbed up and down on the pavement at various speeds, all staying within the group. Sweat flying. Sore muscles aching.

  My mom watched me watch them. Our car and their jogging route met and went opposite directions. Soon another pack of wolves—girls in ponytails, with matching shirts and gray shorts—jogged past as well. An instructor yelled things at them to keep up morale. Exhaustion sat on the faces of some, pain on others. I expected as much.

  “Evening conditioning run,” the driver said.

  “Doesn't that look fun,” I said.

  “Here we are. Beautiful, isn't it? You'll notice the entrance is secured. In case of escapes,” he said, laughing.

  The gatekeeper waved our car through.

  “Escapes? Look how high those walls are!” I'd definitely need a ladder to flee.

  “No one can leave without a pass,” he said, reading my mind.

  “Of course,” my mom said, as if this was comforting.

  The car slowed to five miles an hour for our viewing pleasure. Sprawling grounds prompted oohs and aahs from the front seat. It looked like a resort. I had hoped it would more or less resemble a prison or Marine Corps barracks. We drove along the perimeter of the compoun
d.

  “These three buildings are the boys’ dorms; up farther are the girls’. The cafeteria, library, and staff offices are all housed in this main building. The pool is around back. Can you see from back there, Hall?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We weren't expecting something so elaborate, were we, Hall?” my mom said.

  “We have ten each of clay and grass courts and thirty-eight outside hard courts. Plus indoor hard courts as well.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Our scheduling system is tight. The emphasis is on hard courts with adaptation techniques for clay and grass. You'll love clay,” the driver said, looking at me from the rearview mirror, “it's great fun.”

  “I've won two tournaments on clay,” I said.

  One, two, three car doors slammed as we got out, inspecting the courts. My mom raised her eyebrows, trying to telepathically tell me this was great. I ignored her.

  “Look at these courts. Not a nick in them!” she said.

  “I'll let Phil know you're here,” the driver said. “You must be starved. Nice meeting you both.”

  Whatever.

  My mom could be impressed all she wanted. All she had to do was witness the grim, pasty-faced, unloved, exiled children, thousands of miles away from their hometowns, and the woman would break like fine china. Weak Link. I could hear her on the phone to my dad—They're children, Frank and They look so sad— and we'd be outta here.

  I hadn't told any of my friends about my Bickford debacle, so my so-called secret was safe. The trip amounted to a few hours tonight and all day Sunday, with our plane leaving on Monday at 8:00 p.m. I figured I could handle anything, even Bickford, for thirty-one waking hours.

  Phil was about forty, with a chin that was roughly the size of Nevada. He had simply huge dimples and a big, energetic voice.

  “Hall Braxton!” he greeted me. “I'm Phil Flickett. I'm the head coach. You can call me Coach.”

  “No thanks. Trent is my coach.”

  Phil Flickett and his big chin were unfazed. “All right, call me Phil, then.” He shook hands politely with my mom but continued to look at me as though I was an item, a commodity, a product.

  “It's so wonderful of you to bring us here,” my mom gushed. “Hall's been working hard on her game. She's been with the same coach for years and years, so this is quite a new experience for us. Her coach is the one who contacted Thomas Fountain originally.”