by Sara Hammel
Lucky had fished around in his pockets and checked his wallet. He’d frowned, shrugged, and handed her eighty cents. “Get some corn nuts or something,” he said.
“But, Dad—”
“You’ll be fine for one night, kid,” he told her, and patted her on the head. “I’ll swing back and pick you up as soon as we’re done.”
I know, I know. To any normal person it would almost sound like child abuse. To Lucky, the fact that Evie would certainly survive without one meal was a simple fact no one could argue with, and it was not a cruel thing to say, but rather a given. These moments made me angry for Evie, but also grateful. God knows my mom would never, ever leave me without food. I mean, when she hired sitters for me she gave them three pages of instructions about what to feed me and when and all that. Corn nuts for dinner did not enter into the equation.
And so, a few minutes after five on a gloomy July evening, I found Evie tearing up her storage room. I was nervous, but also prepared. My mom had explained to me that Evie might have to get lower before she could rise up again. I watched as Evie turned out her sweatpants pockets, found only lint in the little pink coin purse she kept back there, and scrabbled around on her hands and knees along the cold concrete. I knew what she was looking for; she was desperate for spare change. Eighty cents wasn’t buying anyone a pack of Twinkies, and she had no one to ask for money without getting the third degree about why she wanted it. I watched her try, and fail, to find any coins. She even checked the refrigerator. As if, magically, cash would be hanging out under the carrots or something.
“This is ridiculous!” she cried when she knew she was beaten.
She froze in place for a moment, thinking. I was quiet as a mouse. Then she started breathing heavily, and the heaving grew louder and louder until I thought I’d have to run and get my mom to give Evie a paper bag or something for her hyperventilating. Then, inexplicably, she slowed down. She got a strange look in her eye. And then she made a move. I followed Evie as she stormed out of the back room and stalked up to the front desk, where Mom was killing time until the end of her shift.
“What’s eating you?” my mom asked Evie.
Evie ignored her, and kept glaring at no one in particular. I watched my mom’s attitude change from mildly curious to slightly worried. We could now both see Evie was angry, and she was up to something. She still had that strange expression on her face, one I hadn’t seen before. Kind of like a demented version of the otherworldly focus Goran showed when he was heading out to the tennis court. Evie slipped behind the desk and before we knew it, she’d reached into the loaner bin under the desk and was rifling around with thuds and bangs. She finally withdrew a racket, an old graphite Wilson with a massive head.
“Those are three bucks a day,” my mom told her, tucking a bit of errant hair behind her right ear. Evie paused. The girl couldn’t even raise the money to buy a Twinkie. My mom offered a magnanimous smile. “Oh, all right. Bring it back when you’re done.”
I knew my busybody mom was happy to see Evie doing anything new. I, however, was slightly concerned. I mean, clearly the girl wasn’t going to play tennis. More likely she was going to bang the racket against something to let out her frustration. I followed her, and wasn’t surprised to see her head for Court 5. I sighed. Back to the smelly room we’d go.
Oh, but how wrong I was. She walked through the door to Court 5, but instead of going straight behind the curtain, she went left, out to the court. She grabbed a few stray balls and stood in front of the imposing wall, a monstrosity made of cinder blocks painted a drab olive green. It went as high as the start of the pitched tennis roof, twelve feet at least. I couldn’t believe it. Was my Evie going to attempt tennis?
She tucked two balls in the waistband of her sweatpants like she’d seen the elites do, and gripped the racket as if she was shaking hands with it, like the counselors always instructed. She stood ten feet away from that wall, held a ball in one hand, dropped it, and whacked it as hard as she could. She was shocked when the ball came right back to her at a softer pace, and she hit it again easily. Her first time, and she was already a pro. I literally jumped for joy as she smacked that ball over and over and over. She was on fire. She just kept whacking that fuzzy yellow ball. I was mesmerized by the unusual sight of her holding that racket, of her moving from side to side with urgency to get the shot.
By the end of the session, she’d kept a single ball going for about twenty hits in a row on her first day. She seemed to take to the game immediately, her ease with the racket and her ability to control the ball surprising us both. I watched Evie come alive, even if it was in secret, even if only for a brief moment, as she wielded that racket and bossed those balls around. I could see in Evie’s eyes what she was thinking: this is even better than Twinkies.
* * *
That day began a tradition for Evie and me. We named the great wall on Court 5 the Green Monster. Despite his scary name he was a perfect addition to our partnership. When camp ended at five every day, there was a good hour before the staff remembered to turn the court lights out. That’s when Evie had her chance to slip in and play some tennis. Sometimes she lasted ten minutes, and other days I swear she was on the court for an hour. I’d sit there and watch her whack the ball at the great green wall, her fine, dirty-blond hair held back in a long ponytail with wispy bangs. I’d help her fetch the balls if I was in the mood.
The Green Monster was the perfect hitting companion. It was a very forgiving partner and always hit right back to her. By the end of her first week, she’d taught herself a rough facsimile of a forehand, a backhand, and an underhand slice. All from watching other people.
Considering it was dead summer and the club’s air-conditioning could only do so much on the cavernous indoor courts, she’d be boiling hot in her sweatpants and oversize T-shirts, along with extra support from the bra my mom had bought her. It was kinda sad because she had her eye on a white collared Ellesse shirt with pink trim, but Lucky couldn’t afford a seventy-five-dollar tennis shirt, and anyway it didn’t come in Evie’s size. I could see how much she wanted it, and also Serene’s lavender tennis skirt, but same problem.
The whole time she played, my eye was drawn to the Wilson graphite in her hand. Such an unusual sight, and yet it looked like it was meant to be there, her fingers wrapped tightly around the leather grip. I had to ask myself: Would that racket turn out to be Evie’s instrument, the weapon she needed to face the world? Maybe, I thought, just maybe, my friend had finally found a cure for her melancholy.
Before
One day in late July, Evie overheard something she shouldn’t have. Annabel’s BFF from St. Claire High, Portia, was speaking in hushed tones to Celia as they freshened up in the women’s locker room.
Portia was saying that Annabel was upset about something. And that it was big. Evie recalled it vividly because it was such a surprise to her that someone like Annabel even had problems. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, Portia said, standing in front of a mirror, brushing her long brown hair over and over. She’s been my closest friend since we were in kindergarten. I can tell when something’s up.
Celia had piped up with teenage-girl platitudes: She’s probably PMSing. It’s just a bad day. She seems fine to me! But Portia had shaken her head “in a foreboding manner,” according to Evie.
That’s not it, Portia had said. I’m worried, and I’m going to Europe with my parents tomorrow for the rest of the summer.
Evie had walked away from that with a sixth sense that something was very wrong.
Later that same day, with this encounter weighing on her mind, Evie bumped into Annabel herself. It was an odd twist of fate that the beauty happened to stay extra late on a day when Lucky had completely forgotten about Evie again. My mom was off duty, so I wasn’t even around to keep her company. Evie ran into Annabel in the otherwise empty ladies’ room.
“Hey,” Annabel had said to her.
“Hey,” Evie said back coolly, as she relayed
it to me later.
“How’s it going?” she asked Evie.
“Good,” Evie said. “How about you?”
Annabel hesitated. “I’m good,” she said finally, and smiled at Evie, who later described it to me as a sort of hungry expression.
Annabel moved a few feet away from the sinks to the full-length mirror and started examining herself, turning sideways, sucking in her nonexistent tummy. Annabel hadn’t looked quite so perfect then. Her hair, usually straight and shiny, was mussed just the smallest bit, and then Evie saw why. Annabel was playing with it obsessively, brushing it behind her ear every few seconds. The sparkle seemed to be gone from her eyes and her skin looked more pale and dry than tanned and robust like it usually did. She was fidgeting like crazy: fingering her hair, tugging at her shirt, fiddling with her beloved dog necklace.
Evie took a deep breath, turned her back on the sinks to face Annabel in front of that mirror, and mustered up the strength to ask shyly, “Are you sure?”
Annabel froze. “I’m sorry?”
She looked quickly at Evie and then back at the mirror. She started tugging on her pink cotton midriff-baring halter top, staring into that mirror again. Evie had never seen her do that before, not in her bikini out at the pool, not in the lobby, not anywhere.
“Is something wrong, Annabel?”
Annabel faced Evie. Something about the confidence in how Evie spoke got through to Annabel. Her eyes teared up, and the fact that Evie had been right, that Annabel had responded to her, emboldened my friend to actually carry on a conversation with her idol, listen, and ask questions. Annabel cleared her throat and composed herself.
“Do you know how many calories fidgeting burns? It’s ridiculous. I can burn off half my calories while playing with my hair.” Annabel was looking for approval in Evie’s eyes. “It’s pathetic, isn’t it?”
“No,” Evie said. “It’s not pathetic at all.”
My friend later told me she felt like she was out of her own body in that brief moment when she was the strong one in the face of this tortured beauty.
The tears came back and Annabel said, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t tell anyone. No one will understand. I don’t even understand it.”
She sat down on a wooden bench in the changing area and Evie stayed where she was, to give the girl space. “I understand,” Evie said. She said she’d never forget the smell of Annabel: it was the smell of flowers and elegance.
“Everyone tells me how happy I should be. What a perfect life I have. But I don’t feel perfect—and I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’re not crazy, Annabel. Lots of girls feel that way,” Evie assured her.
Annabel asked, “What’re you doing here so late? Aren’t you in that tennis camp?”
Evie shook her head. “My dad works here. I only watch.”
Annabel crinkled her nose. “I happen to know the camp gets out at five on the dot. Come on now. What are you still doing here?”
Evie, in the spirit of sharing and honesty, admitted her father’s deadbeat behavior.
“My dad kind of, like, forgot about me. He’s so busy and sometimes he—”
“Forgets.” Annabel nodded. “That sucks. But no biggie. I’ll drive you home. You’re really easy to talk to, you know,” she said, rising and smiling at Evie for real this time.
They walked through the lobby together, so close that every few steps Annabel brushed against her, and to Evie’s dismay not a single person who mattered saw them begin their friendship. In the car, Evie told me, Annabel had shared more with her than any girl ever had, and she’d talked and talked, and Evie listened. Two things Annabel didn’t mention were Goran and Patrick. Evie learned a few things that night, but not about Annabel’s love life.
After
Goran was not doing well. His tennis game was on the fritz, and the Yale Championships—his last chance to hit number one this year—was coming up fast. Evie and I winced as he shanked another backhand into the net. Will shouted from across the court: “Concentrate!” Youch. If the Missile was misfiring, we knew Goran was in trouble. You didn’t need a psychology degree to see he was grieving for Annabel; his looseness was gone, his legendary confidence shaken.
He slammed a down-the-line forehand so wide of the line Will couldn’t get to it, oblivious that Detective Ashlock, who’d just breezed by Evie and me sitting on the lobby sofa during afternoon camp session, was heading his way. We tiptoed behind him, keeping our distance as he cruised through the café doorway and took a sharp right—straight to Court 1. We were hot on his heels and managed to plant ourselves in the walkway behind the green curtain, peeking through a crack after he’d disappeared onto the court.
Goran ended another rally with a net ball. Thoroughly irritated, he tossed his Volcano Onyx high in the air. When he turned to catch it, he saw the detective—and didn’t miss a beat. He caught the racket and said, steely eyed, “I do not have time to stop. You may talk to me while I practice.” He fed a ball to Will, bouncing on his feet waiting for the return.
“That’s okay,” Ashlock boomed from ten feet behind the baseline. He seemed startled by his own voice; I don’t think he realized how much it would echo under that cavernous roof. “This won’t take long.”
He looked wildly out of place, and for the first time since we’d been spying on him, he wasn’t in charge. Or so it seemed. “Your shoes,” Ashlock yelled over the sound of slamming balls and squeaking footwork.
Goran lunged for a wide forehand from Will, and proceeded to nail it out of bounds. Will yelled, “Focus, Goran. Keep your eye on the ball.”
Goran said nothing and started another rally.
Ashlock tried again. “Nice sneakers. Are they Volcano exclusives?”
“Of course.” Said sneakers squeaked against the green surface as Goran nailed a shot. I remembered Goran showing off the new, experimental shoes the company had sent him, and Will shaking his head about style over substance.
“I notice you wear them a lot. In fact, every time I see you,” Ashlock said.
“Yeah. They’re kind of helpful (grunt, thwap) for playing tennis.” He was in a killer rally with his coach now.
“I also like the little decoration on the right shoe.”
Goran huffed and puffed and hit a down-the-line forehand humming with topspin, his stylishly longish dark hair whipping as he did.
“I asked myself,” Ashlock yelled, “why is this tough guy wearing a heart on his sneaker? Is it a good luck charm? A mistake at the sneaker factory?”
Will hit a mid-court shot right to Goran, but our handsome tennis machine, clad in black-and-white Volcano gear that day, didn’t even swing for it. The ball died and rolled into the curtain. Goran turned around slowly to face the detective, hugging his shiny Volcano Onyx tightly to his chest. “Say what you need to say so I can get back to my training.”
Ashlock crouched and, kneeling before our god of the fuzzy yellow ball, examined Goran’s right shoe. “This little pink heart,” Ashlock said, peering closely at the sneaker’s instep: “Annabel drew this on your shoe for good luck during one of your meetings behind Court 9, didn’t she? And despite knowing there will be evidence on this shoe because it—and you—were with her the night she died, you keep wearing it because you feel like you have to honor her somehow. Am I getting warm?”
Evie mouthed to me, Oh. My. Gosh. I knew this would be almost too much for her to process. I, too, felt the revelation like a punch to the gut. I mean, this put into astonishing perspective Ashlock’s demanding to look at Mom’s and Gene’s shoes that first day.
Will took off jogging from the other side as the detective rose and leveled his steely gaze at Goran. “If I look under your shoe right now, I’m going to find microscopic flakes—flakes you would’ve missed when you scrubbed them—that we can match to the vomit at the pool. More to the point, we will match an imprint we found in that vomit with your exclusive, one-of-a-kind, not-available-in-stores sneaker
with a very distinctive pattern on the sole.”
Goran was not cowed. He stood tall, with a firm set to his jaw. “There is nothing I can say to the evidence,” he replied in thick-accented English. “I was there. I did not kill her.”
Will slid up to stand next to his student. “I don’t believe you have to talk to the police if you don’t want to, Goran,” he said with narrowed eyes.
Goran spoke anyway. “I will tell you this. This has killed me, do you understand? I might as well be dead myself. You are right about one thing. It is my fault this happened.”
I could practically hear my—and Evie’s—heart thumping.
“You found her body, didn’t you?” Ashlock confirmed quietly. “Why didn’t you call the police if you had nothing to do with her death?”
Goran laughed sardonically. “In my country, you do not call the police. Look, sir, I was at the club for a date with Annabel. Things were finally perfect with us. There are always rumors about me in the tennis world, and she’d started to believe them—until I proved to her they were lies. I’d promised to meet her here after a dinner with my parents and we were going to make a fresh start. Annabel was going to sneak out, and we were to meet at midnight, but my car broke down. I called and called, but she never picked up. Then the phone went to voice mail. I didn’t have enough cash for a cab and I didn’t want her to think I stood her up, so I left my car and walked six miles home, took my dad’s car, and drove here.”
“Let me guess,” Ashlock said. “You have your own key.”
Goran looked confused. “Of course.”
That was the joke of this whole investigation. See, my mom and Gene had given Ashlock the answer they believed to be true back when he’d asked who had keys to the club. It was a short list. But it was inaccurate. The truth was, everyone and their uncle had a key to this club. Patrick had gone out and copied the master key years ago when Gene had loaned it to him for some after-hours tennis training, and over the years keys had been copied again and passed down to junior staff, senior staff, and even members.
