Jersey Tomatoes are the Best

by Maria Padian

  I’ve barely seen Dad these past couple of days. Maybe we could sit outside on the deck where it’s warm. I could eat the chicken; that’d be all right.…

  Get rid of that dead animal. Take that decaying bird out of here.

  “I always spill stuff when I eat in bed. Just put it on the desk.” Rhonda replaces the tray but remains standing. She folds her arms tightly across her chest.

  “Eva, is everything okay?”

  “Why wouldn’t everything be okay?” I answer quickly.

  “Well, frankly, honey, your father and I are concerned. You seem so wiped out at the end of the day, and when you get home you just disappear into your room.”

  “Mom, it’s the first week! I mean, what’s there to say? They spend the beginning reviewing and relearning the basics. Imagine me practicing pliés for hours on end. Dull, huh?”

  Rhonda shifts her feet and frowns.

  “Does Madame DuPres give you any feedback at all?”

  “Mom, do you know what the other girls call her? The Sphinx. After that Egyptian thing. That’s because no one knows what she’s thinking. The other girls say she doesn’t even know their names! And they’ve been there for years.”

  “See, now that’s another thing. The other girls. Who are they? You’ve told us nothing about the other students.”

  The smell of the chicken is making me crazy. Stirring long-buried hungers. I not only imagine chewing; I imagine talking to my mother. About something real.

  Like this afternoon. I had fifteen minutes to kill before pointe class, and I dialed Henry. I was standing outside the school, watching as clusters of dancers quick-stepped along the sidewalk and up the stairs, returning from their lunch breaks. Sisters-in-arms, laughing together. Missing Henry in that moment felt like physical pain, even worse than the worsening sore toe I’ve been trying to ignore.

  Someone picked up her cell phone. The Yolanda person.

  “Oh, hi, Eva!” she exclaimed when I told her who I was. Oh-hi, like she knew me. “Henry is working out and left her phone here in the room. How’s it going? She told me all about your ballet school. It sounds so amazing!”

  “Uh, yeah. It’s amazing,” I replied. For some reason the fact that she knew all about me but I didn’t know a thing about her made me want to cry. I got her off the phone, asked her to ask Henry to call me.

  “Did I tell you I spoke to Henry yesterday?” Rhonda’s eyes widen slightly, indicating boredom. If we’re not talking ballet, my mother finds it hard to pay attention to what I’m saying.

  “How is she doing?” Rhonda asks politely.

  “I miss her,” I say instead. “These other girls … I don’t know. It’s competitive.”

  Her eyes brighten.

  “Are they competitive with you? Have you been singled out in some way?”

  “No, I’m just one in a faceless mob,” I tell her. “It’s more like everyone is competitive with everyone else. Doesn’t exactly encourage warm and fuzzy friendships, you know?”

  Rhonda frowns.

  “You know, honey, some of these other girls? You might end up in the same company with a few of them. Keep in mind that these are good contacts for you.”

  Henry called me back that night. It sounded like she was talking from inside a tin can.

  “Where are you? A submarine?” I asked. She laughed.

  “It’s this totally cool place called the Overlook. It’s a lounge, up some stairs, and looks out over the indoor courts on one side and the outdoor courts on the other. Totally sweet for watching matches or checking out other players.”

  “Ooh, like full-of-himself-blondie-with-the-good-teeth?” I asked.

  “Actually, there is way better scoping to be had,” she said meaningfully. “But give me your news first.”

  “Nothing to say unless you want a detailed description of how it feels to twist your limbs until the connective tissue squeaks, then leap, turning, across an enormous room over and over until sweat flies off you like a sprinkler.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Sorry to make you jealous,” I said. She laughed.

  “I miss you,” she said.

  “No, you don’t,” I countered. “You’ve already made a new best friend. Your roommate, Linda. She answered your cell phone and knew who I was. Confess: you’ve told her all our secrets.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” Henry said easily. “And by the way, it’s not Linda. It’s Yolanda. Yoly for short. She’s Cuban. And I’ve told her all about you, my best friend, who is going to be a world-famous dancer someday.”

  “If someone doesn’t put strychnine in my Dasani bottle first,” I muttered.

  “What?” Henry asked.

  “Oh … nothing. It’s just this place isn’t conducive to making friends. I swear, Henry, some of these girls would slit my Achilles tendons if they thought it would give them a leg up on me. They are intense, focused, killer ballerinas.”

  “Like, ax-wielding killers?” she asked.

  “Murderous zombies in tutus,” I said. She snorted.

  “But enough of my uplifting news. What’s your latest? Who’d you massacre today?”

  “Actually, I had a close match. This girl from North Carolina. She actually broke me once.” I know what that means.

  “So you beat her 6–1, 6–0.”

  “Yeah. Moved me up the ladder a bit. I’m two away from the top. By Friday I’ll be there.” I get this, too. A ladder is just that: all the players challenge each other until the best ends up at number one. Henry was moving into the top spot at the academy.

  “Sounds like you’re doing great, Hen,” I said.

  “So far so good,” she said, but I wasn’t fooled. She could brag to me, but she never does.

  I want to tell my mother that if I have to imagine being surrounded by ax-wielding killer ballerina contacts for my entire grown-up life, I’ll pass on growing up, thank you. But I don’t get the chance. She stands, ready to leave.

  “Well, I should see to the dinner dishes. Bring your tray down when you’re finished, okay?” She exits. She leaves the bedroom door open, heads down the stairs … eight, nine, ten … and when she reaches the first floor I whisk the covers back, leap out of bed and cross the room. I shut the door. The latch engages with a whisper of a click.

  The chicken breast has been basted with teriyaki marinade. You can smell the ginger and the soy sauce, see the caramelized glisten of something sugary at the slightly singed ends.

  I want it so badly I could cry. It’s all I can do not to grab it in my hands and take huge, wolfish bites. I can taste the sweetness of it.…

  A whole breast. It looks like it weighs half a pound. Nobody eats eight ounces of chicken in one sitting. At least, nobody should. Only a total pig would.

  I go to my closet, and push aside the big, plastic tub on the floor where I’ve stored my old American Girl doll stuff. Samantha. I had chosen Samantha Parkington, the rich Victorian-era girl with the dark, glossy hair and the amazing clothes. Well, all those dolls had amazing clothes, even Josefina, who supposedly cooked bread in an outdoor mud oven and took care of goats. Henry chose the Depression-era doll: Kit. Sassy. Strong. The girl who could tough out the hard times. We spent hours with Kit and Samantha and all their expensive gear.

  As I move the tub, I see her. Samantha’s face is pressed against the bottom corner. She stares at me through the opaque plastic.

  Behind the tub I find what I was looking for. It’s a big Ziploc bag, the gallon size. I hold my breath as I pull it out, but luckily the seam has held and nothing leaks. I can’t stop myself from gaping at the contents: three nights’ worth of decomposing dinners.

  I prop the bag on my desk and carefully pull the plastic tab across the top. I breathe through my mouth so I won’t smell anything (a babysitting trick I learned that helped me get through changing poopy diapers), but something thick wafts from the bag. I feel it just under my nose: the hunk of salmon, the baked potato, the slice of quiche. A tofu “hot dog.�
�� Trying not to gag, I spear the chicken breast and deposit it with the rest. I shovel a few forkfuls of salad greens in as well, then zip the whole mess shut.

  I replace the bag on the floor of my closet and slide Samantha’s box in front of it. Then I take a swig of milk. Allow myself two forks of salad greens before getting back into bed, shivering. Stupid air-conditioning.

  I pull the covers over my head, curl into a tight ball and wait to feel warm. My stomach rumbles, spurred on by the smell of food, but it’s quiet in my head. I rest one hand on my hip. Hard, the bone just beneath the surface. I close my eyes, my heart slows and my last waking thought is not a thought at all, but a picture. A perfect picture of me and Samantha, safe inside our quiet little boxes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  HENRY

  When I press “end,” the Overlook seems strangely silent without the sound of Eva’s voice in my ear. Stark change from this afternoon, when just about every student and instructor crowded up here to watch David Ross play the guy from Greenlake Academy.

  Greenlake. Chadwickians say it as if they’re spitting. It’s just another tennis school, but for some reason the folks here get all worked up about it. As if there’s some honor to defend when a student from one plays a student from the other. Like, “Hey, man! My academy rules your academy!”

  They’d announced at breakfast that the “big” singles contest between Chadwick’s number one boy and Greenlake’s number one would be held at two o’clock, and everyone was pumped. I’ll confess: I was dying to see David Ross play. To see if he approached all the hype about him.

  I was blown away. So were all the Chadwick fans. And the Greenlake reps. And, particularly, the poor Greenlake guy who had to play him. He didn’t win a single game, and the few points he earned were on David’s errors. But other than a couple of errors, he was amazing. He had power. He had soft hands for the drop shots and short angles. He could pound indefinitely from the baseline, but he could finish at net. He had topspin. He had slice. He had a bullet of a first serve, and a mean kick-spin on his second serve. Most importantly, he was fit. The guy was practically dancing out there, that’s how fast he moved and positioned himself to hit the ball.

  When it was over, he and the Greenlake dude came up to the Overlook for this little postmatch party. Everybody was cheering, patting both of them on their backs. But basically treating David Ross like a celebrity. Even his opponent acted like he wanted to hang out near him and soak up some of his aura.

  I was standing off to the side, near the drinks table, watching this all play out, when for some reason he looked my way and our eyes met. Normally, when I’m looking at somebody and they catch me looking, I do the usual thing and … look away. But not that time. Something about him just pulled me in, held me there, and I felt my lips twist into this really stupid shape which I hoped resembled a smile. Must have been, because next thing I knew he was smiling back and walking right toward me.

  Frozen, I watched him approach.

  “Hey,” he said easily when he reached the table. He pulled a bottle of Poland Spring from a big bowl packed with ice. He unscrewed the cap. “It’s Henry, right?” he said.

  “How do you know?” I asked, surprised.

  “T-shirt night.” He smiled. “You had the best. ‘What Exit?’ I loved it.” He tilted his head back and took a long drink.

  “Thanks,” I said, wondering what he would have thought of the shirt I hadn’t worn. Instead of Eva’s tomatoes I had opted for a tee that simply read “What Exit?” As in the Garden State Parkway. As in, “Hi, I’m from Jersey,” and the reply almost inevitably is “What exit?”

  He hadn’t really participated in T-shirt night. Just wore a plain blue shirt and hung out on the periphery, watching. Laughing with everyone else, but mostly just watching.

  “Awesome match today,” I said. Like he hadn’t already heard it forty times. Yes, I’m that original. He glanced quickly behind him. The paparazzi were closing in.

  “Useless, actually,” he muttered to me.

  “Huh?” I said. He frowned.

  “Greenlake is a school. A real school,” he said. “They train people who want to play in college. And that guy is a year younger than me. It wasn’t a fair match.” Before I could ask him what he meant, the adoring crowd pressed in. He smiled at me once more, made this “oh well” sort of shrug, and moved to another end of the room.

  As I’m leaving the Overlook now, just fifteen minutes shy of lights-out, something rustles on the stairs. Footsteps. I figure it’s maintenance, here to vacuum the celebratory confetti strewn everywhere and pick up crushed plastic cups. I head for the opposite stairway exit when someone clears his throat.

  “Hey, what’s your hurry?”

  It’s Jonathan Dundas. Aka, the Perv.

  It hadn’t taken Jonathan Dundas long to convince every girl in the camp that he is totally bad news. Not simply full of himself: Dundas is a pervert. He makes a point of staring at your boobs if he’s talking to you. He’s let the “secret” out that he brought porn with him to camp. And he thinks it’s really funny to twist everything someone says into some sort of sexual reference. Like, the other day Yoly and I were at breakfast and she was telling me that it’s hard for her to hit a lofty ball with topspin.

  “I like to hit a flat ball, low over the net,” she was explaining. “That’s always the way I’ve played. But these coaches want me to totally change my strokes.”

  Dundas just happened to be sauntering by with his tray as she said this. He could barely contain the smirk on his face when he stopped at our table.

  “I’ll show you some new strokes, Yolanda,” he leered.

  I think my jaw dropped when he said that. Yoly, however, didn’t flinch.

  “Beat it, perv,” she snapped, loudly. “Nobody loves you.”

  He laughed, like he thought it was all some big joke, but he did move on, and found a seat at a table at the farthest corner of the room from us. Yoly leaned across the table.

  “That is one bad dude,” she said, wagging her finger. “And let me tell you: I know bad dudes. I can smell them a mile off. There’s only one way to deal with them. Let them know that if they mess with you, you’ll cut off their cojones.”

  “Their what?” I asked.

  “Sorry. I keep forgetting you don’t speak Spanish. Their balls.” Yoly looked at me with this dead-serious expression on her face, and for a moment I absolutely believed she was capable of the proposed surgery.

  “Figuratively speaking,” she hastily added. Which made us both crack up.

  So here I am, mere moments before lights-out, in a dimly lit, deserted room with an oversexed jerk. Great. Where’s a good, sharp scalpel when you need it?

  “Uh, no hurry,” I say to him. “But it is almost lights-out. Good night.” I keep walking, but Dundas quick-steps across the room and is at my side before I’ve reached the stairs. I imagine this is how he covers the court, sprinting swiftly to catch short drop shots just before the second bounce.

  His hand closes around my elbow.

  “C’mon, Henry! No one checks rooms for, what? Another half hour? Let’s get acquainted.”

  He’s tall. Way taller than me, and broad. Something catches in my throat. A panicky feeling I’ve never experienced before. It occurs to me that even if Jonathan Dundas is a jerk, he’s also a top-level athlete. The guy is jacked.

  Time to rely on brains.

  I glance quickly around, in search of an idea. I see a small couch, not far from the stairs.

  “Why don’t we sit over there?” I say, smiling at him. I step toward the couch, pulling him with me, since he still has ahold of my elbow. His face relaxes into this confident grin. The way I imagine a hyena looks as it closes in on its prey. I’m thinking if I can get him to release his hold on my arm, I’ll make a dash for it down the stairs. I’m thinking I’m pretty fast myself.

  This, of course, is not what he’s thinking. He presses up next to me as we lower ourselves onto the couch. I
feel his breath on my face when he speaks.

  “So, what’re you doing up here all alone?” he asks.

  God, he had the tacos for dinner. I think I’m gonna yak.

  “I come up here to call home. More private than the dorms, you know?” He laughs softly.

  “Man, I never call home,” he says. “You must be one of those good girls, calling Mommy and Daddy.” He leans forward, his face brushing the hair behind my ear. I instinctively jerk back, but there’s not much room on the couch.

  “Actually, I call my boyfriend. We’ve been going out for almost a year now and … uh, I’m really committed to him, Jon. I hope you haven’t gotten the wrong idea.”

  Like, who would have given him any idea? I’ve barely spoken to this guy. What a perv!

  Dundas is undeterred.

  “C’mon, Henry. You’re what? A thousand miles from your boyfriend? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, I’ll teach you some things he’ll appreciate later. Trust me: the guy will be so thankful.” He leans forward again, lips parted, and takes aim at my neck.

  Not often, but at key moments in my life, I am reminded that I am, indeed, Mark Lloyd’s daughter. Sometimes those are low moments, and I see things in myself of which I’m not particularly proud. Other times, I’m grateful that my father has taught me to take garbage from absolutely, positively no one.

  I curl myself into a little ball, plant both feet directly on Jon’s chest and push-kick him as hard as I can. He flies against the opposite arm of the couch, his eyes round and wide.

  Hah. Take that, jerk. Bet now you’ll think twice before you hit on a girl who spends time in the weight room.

  I jump up, balling my hands into two fists.

  “Dundas, you touch me again and I’ll kick you so hard you’ll be singin’ soprano.”

  To my utter amazement, the guy grins.

  “You’re a bad girl, Henry,” he says softly. “I like bad girls.” He jumps up from the couch, grabs my fists and pulls both of my arms behind my back. He presses his mouth against mine, and I can feel him trying to force my lips open. I want to scream, but the sound is muffled against his face. I am so mad. Scared, too, but mostly mad. I’ve never had a boyfriend. Never kissed a guy before, and now this? This creep is going to be my first kiss? I take aim with my knee.