by Lin Oliver
We tore open the boxes and dug in. I did take a slice of the pineapple-olive-green pepper, and I’m here to tell you it is just as bad as it sounds. Don’t try it at home, kids. Oscar took one bite and looked like he wanted to spit it out.
“Is this what you eat in America?” he whispered to me.
“Only if your name is Bernard.”
“Good. Then I’m glad my name is Oscar.”
After the pizza, we watched a really bad, but in a good kind of way, old movie called Zombie High School. Afterward, we had a Who Can Do the Weirdest Zombie Walk contest. I love it that the Truth Tellers always come up with such fun and creative things to do. When it was Oscar’s turn, he put some tomato sauce from the pizza box on his face so it looked like blood, crossed his eyes, and limped around the room, walking into walls. We all laughed hysterically.
“See, my bad leg is good for something,” he said.
Then he lurched around the room some more, his arms out in front of him, making zombie sounds. The more he bumped into furniture, the more he moaned and groaned, the more we howled. By the end of the night, no one even had a thought about his clubfoot or his limp. He was just Oscar, King of the Zombies.
And one of us.
Ruined Plans
Chapter 5
“That was the best party ever,” I said to Alicia as we waited in front of Sara’s apartment for my dad to come pick us up.
“I like your friends,” Oscar said. “They’re loco.”
“Wait. Doesn’t that mean crazy?”
“Yes,” he said. “But it’s fun to be crazy.”
“I’m glad you like everyone,” Alicia said, “because we’re getting together again tomorrow.”
Just before the party ended, Etta had invited us all to her family picnic the next day at Mar Vista Park. Her family is Greek, and she told us that once a year they have this blowout picnic where they barbecue a whole lamb and her uncles do crazy Greek folk dances and shout “Opa!” That sounded totally fun, and we all agreed to meet at the park at noon.
When my dad pulled up, Eddie was already in the backseat. Alicia and I climbed in next to him, and Oscar sat up front. As we drove over to Alicia’s apartment to drop everyone off, Eddie talked nonstop, half in Spanish and half in English. He was in a great mood. He reported that he had the best time ever at Charlie’s beach barbecue, which he didn’t really need to say because his face said it all. He was glowing like one of those neon bracelets the SF2s give out at all their parties.
“Lily is a beautiful girl,” he said, flashing his gorgeous grin. “She likes me, too.”
“How do you know?” Oscar asked.
“A man knows these things,” he answered, trying to look serious and grown-up and sexy. We all hooted with laughter at that, which made him really mad.
“You will see that I am right,” he said, and then he pouted all the way home. It was okay, though, because Alicia and I went right on talking about our plans for the next day. Alicia said she would ask Candido to drive us to Mar Vista Park, and I said I’d make tuna sandwiches in case we didn’t want to eat a barbecued lamb, which we both agreed sounded marginally gross.
“Hold your horses,” my dad interrupted. “You’re not going to any picnic tomorrow.”
“Dad! Everyone is. It’s going to be really fun.”
“Well, you’re not everyone.”
Oh boy, I’m hating the sound of where this is going.
“I got a call from the Sand and Surf Club today,” he went on. “They’re sponsoring a round-robin tomorrow in the Under-14 category. I said you and Charlie would play.”
“But, Dad, you didn’t even ask me. I have plans.”
“Plans can be canceled. This is important. Anna Kozlov and Marjorie Shin are coming in from San Diego to play.”
“I don’t care if they’re coming in from Mars.”
“Watch your tone, young lady. You and Charlie are going to face them in the divisional tournament in a week, and it’s an excellent opportunity for a practice match.”
“I’m not interested in the divisional tournament.”
“Really? When it comes time for a college scholarship, I think you’ll care. I’m looking at the big picture, Sammie. Tennis is your ticket to college.”
It always came down to this. My dad is obsessed with Charlie and me becoming state champions or world champions. Now that I mention it, he wouldn’t mind if we became champions of the whole entire galaxy. I used to love tennis, but since I’ve made new friends, I want to do other things. I don’t want to spend four hours every day on the court, smacking balls around. Why couldn’t he realize that?
“This isn’t fair, Dad.”
“Who says life is fair?”
That’s the line he uses whenever he wants to end a conversation. He doesn’t expect an answer because there’s really no comeback to that question. He just says it to be annoying, and it’s his way of saying, “This discussion is over.” I could feel tears welling up in my eyes.
Stupid, stupid, stupid tennis. I wish the stupid game had never been invented.
We were stopped at a red light and my dad flicked on the radio, just to emphasize that the discussion was over. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time to some Bruce Springsteen song on the oldies station. Oscar looked straight ahead. I’m sure he was uncomfortable sitting up there with my dad and overhearing our argument. I always hate it when I’m at a friend’s house and they get in a fight with their parents. It’s so uncomfortable for everyone.
Alicia put her arm around my shoulder.
“I hate tennis,” I muttered.
“No, you don’t,” she said. “You’re really good at it.”
“So what? You’re really good at topic sentences, but you don’t have to spend all day Sunday writing them.”
“Wow, Sammie, that was one crazy thought.”
“I’m just so frustrated.”
“I tell you what,” she said as the light changed and we turned down Venice Boulevard to her apartment. “How about if we come and watch you play tomorrow? Eddie, have you ever been to a tennis tournament?”
He shook his head.
“See? It’d be a new experience for them, and it’d be really fun.”
“How can you come? You and Oscar are going to the Greek picnic.”
“I want to come watch you, Sammie,” Oscar said from the front seat.
“We’ll bring tamales and have our own picnic right there at the club,” Alicia offered.
“You mean you would skip Etta’s family picnic?”
“Sure,” she said. “If you can’t go, we won’t either.”
That’s what a real friend is, folks. Now you know why I just love that Alicia Bermudez.
When we pulled up in front of her apartment, she gave me a hug and said they’d have Candido drop them at the Sand and Surf Club around noon. My dad told them he’d leave passes for them at the front gate, because the Sand and Surf is a pretty fancy place and doesn’t let anyone in who isn’t a member.
When we got home, all the lights were out, and Ryan was sprawled out on the foldout couch in the living room, his long legs hanging off the bed like one of those test dummies you see in car-crash TV ads. I tiptoed by him, and just as I passed his head, he sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and yelled, “GOTCHA!” I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“What is wrong with you?” I screamed at him.
“Come on, Sams. You have to admit it was funny.”
“Yeah, funny if you’re five years old. Oh, wait. Make that four. Five-year-olds would think it was stupid.”
“Charlie didn’t think it was funny, either.” He sighed. “You two used to be so much fun. What happened?”
“We’re almost thirteen,” I tried to explain to him. “We don’t think it’s funny when you pop out of bed and scare people. And while we’re on the subject, it wasn’t funny at lunch the other day when you stuck a pencil up your nose and pretended to sneeze it out.”
“Lauren
laughed. She thought it was hilarious.”
“I rest my case,” I snorted and walked into my bedroom, leaving him to ponder that remark.
Charlie was in bed when I came in.
“What was all that about?” she asked, turning on the light next to our beds. Since our room is so small, our beds are really close to each other. The only thing between them is a tiny white wicker table with a night-light shaped like a tennis racket. I’ll bet you’ll never guess who gave that to us.
Yup, that would be our tennis-fanatic dad. It goes with the tennis ball erasers he’s been getting us for our pencils since we were, like, three.
“It was just Ryan being an idiot,” I said. “What else is new?”
“Yeah, he tried the jack-in-the-box thing on me, too. I told him that would have been funny if I was five.”
“I said the same thing!”
It was common for Charlie and me to say the same thing at the same time. They say that identical twins have a special mind connection, and I think that may be true. When we were little, we were in a twin study that the University of California sponsored to see if we had a special language that only the two of us could understand. I don’t think they proved that we did, but we liked going because they always gave us Tootsie Pops and fruit punch. In matters of refreshments, Charlie and I always thought alike.
“How was your night?” I asked her.
“Fantastic. Our team didn’t win because Ben Feldman was on fire. You know Ryan, he hates losing so he got a little temperamental, which bummed Lauren out. But then at the barbecue, he ate massive quantities of food and that cheered him up. And guess what, Sams? Spencer sat next to me and told me I smelled better than his hickory burger.”
I sat down on the bed next to her.
“That’s pretty romantic,” I said. “You really like him, huh?”
She nodded.
“I just feel so comfortable around him,” she said. “He really listens when I talk. Ben’s pretty cool, too. Maybe he’d like you, if you gave him a chance.”
I thought of how Ben had waved his cell phone at me on the way in to the club. I don’t think he even glanced at me for a nanosecond. I’m no expert on body language or anything, but that sure didn’t look like like to me.
“I’m pretty sure he’s not interested,” I said. “But it’s great that you and Spencer are having a good time.”
I meant that. At least Charlie had picked the nicest one of the SF2 boys. Spencer seemed almost regular, not like those superjocks Sean “I’m Cool” Patterson or Jared “I Wear My Basketball Shorts Two Sizes Too Big” McCain who only care about looking cool and making snide comments to kids they think won’t stand up to them.
“Lauren says she thinks Spencer might ask me to the football game at Santa Monica High. His brother is the quarterback.”
“You and Lauren getting along?” I asked. I was kind of hoping she would say no.
“Perfectly. She said she thinks I’d make a really good model.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to be a model. I thought you wanted to be a pediatrician.”
“I used to, but being a model sounds so much more glamorous. The photographer said he thinks I have promise, and he’s going to take some more shots next time he sees me.”
“You mean Tyler? He’s coming back?”
“Yup. Spencer’s dad hired him to take pictures Saturday at the fund-raiser. Lauren thinks we could maybe get our pictures in Los Angeles magazine. She’s going to buy a copy tomorrow, and we’re all going to check out the party pages.”
“Speaking of tomorrow, did Dad tell you he signed us up to play a round-robin at the Sand and Surf Club?”
“Yes. It won’t be so bad, though, because Lauren is going to come with a bunch of the girls. Brooke and Jillian, probably. And Jared said he’s going to be there, too.”
“Yeah, about that. Some of my friends are coming, too.”
Charlie sat up in bed.
“Like who?”
“Alicia. And she’s going to bring Eddie and Oscar. They’ve never seen a real tennis tournament.”
“What a surprise,” Charlie said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just that where they come from, people probably don’t hang out on Sundays playing tennis at a fancy club.”
I felt the blood rush to my face, which it always does when I get angry.
“That sounds like something Lauren would say,” I snapped. “It’s totally snobby, and we’re not snobs. Let me remind you, Charlie, we are not members of the Sporty Forty. We live in the caretaker’s cottage.”
“Why do you always have to keep reminding me of that, Sammie?”
“Because it’s true. You are not one of the rich kids, something you seem to be forgetting.”
“They don’t care if I’m rich or poor. They’re my friends.”
“You seem to be forgetting a recent little cheating scandal they involved you in?”
“I told you, Lauren apologized all over the place. The other kids did, too. And I forgave them. It’s like it never happened now. Everything is fine between us.”
“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”
“You are so suspicious of everyone, Sammie. I feel sorry for you.”
“Fine. In the meantime, I’ve invited Eddie and Oscar for tomorrow, and as far as I’m concerned, they’re coming. They belong at the Sand and Surf every bit as much as Lauren or stupid Jared, who looks like he’s going to trip on his shorts every time he takes a step.”
Now it was Charlie’s turn to snap at me. “That is his signature look!”
“Whatever.” I sighed. I hated this conversation almost as much as the one I’d just had with my dad. “I’m really tired.”
“Me too. Let’s just go to sleep.” Charlie flicked off the light and rolled over to face the wall. She didn’t even say good night.
I changed clothes quickly, got into bed, and fell asleep wondering exactly when my sister had turned into such a brat.
Kicked Out
Chapter 6
“Miss Samantha Diamond and Miss Charlotte Diamond, last call to report to the registration desk.” We could hear the official’s voice over the loudspeaker even from the parking lot.
It was noon the next day and we had just arrived at the Sand and Surf Club, a few minutes later than we planned. We had been up since eight o’clock, but our dad wanted to make sure we got in a practice before we headed over for the match. Wouldn’t you know it, my serve was off during practice, and my dad made me stay on the court at the Sporty Forty and do one hundred serves until I got my timing right. That didn’t happen until serve number ninety-nine, and my dad wasn’t pleased. In fact, he was a total crab apple. He just stood there yelling, “Ball toss! Timing! Snap your racket! Soften your grip! Watch the baseline!” and getting grumpier by the minute.
Tension on the car ride over was running pretty high. On big tournament days, my dad gets himself all in a twist, and even though this wasn’t a tournament, he seemed to have put his “all in a twist” mode on high alert. He sped into the parking lot (hard to do when you have a twelve-year-old Toyota), screeched to a stop, and popped open the trunk.
“You girls get your gear and hustle in there,” he said in his crab apple voice. “Be sure to apologize for being late and let them know you’re ready to play immediately.”
“Relax, Rick,” GoGo said, giving him a gentle pat on the hand. “Nothing has begun yet. We’re all fine.”
“You’re fine, Phyllis,” he said to her. “I’m not fine with tardiness. Professional sports is like the armed forces. The trains run on time.”
Okay, so the first thing I wanted to say was that nothing he said made sense. For the life of me, I didn’t get how tennis had anything at all to do with trains. And the second thing was, professional sports? We were good tennis players, but last time I looked, no one was handing us a one hundred thousand-dollar check for our winnings. The most we’d ever won were some fake gold trophi
es that turned pretty rusty when we left them in the garage during a rainstorm. In my opinion, that hardly made us professional.
But he was in no mood to discuss vocabulary, so Charlie and I just did as he said and hurried into the club. GoGo offered to stay while he parked the car. I think she was probably going to try to slow him down some. She’s always such a calming force in our family, reminding us that being kind and having fun are more important than zooming around all stressed out.
The registration was taking place in the lobby at a big old mahogany desk with red velvet chairs behind it. Two stuffy-looking men were sitting in those stuffy-looking chairs, wearing stuffy-looking navy blazers with gold buttons, and striped red ties. It was weird because practically nobody in California wears jackets and ties, and certainly nobody does at a beach club.
Except those two guys. They looked us up and down and seemed tickled pink that we were wearing white tennis skirts and white tops, which is the traditional way tennis players dress. The Sand and Surf Club is so snooty, they even have a policy that all women have to wear tennis skirts and all men have to wear collared shirts—no Tshirts allowed except on the beach. I don’t know where they get the idea that having a collar on your shirt makes you classy, but somehow they made that rule like three hundred years ago and it’s stuck.
Charlie and I always dress alike when we play tennis because our dad thinks it’s good strategy. “Makes your opponent think she’s seeing double,” he says. So when the man at the registration desk looked up and saw us both in white, our hair pulled back with white headbands, looking all preppy and identical, he broke into a big smile.
“What do we have here?” he said, tweaking his thin gray mustache that was clipped so short it was hardly a mustache at all. “Looks like double trouble, Ted.”
“It does indeed,” said the man next to him, who I’m presuming was the Ted in question. “Two little peas in a pod.”
Really, Ted? Little peas? Breaking news—we’re not green and round. Well, okay, maybe one of us is round. Roundish. But we’re definitely not green.
