Jersey Tomatoes are the Best

by Maria Padian

  “I don’t know,” I finally manage. “Something about seeing her with her dad.” He nods. I don’t need to explain more. He gets the Mark thing.

  “And the whole party. It’s incredible, don’t you think? Every relative, every neighbor. Even the priest who did her mass this afternoon is coming, that’s what she told me. I mean, my family can’t even manage to get a few friends over for a barbecue, but Yoly’s can fill a ballroom.” David smiles at me and gently kisses the tip of my nose.

  “Henry Lloyd, you’re a romantic. I never knew.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you see this cheesy affair with the Mr. Microphone DJ and you get all emotional. It’s sweet.”

  Something inside me stills.

  “What do you mean, cheesy?” I say. His eyes widen.

  “Do I need to explain? We’re in a reception factory, they’re serving cubed Monterey Jack on toothpicks, and I’ve never seen more sequins in my life. It defines cheesy.”

  “They think this is a wonderful party,” I say haltingly. I think it’s wonderful, I don’t say. A party filled with every imaginable person who loves you.

  “Oh, I know,” he says reassuringly. “It’s just not my style. You know what I mean. I’m sure Mr. Cruz spent a fortune. And that dance number was cool. And Yolanda seems happy. Even if she does look like a meringue.” He laughs softly and squeezes my hands. I don’t reply.

  “Can I tell you something, Henry?” he continues quietly. Seriously. I nod.

  “Cheese cubes and bad DJs aside, I’m having a great time. Because I’m here with you. I’m … really into you.” His mouth forms a teasing smile, but his eyes are anything but. They bore into mine, and I know, absolutely, that this is huge for David Ross.

  My mind swirls, abandons me, as I try to take it in, but before I can think of how to react, his lips are on mine. Long, sure kisses that surprise me with their intensity, and I’m kissing him back, this beautiful boy who, like me, has felt different, and alone, for too long.

  Loud cheering and applause come from the ballroom now, the father-daughter dance complete, and people drift into the vestibule again. David and I move apart. He looks at me with this expression of pure happiness. I don’t know what the question was, but he’s obviously thrilled with my answer. He stands, pulling us up.

  “So are you ready to dance with me?” he says. I sigh.

  “You dance, too? I think you may be too perfect. At least for me,” I tell him. He laughs as we return to the packed ballroom, gripping my hand firmly in his. There’s ownership in that grip. Confidence. A little pride. We reach the vortex of the twirling crowd, David turns to me and we dance. I see only him. I can’t take my eyes off him. I want to get lost in this moment, this dance. I want summer to never end. I want everything to work out, for all of us … me, David, Yoly, Eva … for all of it to wind up someplace happily ever after.

  I want so badly to love him back.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  EVA

  He’s a pig. He’s a fat, disgusting pig in a white coat, and he’s trying to make me fat as well.

  “Eva, we need you to cooperate so we can help you.”

  Yeah, right, you want to help me. You want to stuff me full until I explode. Don’t tell me that bag is water. It’s liquid sugar. No way is that getting into me.

  “Who the hell are you?” It hurts to speak. My throat has been rubbed raw with sandpaper.

  “Mr. Smith, could you try talking to her once more?”

  Another face hovers over mine. I’m lying flat. The faces float above me.

  My father.

  “Eva, honey, please listen to Dr. Miner.”

  He’s not my father. My father would never let them stick a needle in me. Drip poison into me.

  Rolling sound. It’s rolling toward me again. Swaying bag of water. Clear plastic bag, thick with sugary water.

  “What is that?” I croak the words.

  “These are fluids to rehydrate you, Eva.” Pig’s voice again. “That’s what you were getting before you yanked out your IV. We need to reinsert it now, but you can’t struggle.”

  The father imposter nods. He fakes a smile at me. His lips stretch sideways over his yellow teeth.

  I have to get out of here.

  “Hold her.”

  Giant goons in white pin me down. They’re coming for my arm, the top of my hand, where they stuck me before. F—you, stupid pigs! I’ll pull it out again! I’ll pull it out!

  A woman is crying.

  “Hold up, everyone. This isn’t going to work.”

  The goons retreat. The big pig disappears. He’s talking to someone.

  “This level of resistance doesn’t leave us many options. I’d like to sedate her, get an IV going and, with your permission, intubate her.”

  “What’s that?” Woman’s choking voice.

  “It’s a thin feeding tube we’d insert up her nose. She’d get a steady stream of calories, even while she sleeps. We’ll do this slowly and monitor her to avoid refeeding syndrome. She could arrest again if she gets too much too fast. But she needs something, immediately.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” Fake father’s voice. “Did you just say she could have another heart attack?”

  “If we refeed her too quickly, that’s a possibility.”

  “Oh my god!” The woman.

  “Please, just do what you have to do.” Fake father.

  Pigs! Killers! I won’t let you!

  “I’m going to have to ask you to step outside.”

  I’ve got to get out of here. I try to lift up on my elbows and climb out, but something invisible holds me. I reach, feel a strap, thick cloth, firm across my hips. They’ve tied me.

  “Daddy! Please don’t go! Daddy, don’t leave me!” The words feel like shouts but sound like the driest of whispers in my own ears. He doesn’t hear me.

  “Hold her.” Goons again. Pressing me down with such force I expect to feel my own bones break. Pinprick, in my arm, cool, spreading, and they’ve done it. They’ve killed me. This is poison spreading through my body. Goons relax their grip.

  “Eva, we’re going to try again, okay? You’ll feel a little sting on the top of your hand. We’re putting water back into your body. You’re very, very thirsty, and it’s important that you leave this in. Don’t pull it out.”

  Some woman in a white dress wipes, cold and wet on top of my hand, pricks me. I don’t fight. They’ve poisoned the fight out of me. I watch. I watch from a distance, floating outside myself.

  What does it matter? It doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t matter anymore.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  HENRY

  Late-morning rays of hot Florida sun sneak into my room around the edges of the drawn blinds. We sleep in on Sunday mornings, and after last night, when David and I pulled into Chadwick at two a.m., I’ve slept in extra late. I squint at the digital alarm clock perched on the bedside table: 11:37. Almost lunchtime.

  I stretch my arms high over my head, stretch my legs under the thin blanket, big sleepy catlike extensions, then kick the covers off. The gears of my brain slowly click into action. Shower. Dress. Dining hall. Early-afternoon drill session with Missy. I can do this. I stand, yawning. Stumble to the dresser in search of clean socks, underwear. Only my turquoise dress, draped over the back of Yoly’s desk chair, and the foot-torture shoes tossed against the wall, betray any evidence that the quinces ever happened.

  In the cold, clear light of day, all the confusion of the night is supposed to fade away. Right? Unfortunately, there’s nothing cold or clear about a hot, hazy Florida morning.

  He loves me. He said it last night, the l-word, standing outside the Cayenne, parked in the Chadwick lot. He said it as he kissed me, his arms wrapped around my back, pulling me close against the whole slim length of him, the nighttime breeze moving through the palm trees with this dry, papery sound. You couldn’t have scripted a more romantic moment, and I felt my heart break open
as I wondered, Is this it, then?

  How can you be in love with someone you’ve known for a month? But what else could this be? This stupid, crazy, dizzy way I feel if I only think of touching him. If I see him across a room, or watch him hit a tennis ball. Or smile. God, that smile.

  So why didn’t you say it back?

  Halfway to the shower, I realize what I need even more than a few gallons of water streaming over my head: a long-overdue chat with a best girlfriend. Who knows you better than you know yourself, and still likes you anyway. Who tells you to put on your big-girl panties and face down whatever scares you, or makes you mad, or thrills you to the bone. Or at the very least, helps you figure it all out.

  I dial Eva. We haven’t been connecting lately. Her cell has been off and she doesn’t answer my messages. When I get her cell voice mail again, I call the Smiths’ house.

  Someone picks up after a single ring. A woman’s voice.

  “Smith household.”

  “Uh, hi. Is Eva there?” A pause.

  “Who is this?” she says.

  “It’s Henry. Mrs. Smith?”

  “No, this is Laura Blythe, the Smiths’ neighbor. Are you a friend of Eva’s?”

  “Yeah, I’m a really good friend of Eva’s. Is she home?” I’m trying to get my head around this strange conversation. Where are the Smiths, and who is this woman?

  “I guess you haven’t heard. Eva is in the hospital. Her parents are with her now.”

  Body blow. Mind blow. No way. I’m not hearing this.

  “What happened?” It’s all I can manage.

  “You should probably talk to her parents. Would you like me to—”

  “Was there an accident? Is she okay?” Impatience rises in me. Gives me back my voice.

  “Oh, no, nothing like that. But you should talk to Rhonda. Do you—”

  I press “end,” cutting off the infuriating voice, and dial home. Mom picks up.

  “Mommy, why is Eva in the hospital?” I demand loudly, not even bothering to say hello.

  “Henry? Honey, calm down. Who told you?”

  “What is going on?” I practically yell. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”

  “It only just happened. I only just heard myself.”

  “Just heard WHAT?” I am yelling now, for real. My mother sighs.

  “Eva had a heart attack.”

  This is stupid. This is what happens when you drink champagne and stay out until two o’clock in the morning: you hallucinate. Because heart attacks don’t happen to fifteen-year-old girls from New Jersey. We’re a red state, cancer clusters everywhere, and you’d get skin cancer from lying out at the Jersey Shore before you’d have a heart attack. You’d get in a car crash while cruising down the Turnpike, blasting “Thunder Road,” before you’d have a heart attack.

  “Eva didn’t have a heart attack,” I say. Like I’m picking a fight.

  “She was at the swim club,” Mom continues. “The girls she was with noticed that Eva didn’t look well. Thank god they were at the club, because the lifeguard knew what to do.…” Mom’s voice catches. There’s a silence. She’s crying when she speaks again. “She had a seizure. By the time the ambulance got there, she’d started breathing on her own again, but at the hospital she went into cardiac arrest, and they needed to use the paddles.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Last night.”

  “This is unbelievable! Big fat men get heart attacks. Not kids my age!”

  My mother is silent.

  “Mom? What’s going on?”

  “She’s gotten very thin, Henry.”

  “Define ‘very thin.’ And what does that have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know what she weighs. But you’d scarcely recognize her. It happened very quickly, after she had to drop out of the ballet school. She just stopped eating. Rhonda has been hysterical about it.”

  “When is Rhonda not hysterical?” I say fiercely.

  “I’ve never seen her like this,” Mom continues, ignoring my comment. “The doctors were warning them that if Eva didn’t turn it around, they’d have to institutionalize her.”

  “Turn what around?” I demand.

  “The anorexia,” my mother says. “It’s gotten so much worse.”

  I’m stunned into silence. Never has anyone actually used the a-word about Eva, although they’ve all suggested it. Even at school, kids were constantly remarking on how little she ate, how thin she was, the dark circles that often appeared in her pale face. Yeah, she could have stood to gain a few pounds. But she’s a dancer. They’re thinner than the rest of us.

  But this is different. Mom says it so matter-of-factly. How much worse? I want to ask. Why didn’t anyone tell me?

  Why didn’t Eva tell me?

  Or did she?

  “When were you planning on calling me about this, Mom?” I say accusingly.

  “We talked about it. We all agreed that there was no point upsetting you.”

  “No point? What do you mean, no point?”

  “Honey, there’s nothing you could have done. Eva is very, very sick. In her mind as well as her body. She’s not rational, and the less she eats the worse it gets.”

  “No! I don’t believe that. Mommy, this is Eva we’re talking about. Eva.” I know her better than I know myself, I want to scream. I can tell her anything. She can tell me. We are there, always, for each other. Even a thousand miles apart, Jersey Tomatoes. Forever.

  “Henry, I’m heading over to the hospital this afternoon. I’ll call and let you know how she is. Meantime, you need to stay focused. This is a big week for you. You’ve got a tournament … when? Friday? That needs to be your priority right now. Eva’s in good hands.”

  It’s a lights-on moment. Of course. That’s why they didn’t tell me. Because nothing, not even sickness or possible death, should deter Henriette Lloyd from her path to stardom.

  ’Cause we’re all riding on it.

  “I can’t believe this,” I say. I don’t wait to hear her response.

  I press “end.”

  * * *

  I pound on his door. I wait. I pound again.

  When it opens, the room behind him is dim. I’ve woken him up. I step inside, uninvited, and am met by a wall of musky sleeping-boy smell. He stares at me, bewildered, dressed only in these light blue cotton boxers. His hair is rumpled; there’s a trace of pillow crease along his cheek. Reflexively, my eyes strafe the length of him: the hard muscles of his belly. The tan line just above the elastic waistband. He closes the door.

  “What’s goin’ on?” he says thickly.

  David’s bed is covered with rumpled, still-warm sheets. There is junk on the floor, a tennis bag, tossed clothes. Maybe eight feet of clear space, but I pace it. Three fierce steps, pivot, three back. Pivot. I am a riot of energy. I want to pound something.

  “Henry, what’s the matter?” he says. He stares. I seem berserk to him.

  Somehow I manage to say it. To admit that while I was drinking champagne and dancing, my best friend’s heart stopped beating. That she’s so sad she doesn’t eat anymore. That everyone kept it from me, even her. Even my parents.

  Even me. Why didn’t I know?

  When I’m done raving, he steps close to me, takes both my hands and pulls me toward his bed. His eyes are fully alert now, filled with concern. We sit on the edge of the mattress, his fingers laced tightly through mine.

  “You couldn’t possibly have seen this coming,” he says.

  Our knees bump. His legs are dark from the sun. The hair on his calves looks gold over the tan. Farmer’s tan, that’s what we’ve all got, tennis players. I see the line midway up his thighs, the line circling his upper arms. His chest is lighter than his face. Smooth, muscular.

  My best friend is in the hospital. Almost died. And I’m checking out my boyfriend.

  What’s wrong with me?

  I pull my hands away, jump up from the bed. Three steps, pivot. Three steps back.

 
; “Henry.” Commanding. I halt.

  “Stop blaming yourself. There was nothing you could do.”

  “Who says I’m blaming myself?”

  “It’s kind of obvious.” He sees right through me. I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to see what I’m really like. I put my hands over my face.

  He’s up, his arms around me. He rests his cheek on the top of my head.

  “David, while we were at the quinces, she was in an ambulance.”

  “And if you’d been in your dorm room reading last night, she’d have still been in an ambulance. Stop guilting yourself out.”

  I deserve a little guilt, I almost say. I’m a bad friend. A mean, mind-game-playing bad person.

  “I’ve got to go.”

  I say the words before I fully comprehend their meaning. He pulls back to arm’s length, peers into my face, puzzled.

  “Go where?” he asks.

  “Home. Jersey. I need to see her. Let her know that I’m there for her.” He lets go, steps back. He doesn’t look happy.

  “It’s a thousand miles to New Jersey.”

  “I don’t care. I can’t concentrate on tennis right now anyway.”

  “Be reasonable. How are you going to get there?” I take a deep breath.

  “Can I borrow the Cayenne?” His eyes widen. An incredulous smile forms.

  “Are you forgetting that you need a license to drive?”

  “I have a permit. I’d have my learner’s license except I’ve been too busy to take the test.” He takes a step closer to me.

  “Are you also forgetting that I don’t actually own the Cayenne?”

  “David, I will be so, so careful.” The frown line has formed between his eyes. He realizes I’m serious.

  “Do you know how much trouble you will get into for ditching camp? Driving a car you don’t own, without a license? Not to mention that it’s dangerous to drive that far all alone?”

  “It’s twenty hours one way if you don’t stop,” I continue. My mind is working; I’m picturing this drive. “My father broke it up eight, eight, and four hours the last day. I can be there tomorrow morning.” I’ll need something, I think. Six-pack of Red Bull. Hell, a whole case of Red Bull. I can do this.