By the time twelve thirty rolls around and parents start showing up to retrieve their kids, I feel like I’m barely alive on my feet. When Annie proposes going to the Pen that night, I’m almost glad I’m grounded so I have a reason to turn her down. All I can think about is falling face-first into my bed and not moving until morning.
At home, Kris is at the kitchen table, pecking away at her laptop. When she sees me, she quickly closes the lid.
“Welcome home,” she says, and I try not to wince at the word. “I got you something.” She reaches into a bag on the kitchen island and pulls out a small white box. She opens it to reveal a shiny new iPhone, all spotless glass and metal.
“I have a phone,” I reply, wincing again, since I forgot to run that through my don’t-be-an-asshole filter.
“I know, but I figured out why your phone hasn’t been working,” she says. “Turns out the bill didn’t get paid, and since it’s in your mother’s name, I wasn’t able to get access to do anything. I figured the fastest way to solve the problem was to just get you a new one. As we’ve discovered, you can’t be running around without a phone. Besides, yours is cracked.”
A new phone. Of course it would just be easier for her to buy a new phone. Of course she would drop a couple hundred bucks just to keep tabs on me. Of course she’d notice that my piece-of-shit phone has a strip of clear packing tape where a crack was starting to spiderweb across the bottom of the screen. I know she’s just trying to be nice, to help, but it feels like an intrusion. My phone is … well, it’s my life. It has my texts and pictures, and it’s mine. And a new phone will mean a new number, one I’ll have to learn and give out or lose contact with whoever in my old life doesn’t have it. It’s just a phone, but it feels like too much of something.
But when I look at Kris, I see the lines on her forehead spelling out some kind of worry, the corners of her mouth turned down. I realize she doesn’t have any ulterior motive. She isn’t trying to control me. She’s just trying to solve the problem of my broken phone.
I reach for the new phone and lift it gently out of its plastic cradle. It has weight to it, and instantly I feel like I should be holding it with both hands.
“Thanks,” I say. I press the power button and it glows to life. Hello, it says, just another stranger that has become part of my life.
She smiles, then reaches into her bag and pulls out a slip of paper. “It’s all active, and here’s the number. Since I had to get you a new phone, it’s a new number and everything.” I’ll have to text Lainey and Ali, who, for all I know, have been trying to reach me just like Kris had. And of course, I hadn’t even noticed their absence until Kris pointed out my phone problem last night. Because on top of being a terrible foster kid, I’ve also been a terrible friend.
“I got you a case, too.” She produces a package containing a black silicone sleeve. “It’s plain, but it’s just to tide you over until you see something you really want. Something that’s really you.”
It’s perhaps the most absurd statement I’ve heard since this whole unreality began. I’m supposed to find myself in a phone case? Is this a thing people think about when they don’t have more serious problems? If anything, a plain black, unassuming, easy-to-ignore, anonymous, free phone case is more me than anything I’d find in a store.
* * *
I don’t see Spencer at the club on my first day, or that first week. Every day at pickup, I hold my breath waiting to see who will show up to retrieve Ryan, but it is always their mom who arrives in her chic workout wear. When I haven’t seen him by Thursday, I even go so far as to peek at the schedule in the tennis pro’s office, but his name is nowhere to be found.
I try to casually get the information out of Ryan, even though I feel sort of gross doing it.
“Hey, how’s things at home?” I ask him one day while we are all walking in a line to the pool for swimming.
“Fine,” he replies, but he is mostly focused on swinging his Merlin towel over his head like a lasso. I can’t bring myself to try again. Pumping a seven-year-old for information just feels like ten kinds of wrong.
But then Friday morning, just as I’m making my way back to the clubhouse, I catch a glimpse of Spencer’s blond curly hair on the tennis court. He’s standing next to a gangly, dark-haired boy practicing serves, and it looks like it’s an uphill battle to get the ball over the net. I wait a moment to see if he’ll glance over, maybe see me and wave, or better yet, smile. Anything so I know we’re okay. But he keeps his focus on the kid, and I’m forced to leave before I’m late to camp.
When I see the big clock overhead in the clubhouse strike ten, I know his lesson has to be done, so I tell Annie I need to run to the bathroom. The kids are busy digging through the costume closet to find supplies for their Fourth of July show, which is only a week away. With them contained and not playing with glue or paint, I figure it’s a safe time to duck out.
“No problem,” Annie says, before telling Abel Marcus to please stop trying to stick the cotton balls intended to make Founding Fathers wigs into his ears.
I hustle out of the clubhouse, which is just down the path from the tennis courts. Spencer is there, wandering around the court scooping up stray balls while the boy he’d been working with wipes at a river of sweat pouring down his temple.
“Hey,” I say as I wander onto the court, dodging the bright green tennis balls that litter the ground. He looks up, nearly dropping an armful of fuzzy green balls.
“Oh, hey,” he says. “You out of jail?”
“Work release,” I reply. “You?”
“Same. My dad’s still pretty pissed about my ‘disrespectful attitude,’” Spencer says, adopting the tone of the elder Ford. “For a minute, I thought he was going to make me quit teaching. Which would be just what he wants, since he’s been pestering me to do an internship with one of his finance buddies since spring break.”
“But he didn’t?” I ask, and I suddenly realize I’m worried about not seeing him at the club every day. “Make you quit, I mean?”
“Nah. Teaching tennis lessons is great for my résumé.” Spencer rolls his eyes, then a grin starts tugging at his lips. “I know you got in trouble, but is it weird to say that I had fun the other day?”
I shrug. “I won’t take offense.”
“Well, I did,” he says. “And besides, my dad left for a business trip this morning. I doubt my mom is going to hold me to his grounding.”
“Lucky,” I say. “Kris appears to be sticking to her guns. It’s work and home for me until next week.”
“Bummer. You’re gonna miss a Pen gathering or five.”
I can hear a chorus of yelling coming from the direction of the clubhouse and realize I’ve been gone way too long. The kids are mostly good; they’re just always operating on an energy level of eleven. If I don’t get back soon, they may wind themselves up enough to achieve liftoff.
“I better get back,” I say. “Camp calls.”
“Tell Ryan to simmer down,” Spencer says.
“He’s been good!”
“Yeah, but I’m sure he could be better.”
I grin and start to walk off the court.
“Later, Taffy,” I hear him say as I exit the gate. I can’t stop the wide grin that spreads across my face, but I manage to dial it down a smidge before I turn back to him.
“Later, Joe.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Got any big plans for the weekend?” Spencer asks.
It’s the end of a long week of camp, where I swear the moms decided to give their children IVs of high fructose corn syrup before sending them to see us. My ears are ringing from the constant yelling, and I’m not talking fighting. I’m talking simple requests for a cup of water or a new box of crayons being made at max volume. I didn’t know having a tiny human shout “MORE STRAWBERRIES, PLEASE!” at you could be so physically painful, but I feel like I’ll be hearing that one echo in my nightmares all weekend.
What got me through t
he week more than anything else was knowing that come Friday, I’ll finally, finally get to go out with Ali. I’d texted him from my new phone so he’d have the number, which had started a flirtatious text chain that continued all week.
But for some reason, I don’t want to tell Spencer about my date, so instead I just shrug. “Not really.”
“You want to hang out or something? I mean, we don’t have to run off to a fair or anything. We could just hang around the island.”
I glance at my phone. It’s only one o’clock. Ali won’t be coming to pick me up for a few hours. My grounding is up today, which means I’m free to leave the house again. Why not? “Uh, sure.”
“Cool. I’ll give you a ride.”
“I rode my bike.”
“I’ve got the Rover. We can throw it in the back.”
I agree, partially because the sun is beating down on my bare shoulders and the thought of even a mile bike ride makes me want to curl up on a bench and go to sleep.
With the bike loaded in the back, we pull out of the parking lot. I shift in the seat of the car, peeling my bare thighs off the leather. Spencer glances over from the road, then reaches down and hits a button.
“Seat coolers,” he says, and after a few seconds, yup, I notice my rear end start to cool considerably.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He glances at me over the top of his sunglasses, one eyebrow arched. “I am not. How else are you supposed to tolerate leather seats while living in the tropics?”
“Um, not have leather seats?”
“Then how would rich people show that they can afford to buy the most expensive thing there is?”
“Oh, I’m sure they’d think of something,” I say. “I was watching one of those home renovation shows with Kris, and this woman had a two-story closet built. Two full stories just to house her clothes.”
“And her shoes, I’m sure.”
“Those had their own separate space!”
Spencer shakes his head in wonder. “Okay, now that’s sick.”
“You let the two-story closet slide, but the separate shoe closet is where you draw the line?”
“A guy’s gotta have standards. I mean, at some point you have to say, Nope, that’s gauche.”
“Gauche?”
“Yeah, it means—”
“I know what it means,” I reply, maybe a little harsher than intended. “I’m just surprised to hear a teenage dude say it.”
“A dude? That’s what you think of me as? A dude?”
At his house, Spencer goes around to the back of the car and pulls out my bike. He leans it against the side of the garage and hangs the helmet carefully from the handlebar. We’re halfway up the path when Mr. Ford appears on the front porch.
“I thought you had your own car,” he says, his voice cool.
“I didn’t know you were in town this weekend,” Spencer replies. If his dad notices the disdain dripping from Spencer’s every word, he doesn’t let on.
“Don’t forget, you owe me two hours on the court today. I think you’ll want to get those done before it gets any hotter.”
I feel myself tense, even in my tired state. I’ve barely spent any time around Mr. Ford, but even in that short period, I know I don’t want to spend any more.
“I’m going up to my office to get some work done. I expect to hear balls on that court. Two hours, Spencer.”
“Yes, sir.” I glance over at Spencer and see barely contained contempt. His brow is furrowed, and he is taking these long, slow, deep breaths, his shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm. He closes his eyes tight for a few seconds, but when he opens them, all his tension is gone, disappeared as if by magic trick. A smile is on his face, though I can’t help but notice it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I can head home,” I say, pointing over my shoulder as if he doesn’t know I stay right there. “We can hang out when you’re done.”
“Oh, you’re going home,” Spencer says, “but you’re coming back in tennis clothes.”
I can’t keep from grimacing. “Tennis clothes?”
“Yep. Something you can run around in.” He points down at my flip-flops. “And tennis shoes, please.”
“Are tennis shoes the same as sneakers? Because that’s all I’ve got.”
“Gym shoes,” he says with a laugh.
“But I’m tired,” I reply, miming a dramatic yawn. And I was when camp let out, but for some reason, standing here with Spencer, I feel a rush of new energy.
He squares his shoulders and affects a stern tone that sounds shockingly like his father’s. “Buck up, young lady. It’s tennis time.”
“Ugh, fine,” I reply with a smirk. “But I don’t know how to play tennis.”
“Which is why I’m going to teach you. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve been known to teach a lesson or two.” He turns and starts trotting toward the court in his backyard. “Meet me on the court in fifteen minutes,” he calls over his shoulder, his racket bag slung across his back like a guitar.
I head down the hill and into the house. Kris is in her office, and I buzz past, hoping to avoid a conversation. But her ears must be tuned to my frequency, because I hear her rise from her desk chair almost immediately.
“How was camp?”
“Good!” I call as I start tearing through my drawers for gym clothes. I find a pair of black yoga pants, but the thought of running around on a tennis court at the hottest part of the day in long pants makes me want to die. “Only two kids cried today.”
“That’s great,” she says, her voice nearer, and I turn to see her leaning in my doorway. “What are you looking for?”
“Tennis clothes,” I reply. I think I’ve got a pair of cotton shorts I wore in gym at Southwest last year, if I could just find them.
“I’m sorry, you’re looking for tennis clothes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you actually have tennis clothes, or are you just hoping that they’ll magically appear if you rummage hard enough?”
I shoot her a look, and she straightens, chastened.
“Come with me.” She cocks her head, then turns on her bare heel and pads down the hallway. She steps into her (one-story) closet, then comes out with a fistful of spandex and what appears to be something with a ruffle. She lays the pink-and-white tank top flat on her bed, then adds the pink tennis skirt beneath it. The bottom looks to be about six inches long, making the term skirt generous. It’s just about the girliest thing I’ve ever seen, much less worn. Kris tosses a roll of white ankle socks down on the bed next to the ensemble.
“Why do you own this?” I finger the skirt.
“I play tennis,” she says, sounding indignant.
“You do?”
“I mean, I know how to swing a racket. I’m not any good, but around here, tennis is ninety percent social. It’s like going for coffee.”
“I don’t like coffee.”
“But if someone asked you to go get coffee, you’d still go, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s tennis around here.” She affects a prissy southern accent. “We should play tennis! they say, and the next thing you know you’re volleying a few before sitting under an umbrella drinking white wine and gossiping.”
“Is there some kind of handbook I could get for life around here?”
“I’ll talk to someone in the Anthropology Department at the college,” she says. “So you and Spencer seem to be getting to be good friends.” She cocks her head at the window, which looks out toward the Ford family tennis court. I can hear the thwack, thwack of balls already. Spencer is waiting. Which means I can make a hasty exit without having to get into any of the specifics about my friendship with Spencer.
I snatch the clothes off the bed. “I’ll save my thanks until after I’ve seen myself wearing this.”
“You’re going to look great, which is really all you need to play tennis on Helena.”
Five minutes later, I’m trudgin
g across the lawn in Kris’s pristine tennis clothes and my ratty, scuffed Nikes that I own only because Southwest required gym every semester. With each step, I feel myself reaching for the hem of the skirt and tugging it southward. The skirt comes fitted with a pair of bloomers that keep me from any kind of I-see-London situation, but it doesn’t make me feel any less exposed.
Spencer is serving balls from a stand next to him on the court, one after the other with a powerful thwack and a grunt. They scream across the court in a streak of neon green at a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it speed. This is the first time I’ve watched him play up close since that first night, when I didn’t notice how good he was. Practically lethal with his serve (seriously, I make a mental note to avoid it). I pause at the entrance to the court and watch him, in a deep rhythm: ball, toss, serve. Ball, toss, serve. It takes him a moment to notice I’m there, but the bright pink must catch his eye, because mid-rhythm, he misses, his racket audibly whiffing as he stumbles forward.
“I thought you said you didn’t have tennis clothes.” His eyes start to drift down to my tanned legs, but he quickly sucks in a breath and forces his eyes back to my face.
“Kris helped me out.” I step onto the court holding her racket. “But don’t mistake my attire for any kind of skill. I’ve literally never swung a tennis racket in my life.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“This is probably the first time I’ve ever held one,” I reply. We didn’t even play tennis in gym class. Southwest PE class was mostly basketball, walking the track when it was nice outside, and playing dodgeball on Fridays. If it rained, I kid you not, our gym coach would put on a Sweatin’ to the Oldies tape and make us bounce along.
“Well, then we’ve got a lot to learn,” he says, a sparkle in his eye. He holds up one of the fuzzy green balls from the basket. “This is a tennis ball,” he says, tossing it to me. I hit it directly back at him. Or I mean to, but the ball goes a little wild and arcs high over his head, nearly clearing the fence surrounding the court.
Better Than the Best Plan Page 17
