Jersey Tomatoes are the Best

by Maria Padian

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2011 by Maria Padian

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/teens

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Padian, Maria.

  Jersey tomatoes are the best / Maria Padian. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When fifteen-year-old best friends Henry and Eva leave New Jersey, one for tennis camp in Florida and one for ballet camp in New York, each faces challenges that put her long-cherished dreams of the future to the test.

  eISBN: 978-0-375-89609-5

  [1. Best friends—Fiction. 2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Ballet dancing—Fiction. 4. Tennis—Fiction. 5. Anorexia nervosa—Fiction. 6. Camps—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.P1325Jer 2011

  [Fic]—dc22

  2010011827

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  For Conrad, who is our rock,

  and always for Madsy

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One - Henry

  Chapter Two - Eva

  Chapter Three - Henry

  Chapter Four - Eva

  Chapter Five - Henry

  Chapter Six - Eva

  Chapter Seven - Henry

  Chapter Eight - Eva

  Chapter Nine - Henry

  Chapter Ten - Eva

  Chapter Eleven - Henry

  Chapter Twelve - Eva

  Chapter Thirteen - Henry

  Chapter Fourteen - Eva

  Chapter Fifteen - Henry

  Chapter Sixteen - Eva

  Chapter Seventeen - Henry

  Chapter Eighteen - Eva

  Chapter Nineteen - Henry

  Chapter Twenty - Eva

  Chapter Twenty-one - Henry

  Chapter Twenty-two - Eva

  Chapter Twenty-three - Henry

  Chapter Twenty-four - Eva

  Chapter Twenty-five - Henry

  Chapter Twenty-six - Eva

  Chapter Twenty-seven - Henry

  Chapter Twenty-eight - Eva

  Chapter Twenty-nine - Henry

  Chapter Thirty - Eva

  Chapter Thirty-one - Henry

  Chapter Thirty-two - Eva

  Chapter Thirty-three - Henry

  Chapter Thirty-four - Eva

  Chapter Thirty-five - Henry

  Chapter Thirty-six - Eva

  Chapter Thirty-seven - Henry

  Chapter Thirty-eight - Eva

  Chapter Thirty-nine - Henry

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  HENRY

  I know I’ve won when she starts talking to herself.

  “Stupid, Emily!” I hear her say. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Watch the ball! Not the target!”

  She paces and mutters, and as I wait on my side of the net, I calmly bounce the ball on the baseline.

  That’s right, Emily. Eye on the ball. You wouldn’t have just hit it into the net if you’d kept your eye on the ball. Watch it closely. So closely that you can read the manufacturer’s name as it connects with the strings on your racket. Say it as you smack it: Penn. Wilson. Dunlop.

  Emily stops pacing, places her racket carefully on the ground and bends over to tie her laces. Pretends to tie her laces, that is. Classic. No line judge or opponent would dare accuse her of stalling. Of catching her breath and settling her nerves. But that’s what she’s doing. I’ve used that strategy myself when I want to interrupt the pace and play with my opponent’s head.

  Or when I’m losing.

  She straightens up and slowly walks to the left corner of the ad box, preparing to receive my serve. She practically straddles the alley, that’s how far left she stands. Protecting her backhand. Assuming that I’m going to serve into her backhand.

  If you can’t read the name on the ball, then you’re not looking hard enough. How many times have I heard that? And still, in a match, especially a big one like this, you could forget. Forget the most basic, Tennis 101 lesson in the book: watch the ball hit the racket. Although, quite frankly, Emily my dear, even that won’t save you now. You’re down four games in the second set, it’s 40–love, and I’m about to serve you into five games down. You’re not stupid, Emily. You’re toast.

  “Forty–love,” I call out, as if she doesn’t know. I twist my hand counterclockwise on the grip, lean over and bounce the ball one, two, three times in front of me. A little compression in the knees, then spring! Both arms up in a perfect V. My left hand releases the ball, palm open to the sky, like I’m catching raindrops, while my right arm bends at the elbow as if the racket were a giant back scratcher. The ball floats up and over me, hovers in the air briefly at two o’clock, and as my arm snaps forward, hurling the racket face as if I were pitching a baseball, I see the word imprinted on the fuzzy yellow surface: “Wilson.” The ball makes a solid popping sound as it connects with the strings.

  It arcs high over the net, down the center of the court. A loopy, twisting floater right down the T, a big fat second serve to Emily’s forehand. Never mind that she expects a hard first serve to her backhand. The ball bounces an inch inside the line, then kicks high and away from her. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even whiff at it. Ace. My game.

  Applause, chatter, the usual eruption of spectator sound as we switch sides. We’ve parked our bags at opposite ends of the net, eliminating the need to make eye contact as we swallow water, towel off and take a quick bite of a half-eaten PowerBar. We’re allowed ninety seconds to make this journey from one side to the other, refueling as we cross the line. We aren’t supposed to talk to anyone, especially not a coach. Just drink, gulp and go.

  As I rescrew the top of my water bottle, I glance down the length of the net toward Emily. She has her head down, breathing hard. The red Nike top she wears has darkened during the course of the game, drenched with sweat. She has both hands on her knees, and a man wearing a blue polo shirt crouches beside her and speaks urgently into her ear.

  “Hey! None of that!” a deep male voice bellows to my right.

  The chatter stops and every head turns in the direction of the voice. Seated on the aluminum bleachers not a dozen feet from where I stand, another man, markedly tan, glares at Emily and her companion. He has a slim notebook opened across his knees and a pencil tucked behind one ear. Anyone who doesn’t know him might wonder: is he a reporter taking notes? Of course, I know that he’s been carefully recording every stroke of the game in that book, every point won or lost. A methodical, unblinking diary of the afternoon’s event, to be analyzed in minute detail before the sun sets.

  Tan Notebook Man is my father.

  Blue Polo Man straightens, and raises one reassuring hand.

  “It’s okay,” he says. Emily picks up her racket and begins walking to her side of the court.

  “No coaching allowed!” my father shouts. “You want to get her disqualified?” Gasps of surprise. The wh
isper of hushed, urgent conversation from the spectators.

  Here we go again.

  Emily halts, midstride, and looks hesitantly at Blue Polo Man.

  “It’s okay,” he repeats, firmly, to her. Then he turns to my dad.

  “I’m not her coach,” he calls back, then returns to the bleachers on his side.

  “Oh yeah?” my dad retorts. “How do we know that?” He stands up, clutching his notebook so it doesn’t fall.

  “Hey, buddy, chill,” I hear someone call out. “Just let the kids play,” chimes in another voice. “Delay of game!” calls a third. My father doesn’t sit.

  “Daddy!” I hiss. Heads swivel in my direction.

  “Pipe down and let me finish beating her, okay?” A moment’s shocked pause, then laughter, rippling through the crowd. At first my father frowns, then his mouth twists into a knowing smile. Even if Blue Polo Man were Emily’s coach, it doesn’t matter. I need one more game, just four points, to wrap this up and become Henriette Lloyd, Northern New Jersey 16-and-Under Junior Tennis Champion. Emily could be on a cell phone life-lining Venus and Serena, for all I care. Read her body language, folks. This one is mine.

  My father sits.

  Emily prepares to serve. She has a good serve. Not much spin, but fast, and she can place it. I’ve been having a hard time predicting where it will land.

  She bounces it, tosses it high over her head, then fires it at me. It shoots straight down the middle of the court, a rocket into my backhand. She follows it in, racing to the net. This girl’s still got some life in her.

  I barely manage to get my racket on it. My return pops high and short, a big fat sucker ball to her forehand. A silver-platter shot. Just handing her a point on a silver platter. Damn.

  She winds up and smacks it, aims it down the line and behind me, to the far corner of my backhand side. A dead winner. Except … it hits the tape on the top of the net. It hits with a sickening smack, and drops on her side. My point.

  “Ohhh.” Big sigh of disappointment from the fans. The poor kid. Getting trounced out here in the hot sun. The soon-to-be-runner-up who had a chance to salvage her pride with a winner and remind us why she’s here, in the 16-and-Under state final. They feel sorry for her.

  I hate that. I hate the way fans side with my opponents, as if they’re helpless victims and I’m some creep for beating them. I mean, am I supposed to feel guilty for being the better player? This is a game, people. We play to win.

  Emily stares in disbelief as the yellow ball rolls gently toward her. She lets out a deep, long breath.

  “Tough luck,” I call out, shaking my head in sympathy. “And your serve was so awesome.”

  She looks stricken. It is probably the worst thing I could have said to her. Not only to point out how great the serve was, how the point should have been hers and she blew it. But to sympathize with her? You never want other players’ sympathy. You want their fear, their respect. If they offer kind words, you know they think you are the most pathetic little bug ever to swing a racket.

  I can’t help it. I hate myself for it, actually, but I glance at my father. He’s heard my comment, and barely, almost imperceptibly, he winks. Then he looks down, busying himself with his notebook. He and I both know it’s pretty much over now.

  Next serve: Emily double-faults. Then puts up a puff ball which I put away. At love–40, championship point, she tries to lob me, but it falls short. I finish with an overhead slam into her forehand corner. She watches it go by.

  To the velvety sound of outdoor applause, we trot to the net, hands extended for the courtesy shake.

  “You play very well,” she says. “You deserve the title.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, pumping her hand, and wondering how it can be so sweaty and so cold at the same time. “You have a great serve. I had to work hard to return it.” I smile. The game is over. We can be friendly.

  Emily shrugs.

  “Not hard enough,” she comments. “Listen, I want to tell you something.” I gaze at her, puzzled. People from the bleachers are spilling onto the court and walking toward us.

  “That wasn’t a coach talking to me. That was my dad. He was asking me how I felt. See, I’m diabetic. Exercise really affects my blood-sugar levels, and if I’m not careful I could go into a seizure. My dad wanted to know if I needed to test my blood.” Emily stares steadily into my eyes.

  “I don’t know who that loudmouth in the bleachers was, but I want you to know that I would never cheat,” she says. “I know we’re not allowed coaching.”

  I swallow hard. She obviously hadn’t heard me talking to the loudmouth.

  “So, are you okay? I mean, the rules allow us to stop to pee. I’m sure you could have stopped to test your blood, or something.”

  “I’m fine.” Emily smiles, thinly. “No insulin shock. Just tired. You beat me fair and square.”

  At that moment, Blue Polo Man appears. He wraps one arm tightly around Emily’s shoulders and gives her an affectionate squeeze.

  “I’m very proud of you,” he says firmly. “You played great.” He looks across the net at me. “Congratulations,” he says politely.

  “Thank you,” I reply. Then Emily’s dad shifts his gaze over my shoulder, and a frown appears on his forehead. I don’t need eyes in the back of my head to know who he sees.

  My father, aka Loudmouth.

  “Way to go, Henry!” he booms. He raises one hand, palm facing me, to slap five. “Way to go, champ!” I slap him a quick five, then move immediately toward my tennis bag near the exit. Hoping against hope that he will simply follow me.

  No such luck. He turns to Emily and her father.

  “Kid,” he says, “I’m sorry that you lost. But this should be a lesson to you. It never pays to cheat.”

  “Dad!” I say sharply. “Let’s just go. Okay?”

  Emily’s father removes his arm from her shoulder and takes one step toward my dad. His face twitches with controlled rage.

  “I don’t know who you are, or what rock you crawled out from under, but I would advise you in the future to not speak to my daughter, or to me. Is that understood?” he seethes. “Otherwise, I’ll see that you’re barred from the circuit. You won’t be allowed within a ten-mile radius of a junior tournament for the next fifty years.”

  My father laughs.

  “No worries, bro. Especially since I don’t think we’ll be seeing much more of her at match finals anyway, comprendo?” He gives another short laugh, turns his back on them and walks, with me following, off the court.

  In the parking lot about an hour later, as we load my bag and trophy into the back of the Navigator, Dad still crows about the win.

  “You did good today, Hen. Granted, she isn’t as talented as you. But that serve could have messed you up. She’s got a nice serve. But you stayed tough, hung in there. That’s your ace in the hole, kid: mental toughness. Gets ’em every time.”

  “You know, Dad, she’s diabetic. Her father was just asking—” His short bark of laughter cuts me off.

  “Yeah, and I believe the moon is made of Swiss cheese,” he sneers. “Don’t be fooled, Hen. She’s saying that so you won’t report her. Ah, what the hell. You won. We’ll let it go.”

  He pulls out of the parking lot, and I see tournament officials folding up tables, striking the registration tent, dumping ice from coolers. The state championships are in two weeks, in Princeton. It’s the first time I’ve made it to the state finals, and Dad is pretty excited. You can always tell he’s pumped when he goes on about mental toughness. Which, in Dadspeak, is code for “trash talk.”

  I sigh. Mental cruelty, more like.

  Chapter Two

  EVA

  The woman in the black warm-up suit tells us I have thirty minutes to get ready. Perfect.

  Well, perfect for me. Rhonda’s freaked. Freaked, flipped, hyped to the max. Just another day in the life of my over-the-top New-Jersey-housewife mother, although this afternoon she’s got more than the usual a
mount of adrenaline flowing. It’s the day of my solo audition for the New York School of Dance, and she’s just finished attempting to drag-race her SUV through traffic on the George Washington Bridge.

  Usually it takes us fifty-five minutes to cross the Hudson River between New Jersey and the city. Today Mom made the trip in forty-two minutes flat.

  “Arrive alive, Rhonda,” I told her after she cut off a tractor trailer that laid on the horn like the entire brass section of the Philharmonic.

  “And I’ve gotten you safely to the city how many times?” she replied sweetly. We both grinned, but I gripped the armrests for the whole trip. I hate weaving in and out of traffic. It’s not a fear factor, although driving with Mom is legitimate grounds for terror. It’s the lines.

  Linear. I like things linear. Straight, uninterrupted lines, cars moving predictably forward. No breaking the pattern. It’s one reason why I love ballet. The straight, clean lines. The patterns.

  Mom parks like she drives, and when she spied a vacant metered space a few hundred feet from the entrance to the ballet school, she slammed on the brakes. Empty metered spaces just don’t happen in New York. She nosed into it, didn’t even try to back up and parallel-park, for fear that someone else would steal it from behind her. We ended up at a forty-five-degree angle from the curb.

  “Whoops,” I said brightly. “Try again.”

  “This is fine,” she said, turning off the ignition. “C’mon, grab your stuff.” I didn’t budge.

  “Eva,” she said, “we don’t have time for this.”

  “We have three minutes for you to park the car straight,” I replied. I stared out the windshield. I breathed deeply, from my diaphragm, and focused on stillness.

  There is no way you can enter that building and concentrate on your audition dance with the car left outside in this position. Rhonda knows this.

  She swore as she fired up the engine again. The car lurched as she rapidly backed out, as she hit the brakes, then raced forward, lurched again when she stopped, then glided smoothly backward, cutting the wheels sharply so we slipped in eight inches from the curb and parallel to it. Perfect.

  “I tell you, Rhonda, Danica Patrick has nothing on you,” I said, reaching behind my seat for the bag containing my ballet clothes. She didn’t laugh, just sighed impatiently and got out of the car. Okay, so maybe it’s too much to expect that Mom would know the most famous female IndyCar racer. But Henry would’ve laughed. Henry, whose bedroom walls are plastered with pictures of her favorite female sports icons: Danica, Mia, Venus, Misty.