by Sara Hammel
“Poor Nicholas,” my mom said under her breath.
Poor Nicky, poor Lisa, poor Annabel. It had been a strange reentry for our golden boy. I started to think maybe we’d lost Nicholas, the club’s bright star, with this tragedy. It was still early, but it wasn’t looking good.
* * *
The days were passing quickly now, and there was a prevailing sense that the cops were flailing—and failing—in their investigation. Evie and I, however, knew the detective wasn’t letting up. I mean, the guy was here constantly. Like at snack time a few days after Nicholas returned, when Ashlock stopped by to grill Lisa. She got a soft tap on the shoulder from behind while she was taking a break from front desk duty with Celia, Patrick, and Serene at the elites’ table. She turned around slowly when he said her name: “Lisa Denessen?”
“Yes,” she said, rapidly blinking those heavily mascaraed eyelashes.
Ashlock said, “I’m investigating the death of Annabel Harper. Come with me, please.”
Lisa got up as instructed. Patrick, sitting there with his light brown hair casually ruffled, was trying to pull off the lovable rogue look. His hands were clasped behind his head and he was leaning casually back, legs open. But you could see he was strung about as tight as his racket, clenching his jaw and shooting a make-me-look-good look to Lisa.
As luck would have it, Evie and I were hanging out just down the stairs in the café area. She was sucking on a banana Frooti-Freez pop and gave me a knowing smirk. Ashlock would now have to learn about Lisa the hard way.
“Let’s talk out on the patio,” Lisa suggested to Ashlock.
Yay, the patio. This meant all Evie and I had to do was stay put at the café counter and we should have a good vantage point—as long as someone, which was the usual practice around here, left the sliding door open. Not that we expected to hear anything good. Considering Lisa had had a brief romance with Patrick in the past and seemed to still have a crush on him, we suspected she wouldn’t spill much to this detective. The girl had never been cowed by authority, and I had a feeling she could match Ashlock’s plodding manner with her own fearless attitude until he gave up and went home.
They settled into the white metal chairs, your standard lawn furniture, with Lisa facing Court 6 and Ashlock to her left. He took out his notebook. As predicted, the door had been left half-open so Evie and I could see and hear everything.
Lisa crossed her right leg over her left, and spoke first.
“So, Detective,” she said. “What took you so long? Everyone knew Annabel. I’ll tell you what I know—as long as you swear it won’t go any further.”
Ashlock refused to commit. “I promise to be discreet, but I expect you to be entirely truthful with me—with no exceptions.”
Lisa took a few moments to squint at him. Maybe it was the long arm of the law hovering over her, maybe it was something in the air. Whatever the reason, she started spilling like Niagara Falls. She told that detective everything about Patrick: how she’d caught him red-handed in a compromising situation earlier in the summer around Wimbledon time; how, in Lisa’s opinion, he treated girls like pieces of meat; and how Patrick resented his best friend, Goran, for his tennis talent.
Lisa didn’t seem to care that she was saying all this in public. For all she knew, Patrick—or even a reporter from the St. Claire Bee—was lurking in the bushes around the patio, listening. Then again, maybe that’s how Lisa wanted it. Either way, Ashlock seemed as surprised as we were by the flood of new information spouting from her mouth, and we could see him scribbling frantically to keep up.
“I want to ask you about a note,” he said during a rare pause. “It—”
Lisa inexplicably started cracking up before he could finish. “Let me stop you there,” she laughed. “I know the note you’re talking about.” She caught her breath. “And let me tell you, Detective, you’ve never seen something so messed up in your entire life.”
Before
July was ticking along, and one of the most important tennis tournaments on planet Earth was about to be shown on the clunky old TV in our lobby: Wimbledon. In St. Claire, a torrential summer rain was hammering down, which meant the tennis camp’s rain-day rotation was in effect since we were four courts short. It was bedlam in the lobby, with a herd of campers and counselors—elites, regulars, Pee Wees, you name it—milling about. Lucky was sitting at a table scribbling down a schedule. I was sitting against a wall facing him, with Evie next to me on the floor, her legs stretched out in front of her. She was out of sorts today because the storage room was unavailable. Workmen were behind Court 5 doing maintenance.
Enter that walking snot rag Tad Chadwick. “What’s she doing here?” he said, pointing at Evie. Marcus guffawed and Fat Stan cackled. But then, thank goodness, Evie was saved by the bell when Lucky stood up and shouted that it was time to get moving. The chattering Pee Wees came trotting by with one of the new junior counselors. The little ones were beyond adorable. One boy was asking in his nasally, gulpy voice, “Why do tennis balls smell like magic markers? What if dogs could play tennis? Will tuna be available at lunch today?”
Everyone who wasn’t a Pee Wee, about twenty-five of us, moved to crowd around the TV in its pine box, and Will opened the cupboard doors to flick the set on. We were treated to scratchy old video of a long-ago tennis game. A collective exclamation of “What?” erupted.
Will let out a frustrated growl. “The match is postponed. It’s raining in England, too,” he grumbled.
Lucky spoke up. For once he was actually firm and, in an even more shocking twist, organized. “Okay, everyone! Time for the rain-day rotation,” he shouted, scratching his head. “Group A on the tennis courts. Group B out on the basketball court doing sprints. Group C in the lobby taking a break. We do forty-five-minute intervals.”
“Sprints?” Serene jutted her right hip out and refused to move. Her white tennis skirt and her ponytail moved with her.
Lucky sighed and rubbed his eyes as more whining and complaining wafted from the crowd. Will surveyed this congregation of grouches. He wasn’t the most intuitive guy when it came to anything that took place off the tennis court, but he was the first to figure out what was going on that day. Will bounded out of his seat and said, “Everyone, up! No more slumping around. Let’s go.”
No one moved. “Everyone, uuuuup!” Will boomed again, and this time everyone jumped. “You know what we need?” he asked the lobby.
No one ventured a guess.
“We need a big game of Relay 21. Everyone—let’s go. Advanced camp. Summer camp. Counselors. Kids. All of you.”
When Will said everyone, he meant everyone who played tennis. Evie would be left behind again. Or so I thought. Will made it to the front desk, then came back through the lobby and saw Evie and me. “Get up. Come on, let’s go! Everyone out on the court.” Will even managed to get Lisa to play. Due to her history of pining after tennis instructors and campers, she could hit a ball or two. Out she went in her aerobics outfit, her wiry hair held back by a shiny gold scrunchie. Evie had perked up and was looking at me with nervous energy. She had never been invited to join in on anything around here before, but Will was an equal-opportunity whip-cracker. I swear Evie was about to get to her feet and find a spare racket, but Lucky came up then.
“Don’t even try with this one.” Ha-ha. Lucky smiled and looked kind of like a dopey sheepdog as he ruffled his daughter’s hair, messing up her ponytail. “Give ’er the choice and she’ll always rather sit on her butt and read a book.”
And the crowd left us in the dust. Evie was frowning. Had her father meant to hurt her, or was he really that clueless? I’m not sure anyone knew the answer to that question. Personally, I didn’t have to worry about being excluded. It was a given I wouldn’t ever play tennis. The regulars around here knew at least a version of my backstory, and they also knew I wouldn’t be able to play the game even if I tried. I’d never really minded, because my mom always reminded me there was a lot of other stuff I cou
ld do in life. Plus, regarding the tennis thing, I could always watch, cheer on, and help out.
I decided to watch the Relay 21 game live, and Evie smiled goodbye to me. As she buried her nose in a philosophical novel called Tuck Everlasting, I went out onto Court 1. As always, I was blasted with the unique smell of the game, one that’s impossible to label or convey in a neat descriptor. I was struck again by how every single one of these kids had dreams. Tennis wasn’t just a game at a club like this. It was a way of life and had its own culture and hierarchy.
Half the crowd lined up on one side of the court, half on the other. Will started the first rally, hitting it to the kid in line on the other side. You didn’t want to be the one who ended the rally—trust me. The first boy got the ball over the net and you could see the relief on his face as he ran around the court to the other side and got in that line. Next up was Tad, who slammed the ball into the bottom of the net. I looked through the glass and winked at Evie, who grinned evilly. They played for the next hour, and I had a blast watching. All in all, it was a good game, and calmed the kids down.
Afterward everyone piled back into the lobby and Patrick went straight for the TV. The rain had stopped in London but not in St. Claire, so we got to watch Roger Federer play in Wimbledon. Evie stood behind the group and took in every point.
A few games into the first set, Lisa mumbled absently, “Where’s Paddy?”
Someone remembered he’d gone off to get an orange juice from the vending machine, but he never came back. I was getting a bit antsy sitting in front of the TV, so when Lisa slipped away, I tagged along. The club was a big, sprawling place, and Lisa and I searched everywhere for Patrick. She even checked the parking lot for his silver Acura. It was parked in the back, drenched in summer rain.
We ran back in, Lisa’s hands futilely hovering over her head, and shook ourselves off in the lobby. She came up with one last idea. I followed her as she sneaked around the back of the crowd around the TV, moving stealthily through the café area and opening the door to Court 5. Evie’s place. Maybe the workmen were on a break, because all was quiet. Lisa turned to me and put her finger over her lips. Shhh. We tiptoed to the entryway and she peeked in; I poked my head in under hers.
What we saw was bizarre. Patrick—Mr. Cool, number nine in New England, best friend of Goran—was crying. And he wasn’t alone. His arms were crossed over his chest, his head hung like he’d been a bad boy, and there, arms crossed to mirror his, was Celia.
“I’m sorry,” he blubbered. “I’m so sorry. I just want things to be like they were.”
Celia seemed unsure how to handle seeing the guy she’d known since they were both Pee Wees breaking down like that. He looked up to see how she was reacting; she was chewing the inside of her cheek. “I want to believe you,” she said. “I really do, Patrick. But I’m not sure we can turn back the clock.” He looked at the ground again; he seemed broken to me.
Lisa and I stayed silent and pulled back out of the doorway. She had a faraway look in her eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a look of satisfaction. We walked back to the café area, and as we went, I tried to figure out what that scene was all about.
After
Evie and I could see Ashlock’s profile from our position inside the café area, and he appeared pretty shocked. His pen was hovering over his notebook. “You’ve seen this note?”
The crisp whack of rackets on hollow balls served as background music as Lisa, still on the patio being interrogated, told more of her story. “Let’s say I, like, saw enough.” She put her foot up on the empty adjoining chair. “Specifically,” she said, “I saw Patrick hanging out in the coaches’ office after hours, hunched over the desk looking superserious. I asked him what he was doing, and he got weird and covered up the paper he was writing on. But it was too late. I never got close enough to read the actual note—there was typed writing, like, ten lines or something—but I could totally read Patrick’s additions.”
I could swear Lisa was enjoying this. “He’d covered the note with these insults in red marker: she was a loser, scum, her reputation was trashed, stuff like that. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so pathetic. So later, when I saw him walk into the women’s locker room, I followed him and caught him coming out. You know what he said? That it was none of my business. Ha.” I translated the Ha to mean the note was, in fact, totally Lisa’s business.
Ashlock made a whew sound. “That’s a pretty aggressive thing to do to a girl he liked. What do you think prompted something so … extreme?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Lisa grinned. “I know exactly what prompted it. Patrick flipped out after he saw Annabel and Goran together. And P.S.,” she added, shaking her head, “who sends paper notes anymore—what is this, the Stone Age?”
Lisa chuckled evilly. Ms. Glamour Girl About the Club was going to bury Patrick if it was the last thing she did. I just didn’t understand why. A lot of us were worried sick about him, because who wanted to believe one of your own, a guy we’d cheered on since he was a kid, had drowned our Annabel?
Ashlock prompted, “Go on.”
“Well,” Lisa said, smoothing her hair and then leaning back in her seat. “It happened over there”—she pointed back to the far courts—“behind Court 9. They thought they were being so clever, waiting until after camp ended, but I saw Goran take Annabel back there. Since that girl didn’t know a tennis racket from a lipstick, I knew they weren’t going to practice her serve. So I followed them. You should have seen them. Like, gag.” She jabbed one finger into her big mouth. “They were disgusting. Goran was acting shy and aw shucks, kicking at the gravel and like, ‘Your tan looks good … Did you have a nice day at the pool?’ And Annabel was like, ‘Yeah, you have to come hang out with me there sometime’ with this breathy voice. It was nauseating.”
Ashlock cleared his throat. “I’m confused. What does this have to do with Patrick?”
“Well, Detective, after seeing their secret meeting, I went and got Patrick and, of course, he wanted to see for himself.” She appeared to relish the memory. “He was livid.”
Ashlock seemed taken aback by her twisted ploy. “He needed to see what was really going on,” Lisa said. “He was obsessed with that girl, and it wasn’t working for me. Or him.”
Ashlock said, “I was told by many people here that you and Patrick got close. That you’re good friends. Right?”
“Past tense,” she said. “He doesn’t know it, but I hate his guts.”
Her upper lip curled in anger. “Patrick thought he could use me. I used to think he was different from other boys,” she continued. “I thought he would realize someday that we were meant to be. That’s how it was supposed to be with me and him.”
She made the shape of a smile with her mouth, but it was no grin; it was an angry face. “But ya know what, Detective? The jerk dumped me out of nowhere and said he just wanted to be ‘friends.’ Ha.”
Evie frowned. I hadn’t realized how stuck Lisa was on Patrick. Suddenly, I felt in my gut that she, out of everyone in the club, could’ve killed Annabel.
“To your knowledge,” Ashlock asked, “did Patrick and Annabel have a romance of any kind?”
“Ha.” Lisa snorted again. “He wishes. I mean, he tried, but—”
Evie and I heard something then. Suddenly, Nicholas was running toward us from the pool, barefoot and wearing those red lifeguard trunks, soaking wet, announcing himself.
“Detective. Hey, Ashlock,” he called out. “They told me at the pool you were here. Please tell me what’s happening with the investigation?”
Nicholas was about to burst onto the patio, but he stopped right outside the door, because Lisa’s voice was carrying perfectly. “I don’t know why people don’t just say it,” she sneered. “I mean, God. Annabel was not that special. Pretty, sure, but not too bright.”
It happened so fast. Ashlock saw Nicholas and sprang out of his chair, but he was too late. Nicholas was standing on that patio with his arm
s at his sides, dripping from head to toe, like his whole body was crying. Water was pooling on the stones. Evie and I saw Gene mosey down to the café then, and he quickly picked up that something was going on. Nicholas burst back inside, his face like thunder.
Gene reached out to stop him. “What is it? Nicholas, what happened?”
Nicholas’s eyes were flashing, and he silently shook his head. “That—that girl,” he said. “That horrible, awful Lisa … What she said—” His voice cracked. And then he ran off.
“I’ll take care of it, Nicky,” Gene yelled after him. “Whatever it is, I promise you—I’ll fix it.”
But Nicky was gone.
Before
One day when Evie was engrossed to distraction in yet another book, I felt like hanging out with the Pee Wees. Celia was on duty and was thrilled to have me on the court with her. I had some energy to burn, so I ran around the court gathering the balls the kids hit and brought them back to Celia’s ball hopper. I loved it, and so did the Pee Wees. Whenever I’d bring them a ball when it was time to practice serving, they’d whoop with excitement. It wasn’t often they got butler service. After an hour, the kids were getting tired and Celia announced snack time. As the junior counselor corralled the group, Celia was stuck with little Justine tugging on her shorts.
“Please, Miss Celia,” she begged. “Can I do some more forehands? Puh-leeze?”
Justine’s sweet voice, silky smooth ratcheted up to Munchkin speed, always cheered me up. When she giggled, she emitted a tinkling sound that Evie always said reminded her of baby angels laughing; it was guaranteed to lift your spirits.
Celia couldn’t turn her down, and shouted for the junior counselor to head out with the rest of the kids. I wasn’t going anywhere until the last Pee Wee had been shepherded inside. I watched Celia toss Justine a gentle ball to her forehand. The little girl flailed about and managed to get her racket on it, but didn’t quite lift it over the net. Celia said, “That’s okay.” Then—Justine didn’t swing at the next ball. She was staring into space, glassy-eyed. “Justine?” Celia walked to the net. “Kiddo? You ready for the next ball?”
