by Maria Padian
“You asked me to make an impossible choice!” he says angrily. “It was like, ‘Hey, David. Breathing or eating? Pick one.’ What was I supposed to do? I’ve got my girlfriend telling me I have to drive to freakin’ Jersey or else, and my coach telling me to get my ass back to Florida or else!”
“Don’t diss Jersey!” I fume at him. This random response startles both of us for a moment.
“I’ll diss Jersey all I want,” he says.
“Don’t,” I say threateningly.
“Why are New Yorkers so depressed?” he snaps.
“What?”
“Because the light at the end of the tunnel is New Jersey!” he exclaims.
Jersey jokes. Unbelievable.
“Oh, that’s so weak!” I sneer at him. “I heard that in fifth grade.”
“Why do seagulls fly upside down in New Jersey?” he continues. “Because they can’t find anything worth crapping on.” The corners of his mouth turn up slightly. He likes that one.
“This is ridiculous, David,” I say. “Stop it.”
“What do you call a smart guy in Bayonne?” he says.
I’ve heard this one, too.
“Lost,” I reply quickly. This draws a genuine smile from him.
“Very good,” he says. “How do you know you’re from New …”
There’s a Wilson in my pocket. I pull it out and attempt to stuff it in David’s mouth. He lets out a yelp of laughter, drops his racket and grabs both my wrists. My racket clatters as well, and the two of us stand there with the net between us. I look into his eyes. They remind me of the caramel center of a Cadbury chocolate bar. I sigh. A long exhale. A long letting go.
“David, you called Missy, and made a plan to dump me at a train station in North Carolina. How do you think I felt?”
“You forget: I asked you to come with me. They wanted us both.”
“It felt like a plan made behind my back.”
“Henry, no offense, but … you sound like your father. All paranoid.”
This stings. A ready comeback flies to my lips. But I don’t want to confirm what he just said and act like Mark. I count to ten before I reply.
“It’s not just that. She’s too into you. They all are, and it creeps me out. You know, sometimes I got the feeling that our relationship was just one big Chadwick photo op.” He looks a little embarrassed when I say this.
“Okay, when you started winning at the invitational? Missy did take me aside and tell me to pull you into a few photos. But I don’t see why that’s bad. When we win, they win. You know? Win-win?” I shake my head. It’s so easy to think clearly about all this when I’m alone. But now, with him again? With those warm, melting chocolate eyes pleading with me?
I could get so lost in all this. In him.
He’s still grasping my wrists, and I pull them free. I pull them free so I can think beyond the electric current that travels from his fingertips to mine.
“I’m going to ask you a question and I don’t want you to take offense, but if we’d done it? That night in the motel? Would you still have left me at the train station?”
He looks like I’ve just slapped him.
“Is that what you think of me?” he says, incredulous.
“It’s not what I thought until it happened, David.”
Hurt and confusion play out across his face. It would be so much easier for him if I were yelling and unreasonable right now. You don’t have to take responsibility for your own actions, or admit where you went wrong, if the other person conveniently acts like a lunatic. Something else I’ve learned from Mark Lloyd.
“I’m not Dundas, Henry.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Yeah, you just did. C’mon! Don’t you know me better than that?”
“No, I don’t. That’s the point. I’m just getting to know you, and I’m … not ready … for a whole lot of stuff.”
“I respect that,” he says quickly.
“Yeah, I know,” I say patiently. “That’s what a nice guy would say. And let’s face it: you’re a nice guy. But you’re a guy. And I want to know. Did my saying no influence your decision to head back to Boca?”
An eternity passes as David thinks about this one. A light breeze blows across the court, ruffling his hair, which is drying into stiff, salty curls at his neck. When he finally answers me, his eyes are clear.
“Probably,” he says. “If things had gone the other way that night, I probably wouldn’t have checked my cell phone messages in the morning. Instead, I woke up thinking, Damn! What the hell am I doing here? Then, once I started talking to Harvey and Missy, I got completely reoriented. Nothing seemed more important than getting back to Florida.” I nod.
“Thank you,” I say. “For being honest.” There’s a buzzing sound as lights from the surrounding courts flicker on. Dusk. We’ve been out here for a long time. David frowns. He takes one step closer to me.
“I was also being honest about what I said after the quinces,” he continues. I nod again.
“I know that. And David, for the record? Never in a million years would I compare you to Jon Dundas. He’s not in your league.”
The hands, the fingers, are lacing themselves through mine now. He’s moved so close I can feel his breath on my cheeks as he breathes.
“But it’s not enough, is it?” he says quietly. Sadly. My eyes fill, and everything I’ve held back through sheer will and anger spills out now.
“See, that’s what I don’t get,” I say tearfully. “The way ‘I love you’ doesn’t go with what happened in Smithfield. You lose me there.”
“Sure it does! Absolutely it does! ‘I love you’ means I want what’s best for you. I don’t want you to make stupid choices that will hurt you.”
“Putting my best childhood friend before tennis is not a stupid choice!” He sighs, shaking his head.
“There’s no comparison,” he says wearily. “Why are you comparing the two?”
“Because I had to. David, I knew I wasn’t going to make Eva better. But if my best friend in the whole world died while I was practicing forehands in Florida, I’d have never forgiven myself. I had to be there, and let her see me.”
He wants, so badly, to see things my way. But we’re not there. We stand on opposite shores of a great, rushing river. A huge canyon. Or maybe just a thin, invisible line that separates the ways we see the world. He thinks I’m careless. I think he’s so caught up in this crazy life that he doesn’t realize what he’s given up to be here.
He pulls me against his chest and holds me, tightly, as my tears soak into the front of his shirt. When I finally lift my head, my face feels puffy.
“You know the one thing, the only thing, that makes sense right now?” I ask him. He shakes his head.
“Hitting a tennis ball. Before you came out here, I was really getting into it. It’s just … pure.”
This flash of recognition crosses his eyes. This he understands. He smiles and gently, softly, brushes his lips against mine.
“So let’s do it,” he says. He releases me, then picks up his racket. For a moment, he reminds me of a little boy. An eager little boy who’s just been told he can stay up past bedtime to play his favorite game. Something in my chest fills, and I’m there, too. This familiar place, once upon a time, back when I was a little girl playing my favorite game.…
“Okay, but no more death shots.”
“I promise,” he says. He’s already backpedaling to the baseline.
I drop-feed him a deep forehand. He returns a crisp crosscourt shot, great topspin.
Mental note, Henry: you’ve got to get him to show you how he does that.
It’s a perfect Florida evening. As the sun sets, the court lights burn brighter. The sky glows pale blue, then pink, then deepening gray. A light breeze fans our sweat-soaked bodies, carries a hint of flowers. The only sound is the steady, solid pock! of our rackets hitting the ball. My feet have springs. My legs are tireless. I could do this forever.
But, of course, we can’t. Eventually, it’s time to pack it in and head back to the dorms. The showers. Dry clothes and the reality of sweat-soaked laundry.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
EVA
“So what’s the weather like?” I ask her. “Not that I’ll be getting out much.”
Henry and I are making the most of her unlimited minutes, riding the cell phone airwaves between Florida and New Jersey. She’s called to wish me good luck. I’m getting transferred tomorrow.
“Let’s just say you will definitely lose your aversion to air-conditioning,” she replies. “There’s nothing like an August day in Florida to make you appreciate one of the greatest inventions ever.”
“Right. Air-conditioning. I forgot about that,” I mutter.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing. Just having random thoughts about global warming and wondering if it might not be such a bad thing after all.” Understandably, she doesn’t know how to respond.
“So … how’re you feeling about all this?” she asks.
“It’s like I landed on Chance and picked up the card that reads ‘Go to jail. Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars,’ ” I say. Henry laughs.
“You always hated Monopoly,” she says.
“Yeah, and you always wanted to play!” I remind her. “I hate competitive games, especially Monopoly. I always end up with my properties mortgaged.”
“That’s because whenever I started losing, you’d lend me money,” she says.
“I know. I’m a real sucker, aren’t I?” I sigh.
“You’re a softie. And the best person I know,” she says emphatically.
We’re quiet for a while, then she speaks again.
“But really, Eva. How are you feeling?”
“I’m a rainbow of emotions. Resigned. Terrified. Angry. Depressed. All of them crashing down on me simultaneously. Wendy says that’s why I don’t eat. So I can feel in control of something.” I hear a familiar sound from her end.
“You’re snorting,” I say. Henry laughs.
“Sorry,” she says.
“Don’t apologize. It’s your only flaw, and I love it.”
“Oh, I have many flaws, Eva. You’re just too nice to notice.”
“Hmmm,” I say in response. More silence between us. Again, broken by Henry.
“Wendy told me you hear a voice that runs you down and tells you not to eat,” she says.
“That’s my boyfriend, Ed. Remind me to introduce you to him. He’s joining me in Florida. We’re living together, you know.”
“Eva. Seriously.”
“What makes you think I’m not serious?” More silence from Henry’s end.
“Well, at least in Florida you’ll be a thousand miles away from that Wendy. Jeez, Eva, where’d Rhonda dig her up?”
“Actually, Wendy starts to grow on you after a while,” I say.
“Really?” Skepticism in Henry’s voice.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I might even miss her.”
No snort that time. I can practically hear the gears turning in Henry’s brain as she tries to process that new revelation.
“You know, you can visit me,” I tell her.
“You’re allowed visitors?”
“Sure,” I say. “Even prisoners are allowed visitors. You can get that Little David to bring you in his sweet ride.”
“Yeah,” Henry replies, hesitantly. With about as much enthusiasm as wilted lettuce.
Why would she want her new boyfriend to meet you, stupid? Her weird, sick loser friend in psycho rehab? Gimme a break.
“I mean, if you can get away. I know you’re really busy.”
“Eva, I will come to see you at the very first possible moment. It’s just … more complicated than I want to get into right now. Trust me: I will be there.”
The conversation ends shortly after that. I get her off the phone, make something up about the nurse coming in to check my vitals. I feel tired. Just a little shuffling around this room, the exertion of pulling on shorts and a T-shirt, has winded me. Was it really only four weeks ago that I was spinning, on my toes, across gleaming wood floors?
Yeah, you’re pretty out of shape, blub butt.
“Shut up.” I say it. I actually say it out loud.
Ate your whole breakfast this morning, didn’t you? Just wait. You’ll be the big pig in rehab now. Oink! Oink! Here comes Eva!
My hands shake as I reach for my canvas bag of writing supplies. I paw through it until I feel what I want. I pull them out: counter journal, pencil.
I flip quickly to a clean, blank page. Left side. I take a deep breath, grip hard and write:
“You are out of shape. You are a fat pig. Henry would only visit you because she feels sorry for you.”
I read it back. Tears slide down my cheeks and fall in round, soft plops onto the paper.
“Even my tears are fat,” I say. This sentence, spoken aloud, strikes me as completely idiotic. Somewhere in the back of my throat, a familiar sensation stirs. It emerges.
I laugh.
Now the other side. I can do this. I write:
“I’m not out of shape. I’m tired because I’ve been sick. I’m not fat. I’m so thin that I’m going to a rehabilitation center for women with eating disorders to gain weight and get healthy. Henry is sad for me because I’ve been sick. She’ll visit me because we are best friends. Jersey Tomatoes. No, Hothouse Tomatoes. Forever.”
I read my words back, once, then close the book. I wait.
Nothing. For right now, at least: silence.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
HENRY
She pulls up in this … boat. This purring wide body, color of old gold, and it’s got fins. It’s buffed to mirrorlike perfection, especially the Cadillac emblem on the hood.
As she rounds the circular drive of the Greenlake Academy entrance, I see a magnetic sign adhered to the back passenger door: “Enrique’s Classic Car Restoration.” Phone number in bold just beneath the words. He was willing to lend her the Caddie … the latest result to roll out of his newly created weekend garage business … as long as she agreed to the sign. No problem for Yoly, who’d agree to anything if it meant trying out her new license.
She’s got the passenger-side window rolled down, and as I saunter toward her, backpack slung over one shoulder, I see her smile in my direction.
“Hola, chica,” she says. I poke my head through the opening and check out the leather interior.
“When you said ‘classic,’ I didn’t know you meant ‘antique,’ ” I say. “How old is this thing?”
“It’s a 1957,” she says. “You don’t want to know what Enrique will do to me if we get a single scratch on it.” I get in, heaving the stuffed pack into the backseat.
“Ay, Henry, what did you bring?” she says as it lands with a thud.
“Blank books and art supplies, mostly. Eva says half the markers are dry and all the crayons are broken in the art room. She also says her bathroom is sad, so I got her these amazing aromatherapy products. Even if it looks like a hospital, it’ll feel like a spa.”
“You are such a good friend,” she says.
“I’m pathetic, actually,” I reply. “I don’t visit her nearly enough. You, on the other hand? Friendship Hall of Fame. Thank you so much for doing this!”
“Are you kidding me?” she says. “This is going to be so much fun! First, we are driving in an awesome car. Second, we are going to see David play in a professional tournament. Third, we are all going to party at my parents’ restaurant tonight. Fourth, I get to finally meet Eva … which, okay, does make me a little nervous. Fifth, and best of all, I get to actually see you, instead of just talking to you on the phone! How’s it goin’?”
“Good. Really good, as a matter of fact.”
“Still no regrets?” she prods.
“Absolutely no regrets,” I say firmly. “The coaching staff is great, the academic staff is legit, and I’m really
happy with the tennis. They’ve got me entered in a couple of Super Series tournaments next month, and that’s cool. Not too over-the-top, you know?” Yoly bursts out laughing.
“You are the only person I know who describes Super Series as ‘not too over-the-top’!”
“You obviously don’t know enough super-intense tennis people,” I tell her.
“Speaking of super intense,” she says, “does he know we’re all coming today?”
“He knows. He’s psyched. Especially for cerdo asado tonight,” I say. “Otherwise … he sounds like he’s doing okay, even though he got his ass kicked and didn’t earn any prize money playing Futures tournaments in California this fall. He plans to hang out in Florida for the next few months. Work with Harvey. Practice at that club near Chadwick. I don’t know. I still think he should have gone to college, but hey, no one asked me.…” Yoly clears her throat.
“Uh, I was actually asking about you and David. Not tennis and David.” She smiles suggestively at me. I shrug.
“Oh, don’t give me that!” she exclaims. “Hanging out in Florida for the next few months? Like, there’s nowhere else in the country he could train?”
Okay, so even I laugh. There’s really no point being coy with Yoly.
“I guess we’re ‘on again.’ In a long-distance-let’s-take-things-slowly sort of way. In a you’re-a-pro-and-I’m-a-high-school-student sort of way. So, yeah. It’s all good. At least for the next couple of months.” She takes her hand off the wheel to punch me playfully on the arm.
“He’s so cute,” she says.
“Tell me about it,” I sigh.
It’s a twenty-five-minute drive from Greenlake to the rehab center, but Yoly crawls at ten miles per hour below the speed limit (Enrique’s threats clearly on her mind), drawing more than a few long horn blasts from impatient motorists. Still, this is a treat. Over the past few months I’ve relied on expensive cab rides to visit Eva. The Greenlake people say as soon as I’ve got my permanent license, I can borrow one of the academy’s Zipcars. But I’m hoping Eva will be long gone from Florida before I ever get around to taking my driving test.
