by Diane Hoh
When John arrived at the dome, he headed straight for Nicki’s group. Ginnie joined them a few minutes later, and more and more people began gravitating in that direction.
It was all too much for Libby. She threw her racket onto a bench in disgust and stormed out of the dome.
Watching her leave, Hannah said firmly, “I think she did it. I think Libby’s the one who put that red stuff in your ball, Nicki. She really hates you.”
Ginnie disagreed. “She’s too competitive. She wouldn’t wreck a match that way. Now she can’t be sure she would have won yesterday. And she has to know that no one else is sure, either. It must be driving her crazy. Besides,” Ginnie added laconically, “Libby would never electrocute someone.”
Nicki wasn’t convinced. “Crazy” being the operative word. Maybe Libby wouldn’t do terrible things when she was thinking clearly. But what if she was so angry about Nicki’s presence on the team that she was no longer thinking rationally? That would make a difference, wouldn’t it?
Several times during practice that day, Nicki glanced over at Libby and shivered as she saw the brute force with which Libby slammed the ball back across the net.
She wishes that were me, Nicki thought with absolute conviction. Libby would be in seventh heaven if she could just smash me back and forth across the net like that.
It was a sobering thought.
Even more sobering was the sight of the large, blood-red stain on the court in the spot where Nicki had been standing the day before when her ball burst. An understanding Coach Dietch had assigned Nicki to a different court. But Nicki had seen it when she first walked into the dome, knew it was there. And was painfully aware of it throughout practice.
Still, buoyed by the sudden, unexpected support from much of the team, she played remarkably well that afternoon. She reveled in the resulting praise as they all walked off the courts and headed for the locker rooms. The atmosphere was so different from what it had been, Nicki could almost feel happy.
In spite of Libby. In spite of everything.
“Come eat with us,” Sara invited. “We’re going over to Burgers Etc. It’ll be fun. We won’t even talk tennis if you don’t want.”
“I don’t mind talking tennis.” Better than talking about Barb, or the horrible ball filled with paint and paint thinner. “And I’ll come, but I’m bringing Pat and Ginnie, okay?” She wasn’t about to forget the only two people who’d befriended her from the start.
“Sure. Whatever.”
Ginnie and Pat were delighted, at first. Then, as they were drying their hair after their showers, Pat came up behind Nicki and said anxiously, “Are you sure this is a good idea? For all we know, one of those people is out to get you. Do you really think it’s safe to be around them?”
“Pat,” Nicki answered, shaking her hair into place, “I don’t know what’s going on. Not a clue. But I do know that I have to eat. And nothing terrible can happen to me in a public place like Burgers Etc.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Pat brushed her own short hair back behind her ears. “If they can get at your tennis ball and put paint in it, why can’t they put poison in your burger?”
She said it lightly, but Nicki knew she was only half-kidding. Forcing a laugh that came out as a nervous, humorless sound, she replied, “Great! You just ruined my appetite. Everything I eat is going to taste weird now.”
But it didn’t. Everything tasted great, because in spite of the past few horrific days, she was sitting in a popular college restaurant with a large group of people, and it was fun. She hadn’t forgotten that something was very wrong. How could she? But there was nothing she could do about it, not yet, not now. So why not enjoy the moment while she had it?
She did find herself, more than once, glancing around the overcrowded booth at the laughing, animated faces, wondering if one of them could belong to the shadowy figure behind the whirlpool. But it seemed impossible. That figure had been so menacing. No one at the table seemed the least bit threatening.
Except Libby, of course, who stopped by Nicki’s booth on her way out of the diner to lean over the table and say, “It almost looks like whoever sabotaged that ball of yours did you a favor, doesn’t it? I mean, suddenly you’re so popular.”
When Nicki refused to answer, Libby shrugged and moved away from the table, calling over her shoulder, “Maybe you did it yourself, Nicki. Doctored that tennis ball. Great way of getting attention.” She was laughing as one of her followers held the door open for her. Everyone at Nicki’s table grew quiet.
“She doesn’t really think I would do something that stupid, does she?” Nicki said, glancing around at the faces in her booth.
“Of course not,” Pat was the first to answer. “She’s just yanking your chain. Trying to get a rise out of you.”
“Well, it worked.” Nicki stared glumly at her half-eaten hamburger.
“Don’t let her get to you,” Ginnie said. “She probably just said that to throw suspicion off herself. A lot of people think she did it.”
There were nods all around the table.
Ginnie quickly added, “Except me. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. It wasn’t her.”
Nicki glanced at her with suspicion. “You seem awfully sure. Do you know something we don’t?”
Ginnie’s eyes darkened angrily. “If I did, I’d tell you. She just wouldn’t do that kind of thing, that’s all.”
“Why,” Sara asked, “because she’s such a good sport? We’ve all seen her throw her racket, more than once. Maybe she doesn’t know how much damage that can do, but I do.”
Everyone looked at Sara with interest.
“I was in the Tri-State regional championships at Forest Hills when I was twelve …” she began.
“You were?” Nicki interrupted in surprise. “So was I! We were living back here then, in Nokomis, New York. In fact, we were moving the next day to Denver. I don’t remember you, though, Sara. Sorry.”
There were other nods around the table. Several of them had lived in the area at the time and had played in that tournament.
“There were tons of kids there,” Sara continued. “I wouldn’t expect you to remember me. What I started to say was, I heard that after the tournament, some kid was partially blinded by a stone that hit his eye when a tennis brat who’d lost that night threw a racket on a patch of gravel. So Libby ought to be more careful, that’s all.” Having finished her story, Sara paused, then said, “Nicki? What’s the matter? Your face is dead white.”
Everyone’s attention switched to Nicki. Her face was indeed pale and chalky, her eyes open wide and staring at Ginnie. “What are you talking about?” she said, her voice hoarse with anxiety. “Someone lost an eye?”
“Oh, well, I don’t know that someone lost an eye. Only that a kid was hit in the eye with a stone and his eye had been injured. But before we left the next day to go back home, my father heard that the kid probably wouldn’t be able to see out of that eye again, and so wouldn’t be able to play tennis anymore. I remember that, because I thought it would be so horrible. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it then, if you were there.”
“I told you,” Nicki said. “We were moving the next day. We drove back home that night and left for Denver the next morning. I never heard anything about it. It’s … it’s revolting. Blinded? By a stone?”
“Not completely blinded,” Pat pointed out. “I mean, I know it’s horrible, but Sara said it was one eye, not both. Nicki, what’s wrong with you? Are you okay?”
No, she wasn’t okay. Nicki was definitely not okay. “Do … do you know who it was? The kid who was hit by the stone, I mean?” she asked Sara.
“No.”
“Girl or boy?” Nicki persisted.
“I told you, I don’t know. What difference does it make? All I know is, someone who was so good at tennis that he—or she—made it to the tournament, probably never got to play again.”
Nicki moaned softly, and put a hand over her eyes.
Everyone at the table exchanged worried glances. “Nicki?” Pat said. “It was a long time ago.”
Yes, Nicki knew that. Six years. Six years ago. Now it was coming back to haunt her, after all this time, like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
She slid down in the booth, her hand over her eyes, so dizzy and nauseated she was afraid she was going to pass out, right there in front of everyone. And then she remembered.
It was June, early summer, with the trees fully leafed out and the sun, as they arrived at the tournament, warming the courts. A beautiful day. But the Bledsoe family was moving again the next day, and Nicki was furious about it. She loved living in Nokomis. It was the best place they’d ever lived. And now, her parents were taking her away again. She hated them for it.
But since she had no choice, and had to leave, it seemed important that she go out in a blaze of glory. So she was determined to win.
But she didn’t. She lost, big time. And left the stadium that night quivering with disappointment and fury. Left after dark in the middle of a huge crowd, walking with her head down, swinging her racket angrily. Her parents were waiting for her in the car, five minutes away. She decided she was never going to play tennis again. That would show her parents how angry she really was. It was a stupid game, anyway.
Her fury took over, and she threw her racket to the ground. The walkway they were on was gravel, full of small stones. The racket sent a handful of stones flying up in every direction, hitting people. Nicki didn’t see what happened, but a child somewhere behind her screamed, a blood-chilling shriek. Then a woman cried, “Terry, Terry, what’s the matter?” and a second later, shouted, “Oh, my god, what’s happened to your eye?”
Nicki scooped up her racket and raced all the way to the car. She jumped in and told her father she had to go the bathroom really bad, so could he please hurry?
By the next day, she knew she had to tell someone. She had to know what had happened after she ran away. She told her father. He called the stadium to see if anything had been reported, but no one there knew anything. Then he called area hospitals, with no luck. It was getting late, and they had to leave ahead of the moving van. Her father decided the injury must have been a minor one and gave her a long lecture about never throwing her racket, a lecture she no longer needed. She had learned her lesson.
She never heard any more about the incident. It had never occurred to her that because of it, someone who loved the game of tennis might never have played it again after that night.
But now, after what Sara had said, Nicki, dread choking her, remembered other things … like how white her father’s face had been when he hung up after talking to one of the hospitals. She had told herself then that he was white with relief, but now … had that been when he found out the truth? A truth so shocking that it had drained the color from his face?
And her parents had argued all that morning. She had blamed that on the stress of moving. But they had moved many times before, and they’d never argued so vehemently. She remembered her mother whispering harshly, when she thought Nicki wasn’t close enough to hear, “You can’t tell her, you can’t!” And what was it that her father had responded? Something about Nicki needing to “know the truth.”
She had thought they’d meant that the house in Denver wasn’t as nice as the one in Nokomis, or that maybe the school was horrible.
So, when she got to Denver and the house and the school was fine, maybe even nicer than in Nokomis, why hadn’t she asked herself what that argument had really been about?
Because she was afraid.
Because she didn’t want to know the “truth” that her father had talked about.
There had been letters, too. Long, white official-looking envelopes with the return address of a New York law firm printed in the upper left-hand corner. They’d been in the mail when Nicki collected it on cold, snowy Colorado days. Her mother had said they had to do with the sale of their New York house.
Had her parents been sued because of what she’d done?
Was Terry short for Terrence, or Teresa?
He or she hadn’t been from Nokomis. She knew every tennis player in Nokomis. No one named Terry played tennis in her town.
But there had been kids from three states at Forest Hills.
Nicki heard again the words, “After what you did,” coming from the voice of the shadowy figure in the infirmary doorway.
No … ridiculous … crazy … that had been six years ago, and no one knew who she was. She had grabbed up her racket and run. No one knew it was her fault. The words spoken in the infirmary couldn’t possibly have anything to do with that incident.
How could her parents have kept the truth from her? Why hadn’t they told her? How could they have lied to her all these years?
Everyone at the table was staring at her.
“They never found out who threw that racket?” Nicki asked Sara.
“I don’t know. Probably. I mean, isn’t that always the first question parents ask when someone gets hurt? Who did it? They always want to know who did it and how it happened, as if that would change anything. But I never heard who it was.”
That’s because it was covered up, Nicki thought bitterly. The truth was carefully hidden, so you couldn’t see it.
She had to get out of there. Taking a deep breath, she managed to stand up. “I need to leave now,” she said.
No one argued with her. They could see how shaken she was. She knew they thought it was simply the thought of a tennis player no longer able to play the game he or she must have loved. She was willing to let them think that. She couldn’t bring herself to tell them what she now believed to be the truth.
Chapter 13
THE FIRST THING NICKI did when she got back to her room was call her parents. Nicki’s mother answered the telephone and her father picked up the extension in the living room. When they had all exchanged greetings, Nicki said, as casually as she could manage, “Do you two remember when we were living back here, in Nokomis, and I played in that big tri-state tournament the night before we moved to Denver?”
The silence that followed told her everything. Her worst fears were confirmed. It was true. It was all true, and they’d known this whole time. They had kept the truth from her.
Her father cleared his throat. “Nicki, you’ve been in so many tournaments.”
“Don’t,” she murmured in a strangled voice, “don’t keep it up. I know. Why didn’t you tell me?” She was sitting on her bed, and now she sagged back against the wall. “I don’t understand.”
Another silence. Then her mother said, “Nicki, why are you thinking about that night now, after all this time?”
But Nicholas Bledsoe said in a weary voice, “Give it up, Celeste. We knew there was a good chance she’d hear something when we moved back east. Nicki’s right. It’s time to quit pretending.” To his daughter, he said quietly, “What do you need to know?”
She didn’t know where to begin. So many questions. So many awful answers, waiting to be spoken aloud. “Did that child really lose the sight in one eye?”
Her father cleared his throat. “Yes. But,” he added quickly, “it was an accident, Nicki. No one blamed you.”
Someone did, she thought. Someone who had said, “After what you did. …”
“You told me you didn’t find out anything,” Nicki accused. “You said there hadn’t been any reports of an accident like that.”
“We felt it was for your own good, Nicole.” Her mother’s voice, low and calm. “It was an accident, honey. We couldn’t see what good it would do for you to know. Your father paid all of the child’s medical bills, every penny.”
The letters from the New York law firm.
Nicki felt sick again. “Oh, God,” she groaned, bending double on her bed. The room was spinning around her, a pale blue blur. “Oh, no, no. I didn’t do that, I didn’t. Someone is blind in one eye because of me?”
Her father’s voice, deep and suddenly stern, came back on the lin
e. “Nicole, listen to me. I don’t know why you’ve dredged up this thing after all these years, but I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t think you could handle it like an adult. Don’t prove me wrong now. As your mother said, it was an unfortunate accident, and it was handled in the best way possible. There is no sense at all in dwelling on it now, after all this time.”
“Terry …” Nicki murmured. “The name that woman screamed was Terry. Did I blind a girl or a boy?”
Her mother gasped at her daughter’s choice of words. “You didn’t blind anyone!” she said angrily. “Not … not completely. Don’t say that!”
“Was it a girl or a boy?” Nicki demanded furiously. Beads of cold sweat stood out on her forehead.
“We don’t know,” her father answered finally. “They never said, and we never asked. We dealt only with the family’s lawyers, and they referred to the child only as ‘minor child Gideon.’ So we don’t know.”
Gideon? Terry Gideon. Terrence Gideon. Teresa Gideon.
She didn’t know anyone whose last name was Gideon.
“Was ‘minor child Gideon’ a good tennis player?” she asked harshly. “Or just mediocre?”
“Nicki …”
“Answer me! Was he a really good tennis player? Someone with the potential to be a champion, maybe?”
Her father sighed heavily. “Yes, I guess you could say that. From what the lawyer said, yes, the child was on the way to becoming a tennis champion. They probably could have used that to bring a lawsuit against us, but the parents weren’t that kind of people. They asked nothing of us beyond the medical bills.”
The person she’d injured had been good enough to become a champion?
The operative words there being “had been,” Nicki reflected bitterly. Past tense after her temper tantrum. Because you could do many, many things with only one eye, but playing tennis wouldn’t be one of them.
“Please, dear,” her mother begged, “don’t be angry with us. You were only twelve years old. And you were already having problems because of the frequent moving. We saw no point in adding to those problems by giving you the burden of guilt over a terrible accident. You can understand that, can’t you?”
