Elizabeth took a deep breath. "I know how busy you are, Kristin. And I don't want to put you on the spot by asking you to do something you can't possibly have time for. But my friend Enid Rollins and I are starting up a chapter of the Big Sister program at Sweet Valley High, and we have a little girl with no one to sponsor her. She happens to be a tennis freak, and we wondered. . . ." Elizabeth's voice trailed off.
"What's the Big Sister program?" Kristin asked.
Elizabeth explained to Kristin how the program worked. "It's for little girls—in this case, mostly nine- and ten-year-olds—whose mothers have either left the family or who have passed away. The program tries to help these girls by providing them with an older surrogate sister who can do some of the things for them that their mother might have."
"That's a nice idea," Kristin said slowly, not meeting Elizabeth's gaze.
"Emily Brown is the girl we hoped you might sponsor. She's in third grade. Her mom died in a car crash last year. The only thing she seems to care about right now is tennis. Her teacher thinks she'd really benefit from spending time with an older girl."
Kristin bent over to fuss with her lock. "I'm really incredibly busy right now," she said, not looking at Elizabeth. "The Avery Cup tournament is coming up. I've been practicing four hours a day. I really don't think—"
Elizabeth cleared her throat. "We wouldn't need much of a time commitment. Maybe an hour or two a week. And you don't have to let us know right away. Think about it if you want," she said quickly.
Kristin sighed deeply. "OK," she said abruptly, climbing onto her bike. "I'll think about it."
Before Elizabeth could say another word, Kristin had ridden away.
Kristin blinked back tears. The road swam before her in a blur of colors, and a car slammed on its horn as she rode too close to traffic. She had to breathe deeply to get back her control.
She wished Elizabeth Wakefield hadn't told her about Emily Brown. No one at school was close enough to Kristin to know that her own mother had been killed in a plane crash when she was only seven.
Kristin blinked furiously, trying as hard as she could to shut out the memory of that horrible day, nine years ago now, when she had come home and found her father and Dorrie sitting in the living room, staring blankly at each other. "I can't tell her," her father had said, tears running down his face. "Tell me what?" Kristin had cried.
It was as though part of her life had ended then—the part that had been filled with love, laughter, and happiness. After that there was only one thing that mattered: winning tennis matches.
Kristin rode her bike up the long drive to the tennis club and slipped it into the rack. Hundreds of stormy thoughts raced around in her head. Why had Elizabeth brought up this Big Sister program now, of all times? She'd had everything under perfect control.
"Kristin!" Dorrie called, waving from the courts.
Kristin sighed and went into the clubhouse to change and get her racket. She knew her routine so well that she moved like an automaton, making small talk with the men in the clubhouse, changing in the locker room, limbering up, then running out to the courts, where Dorrie was waiting for her.
Dorrie, who had been her mother's best friend and had played doubles with her on the pro team the year before the tragic crash, had remained her father's closest friend. She had singlehandedly coached Kristin for the past eight years, and sometimes Kristin thought Dorrie knew her even better than she knew herself.
"You seem sluggish. What time did you get to bed last night?" Dorrie called, after they had hit a few balls.
Kristin bit her lip. "Same time as always," she said, taking a deep breath to get her concentration back.
But her serve went into the net.
"Sorry," she called, red-faced, running forward to retrieve the ball.
Dorrie looked at her with concern.
The next serve was perfect—clean, hard, powerful.
"That's my girl!" Dorrie cried. "Let's do it again."
For the next hour Kristin fired serves at Dorrie. On good days her serves were as dependable as the rest of her game. Reporters always wrote that she seemed like a born tennis player. They referred to her balanced game and called her "a sure thing." But this afternoon Kristin felt awkward and heavy on her feet. Nothing seemed to be going right.
"Let's take a break," Dorrie suggested at five-thirty. She strolled over to join Kristin on her side of the net. At thirty-eight, Dorrie was a strikingly attractive woman. Her black hair was slightly streaked with gray, and her bright blue eyes sparkled when she smiled.
"I don't know what's wrong with me today," Kristin muttered before Dorrie could say a word. "I'm playing like a total klutz."
"Everyone's entitled to an off day once in a while," Dorrie said, putting an arm affectionately around Kristin. "Don't worry about it."
But Kristin always worried about her game. "The Avery Cup's so close," she said in anguish. "If I keep playing like this, I'll never make it."
Dorrie kept her voice light. "Remember," she said, "part of being a pro is learning to live with the ups and downs. It's only one afternoon, Kristin. Just relax and you'll be fine."
Kristin didn't answer. She kept thinking about Elizabeth, the Big Sister program, and little Emily Brown. She couldn't get the image of the lonely little girl out of her mind.
Kristin didn't know what Emily Brown looked like, though. The little girl Kristin imagined was really herself, nine years ago, the day she had found out about her mother's accident.
She knew that was why her game was off today, but she would never tell Dorrie that. Kristin had made it a rule never to show her father, or Dorrie, when she was feeling vulnerable and weak. Kristin tried hard to act like a pro on the court and off. That meant being tough—disciplined, as Dorrie said.
A pro doesn't break down and cry just because she gets lonesome sometimes, Kristin reminded herself sternly. She steeled herself and said, "Let's keep going. I'm not leaving the court till I get my serve back!"
Dorrie gave her the thumbs-up sign. "Way to go, champ!" she said enthusiastically. "That's the kind of spirit I've always admired in you, Kristin!"
Kristin bit her lip as she squared off to face the net. That was what she wanted, wasn't it? For Dorrie and her father to admire her for being strong?
She knew it was. But right then Kristin wasn't feeling one bit strong. It was almost as if the lonely little girl had never grown up at all.
Three
After practice Kristin and Dorrie met Kristin's father in the club's dining hall. They often ate there during the week, since tennis absorbed too much of their time for them to cook. Besides, the club's dining room was practically home to them all. Mr. Thompson owned several tennis clubs and was a partner in a tennis camp outside of San Diego. It kept him busy, and—as he liked to tell people—it kept him close to his daughter.
"Hi, sweetheart!" Neil Thompson called when she came into the dining room, fresh from her shower in the locker room. Her father and Dorrie were sitting at their regular table near the window.
"Hi, Dad," Kristin said, giving him a kiss and sliding into the chair between them. She didn't bother to look at the menu, which she had long ago memorized. "I'd just like some grilled chicken and a salad with no dressing," she told the waiter. Kristin was trying to keep her weight low before the tournament.
"Are you sure that's enough food for you? What about some vegetables? They're not fattening," her father suggested.
Kristin shook her head. "No, thanks. Chicken and salad are just fine."
Mr. Thompson looked at her closely. "Are you feeling all right, sweetheart? Dorrie was just telling me your game was a little shaky this afternoon."
Kristin took a big swallow of water. "I'm fine," she said in a low voice. She knew her father's questions only came out of love, but sometimes she wished he wouldn't pay such close attention to her.
"I've heard there's a flu going around," he added anxiously.
"Dad, I'm fine!" Kristin exclaime
d.
Dorrie put her hand restrainingly on Mr. Thompson's arm. "Let's finish ordering," she said gently, trying, as she almost always did, to step in between father and daughter before an argument could begin.
Kristin was grateful. Her father concentrated on explaining how he wanted his steak prepared, and before long the conversation turned to other topics. She began to relax a little. Sometimes it was hard to feel that she couldn't let up, not even for a second; that even while having dinner with her father and Dorrie she had to act the part of the pro. Almost-pro, she reminded herself.
But it was only a matter of minutes before the conversation turned back to tennis. "Did you see the article on Nick Wylie in the sports section today?" Neil Thompson asked his daughter. The waiter brought their salads, and Kristin took a quick bite before answering.
"I haven't seen the paper yet. I spent lunch hour trying to do some homework, and—"
"It was a fascinating article. Sounds like Wylie is exactly the kind of coach you need," Mr. Thompson interrupted her. "He's got a real eye for talent. The article talked about the Avery Cup tournament, too." He took a bite of his salad. "It's less than three weeks away now, Kristin. Are you feeling psyched up?"
Kristin poked at her salad with her fork. "I think so," she said feebly.
"But I haven't told you the best part," Mr. Thompson went on. "Your name got mentioned. Someone did a story on the seventeen-and-under stars, and the writer went on and on about how wonderful you are. 'Strong, consistent, sure of herself,' the article said." He smiled affectionately at her. "I cut it out for your scrapbook."
"Thanks, Dad," Kristin murmured. She pushed her salad away, not feeling very hungry anymore. "Listen," she said suddenly, looking first at her father and then at Dorrie. "What would happen if—if something went wrong and I didn't make Nick Wylie's team?"
Mr. Thompson stared at her. "Honey, there's no way that's going to happen. You're a shoo-in. Who can possibly beat you?"
"That isn't the point," Kristin said desperately. "I just wondered what you two would do if something went wrong and I messed up and didn't make it."
"We wouldn't do anything, honey," Dorrie said. "What do you mean, do?"
Kristin blinked back tears. She needed badly to have her father's reassurance that he would love her every bit as much even if she didn't make the team. But Kristin knew that her tennis victories were important to him. For as long as she could remember, she had been his "star." Now she was going to help his biggest dream come true. If she made the all-star team, he would be the happiest man in the world—that's what he was always saying.
Mr. Thompson looked at her with concern. "Are you sure there isn't something that you're not telling us, Kristin? Did something upset you at school?"
Kristin shook her head and forced herself to keep eating. She didn't want to worry her father any more than she already had. All she wanted was to make him happy, to know that he and Dorrie were proud of her. She wasn't going to say a word about Emily Brown and the Big Sister program.
By the time Kristin and her father got home from the club, it was nearly eight-thirty. "I'm going upstairs to do my homework," Kristin told her father as she slipped out of her jacket.
Glancing at his watch, he nodded. "But don't stay up too late. Promise me you'll be in bed by ten-thirty."
Kristin nodded, trying to hide her annoyance. Didn't her father realize that she knew how much sleep she needed without having to be reminded?
"Remember, Kris, if you need anything at all in the next few weeks, just let me know," he continued, looking fondly at her. "Dorrie says she's completely at your disposal, too. If you want to spend more time practicing, we could even make arrangements with your teachers so you could spend some mornings at the club."
Kristin shook her head. "I don't think so, Dad. It's probably best for me to keep up my normal schedule." And it would probably be best for me if you and Dorrie relaxed a little bit about this tournament, she thought. It's bad enough that I put pressure on myself without it coming from the two of you as well.
"Sleep tight," he called as she hurried upstairs.
Kristin took a deep breath as she closed the bedroom door behind her and sank into the overstuffed chair next to her bed. She closed her eyes for a few minutes, trying to relax. At least her father cared passionately about tennis. Some of the other players didn't have their parents' support. Wouldn't that be a million times worse?
Deep down Kristin knew that her dad adored her and would do anything in the world for her. But sometimes she felt she would gladly exchange all her trophies for a normal life; to go out on dates, to parties, or to simply hang out with friends at school instead of spending every single minute of her life practicing.
She could remember, years back when she first started competing seriously, her father asking if this was what she really wanted. "Don't you want what other girls have?" he used to say. Kristin always said no. She wanted to be a great tennis player. Really great—world-class. While other girls her age were worrying about being asked to dances or getting their first formal dresses or falling in love or making friends, Kristin was worrying about strengthening her serve or getting her backhand in shape.
Kristin had done such a good job of convincing Dorrie and her father that tennis was all she wanted that neither of them would dream she might have reconsidered. Ages had passed since her father had asked if she missed doing things other girls her age did.
If the question came up again, Kristin wondered whether it would be possible to say that tennis was still all she wanted.
Her glance fell on a photograph on her nightstand. Kristin's eyes softened as she picked up the silver oval frame and gazed tenderly at her mother's image: It was her favorite picture of her mother; laughing, her head thrown back as she held the winning trophy of the U.S. Open in her arms. She looked so young and carefree in the photo. It was hard to believe that less than a year later she was dead.
Elise Randall had been a golden girl of tennis. Born and bred in California, she was a natural talent from the day she first picked up a racket. By the time she was sixteen she was slated to win Wimbledon one day. She won every match she played with effortless grace, which made reporters and fans adore her. She was so dedicated to tennis that when she finished high school, she decided not to go to college. By nineteen she had fallen in love with and gotten married to Neil Thompson, then a student at Stanford. When Neil graduated, he decided to borrow all the money he could to buy his first club. He and Elise wanted to start a series of tennis schools. They had all sorts of dreams, including having a family. When Kristin was born, they hoped she would be a pro, just like her mother. They bought her a racket as soon as she was big enough to hold it.
Kristin's memories of her mother were blurry. She remembered sitting on her father's lap, clapping when her mother won matches. She remembered the light, flowery smell of her mother's perfume when she came into Kristin's room in the middle of the night to kiss her after returning from whatever tour she had been on. And she remembered helping her mother pack before the trip to Wimbledon that was to claim her life. Her mother had been so excited. Wimbledon was the only competition left for her to win—the pinnacle she had worked for her whole life. "Someday you're going to be a champion, Kris," her mother had said fondly, rumpling her daughter's hair. "Then you'll know how I'm feeling today."
But the plane that was supposed to carry Elise to her greatest victory never landed in London. Something went wrong with the engine, and the plane crashed somewhere over the Atlantic. Kristin shuddered. Staring down at her mother's photograph, she remembered the nightmares she'd had that summer and fall. She would wake up screaming, and her heartbroken father would come running into her bedroom to gather her in his arms. But nothing worked. Kristin was inconsolable. She couldn't understand that her mother was gone for good.
For months after the accident, Kristin cried every time she saw a tennis racket. She wouldn't go to the club, and her grief was so evident that her te
achers suggested she see a child psychologist to help her adjust to the terrible loss she had suffered.
Then one day, out of the blue, Kristin met her father at the club and told him she wanted to start lessons again. They never mentioned her mother. Kristin began to play with a passion that amazed her father and Dorrie. All she wanted was to play tennis—to win. It was as if her mother's words to her had turned into a final request: be like me. Be a champion. Win Wimbledon for me—the thing I could never do.
From that point on, tennis was Kristin's entire life. She played with a kind of earnestness that amazed her coaches. No one had ever seen such dedication or drive. They didn't know that Kristin was playing for her mother's memory. Only when she had a racket in her hand—only when she was winning—did it feel to Kristin that she hadn't really lost her mother. It was the only way she knew to keep her mother's spirit alive.
Four
"Elizabeth!" Kristin called, snapping the padlock on her bicycle shut. It was Tuesday morning, and Kristin wanted to catch Elizabeth before the first bell rang.
Elizabeth was walking with Jeffrey French across the lawn. She turned to Kristin with a quizzical smile.
"I want to talk to you about the Big Sister program," Kristin said breathlessly.
"Oh!" Elizabeth smiled at her. "Jeffrey, how 'bout if I find you later on?"
Jeffrey patted Elizabeth's hand affectionately before slipping off to leave the two girls alone to talk. Kristin felt a slight pang of envy. She wondered what it would be like to have a boyfriend, someone who knew every single thing that happened to you, someone as in love with you as Jeffrey was with Elizabeth.
She swallowed hard. "Jeffrey seems so nice," she said wistfully.
Elizabeth laughed. "He is nice," she said warmly.
Kristin took a deep breath. "Listen, I've given a lot of thought to being a big sister," she said carefully. "I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, I think it's a great idea, and I'd really like to sponsor Emily Brown."
Second Chance (Sweet Valley High Book 53) Page 2
