Better Than the Best Plan

by Lauren Morrill

  “Okay, killer. It’s tennis, not baseball,” he says between chuckles, then trots around the net to me. “First things first, we need to get that under control.”

  We spend the next hour working on holding the racket and hitting the ball straight (as opposed to over the fence or clanging off to the right or left into the fence, which appears to be my specialty). By the end of our impromptu lesson, I’m covered in sweat, but I can mostly hit it over the net and into one of the little boxes that mark the boundary lines. Granted, my tennis balls appear to be moving at a speed that could be described as elderly compared to Spencer’s rapid-fire serves. But he’s an encouraging teacher, all smiles and confidence, so I almost start to feel like, if not a Williams sister, then maybe a distant cousin. I can see why his students at the club seem to like him so much. We start volleying back and forth, and though I know he’s going as easy as humanly possible on me, I’m proud of being able to return it each time.

  I send the ball across to him after a particularly long volley, and he lunges dramatically, his racket clanging onto the court as the ball sails past him. He collapses in a heap onto the court.

  “Damn, dude, you’re losing your edge,” I call. “Maybe I need to give you a lesson.”

  He looks up, his blond hair falling over his eyes in sweaty strands. And then in a flash, he’s up and racing around the net and running toward me, lifting me over his shoulder in one effortless move.

  “Someone’s getting a little too big for her tennis skirt!” he shouts, the words disappearing into the breeze, because suddenly he’s running—still holding me—off the court and down the grassy hill toward the house. I can’t see where we’re going until I hear his shoes hit concrete, and then we’re in the air, flying for a split second, until splash. Into the deep end of the pool we go.

  I come up gasping with laughter, the hair that escaped my ponytail plastered to my face. The water is cool and feels amazing on my skin, which is warm and pink from the midday sun. I brush the hair from my face and lean back, floating as I stare at the blue sky overhead. Next to me, Spencer dives to the bottom of the pool, then swims across the floor, emerging over by the steps in the shallow end.

  “Who lives on the beach and also has a pool?” I ask.

  “The pool is heated. We can use it almost all year except for the really cold snaps in January,” he replies, his explanation sounding as obvious as why a house would have more than one bathroom. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. This isn’t a two-story closet.”

  “No, it’s a pool when you live next to the world’s largest pool.”

  “This is different!” he cries.

  “They’re both salt water!”

  He rolls his eyes, giving me a playful splash. “Fine. You got me. We’re decadent rich people. Just awful and terrible. But aren’t you having fun?”

  I groan and sink beneath the surface, because he has me there. I have no response for that. This is fun, and as much as I like to snark on rich people with Lainey or tease Spencer, I’d be the worst liar in the world if I said I didn’t thoroughly enjoy all of this.

  When I come back up for air, Spencer is treading water in front of me.

  “You still have another hour, don’t you?” I ask him, giving him a little splash to that smug face.

  “Nah, he won’t notice.” Spencer splashes me back. “Besides, he’ll be gone soon. Who cares?”

  “It’s too bad you hate tennis so much, because you’re really good.”

  “Who says I hate it?”

  “You don’t?”

  “No,” he says with an intensity that practically causes ripples in the water. “I love it. The power, the quickness. I love feeling my body twitch and react to the ball, and that feeling of really slamming the hell out of it. When I’m on the court during a game, it’s like there’s nothing else. No noise, no drama, no nothing. Just me and the racket and the ball. I love it.”

  “I just thought since your dad was, you know, so…” I fumble for the words.

  “So much of a dick?”

  I splash him again. “I was going to say overbearing.”

  “An overbearing dick,” he replies.

  My eyes dart around the pool deck to make sure Mr. Ford isn’t lurking in the shadows somewhere overhearing this.

  “Why do you think he’s like that?” I ask.

  “How should I know?”

  “Because he’s your dad and he lives in your house?”

  “Barely. My dad spends most of his time in New York. He even has a New York driver’s license. We moved down here before middle school, but I don’t think my dad ever really did.”

  Turns out I’m not the only one with a distant parent. Guess money has very little to do with it.

  “Anyway, don’t worry about it; he’s in his office, which is on the other side of the house, and even if he was right next to the pool, he’s probably got his cell phone glued to his ear. He hears nothing when he’s yelling at people from his office.”

  I let out a breath realizing we’re in the clear. “So what’s the deal with that?”

  “With what?”

  “Your dad working in New York and you guys living here? Are your parents, um, separated or something?”

  He scoffs. “Emotionally? Probably. But legally? Nope. This has always been our vacation house, but we moved down here when Ryan was about a year old. Dad wasn’t about to leave his job, so he decided to commute.”

  “So your dad has a two thousand–mile commute?”

  “Actually, Google Maps has it at just under a thousand. He comes home most weekends and holidays. I have this suspicion that once we go off to college they’ll finally pull the trigger on a divorce, but who can say? Grown-ups are weird.”

  “So why did you move at all?”

  “I don’t think my mom was ever very happy in the city, and after Ryan was born, I think she wanted to get us away from that life.”

  “What life?”

  “Oh, just a lot of competitive shit. Elite private schools and all the pressure.”

  As if summoned by magic, Ryan comes sprinting out of the house, the French doors slamming behind him.

  “Cannonball!” he screams like a war cry as he hurtles his little body into the pool. He makes a decent-sized splash for such a little guy and surfaces sputtering and grinning, a new and sizable gap in his smile.

  “What happened to you?” I ask him. “Did you get in a fight?”

  “No way,” he says, suddenly all serious. He flings himself onto a blue inner tube that’s been floating lazily across the surface of the water, letting his butt sink into the middle, his arms and legs draped over the sides. “You get kicked out of camp if you get in a fight.”

  “She knows that, Ry,” Spencer says, splashing him. “She was teasing you about your tooth.”

  “Oh yeah. I lost it.”

  “Cool,” I say.

  “No, really, I lost it. I swallowed it last night while I was sleeping!” His triumphant grin stretches across his face as he shares what must be a truly morbid fact for a seven-year-old.

  “That’s gonna make it awfully hard for the tooth fairy to come,” I say.

  “We already told him not to take any heroic measures to get it back,” Spencer cuts in, then looks pointedly at Ryan. “The tooth fairy will be happy with a note explaining the situation.”

  “Yup, I already wrote it. It’s under my pillow now!” He flips over on his stomach and kicks to propel himself toward the shallow end. “Hey, ya think if I go take a nap, the tooth fairy will come now?”

  “Doubtful,” Spencer replies.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. Mom’s at yoga,” he says, the whole tooth fairy illusion shattering.

  “My mom always said the tooth fairy doesn’t come once you stop believing in her,” I tell him. I don’t tell him that my mom used this as cover for the time in first grade when she didn’t have cash, ignoring the fact that I really and truly did still believe in the tooth fairy, though not anymore after
that.

  “Well, that’s not true. I haven’t believed in her in forever, and I got five dollars last month for my other front tooth.”

  “Five bucks, eh? Nice haul for a tooth.”

  “I invested it,” Ryan replies matter-of-factly, then slips off the inner tube quick as a fish and disappears below the surface of the water.

  “He means he put it in his piggy bank,” Spencer explains. He rolls his eyes. “He’s been listening to Dad’s phone calls too much.”

  Ryan gathers a handful of rubber rings in his hand, then flings them toward the deep end. In a blink, he’s under again, swimming for his bounty. For having only one full arm, he swims better than I do, slicing through the water like a human missile. I’m mostly a doggy paddler with a touch more finesse.

  “What happened to his arm?” I ask, my voice low as if he’ll be able to hear me beneath the surface.

  “Why don’t you ask him?” Spencer replies. Ryan surfaces for a big gulp of air, then disappears again.

  “Is that rude?”

  “You mean more rude than talking behind his back?”

  I’m thankful that my cheeks are already red from exertion and the sun so he can’t see the embarrassed blush I feel creeping up into my face.

  Ryan bursts up from the bottom of the pool, a fistful of rings in his hand.

  “Hey, buddy!” Spencer calls. Ryan drops the rings at the edge of the pool and whips around so fast he sprays water from his floppy hair. “Maritza wants to know what happened to your arm.”

  “Gestational amputation.” The words sound far too grown-up in his tiny, gap-toothed mouth. “Just a genetic hiccup,” he explains with a shrug, like he’s describing getting a splinter. “I was born with it. This is how I was ’apposed to be.”

  “Supposed to be,” Spencer corrects.

  “Yeah, supposed to be,” Ryan replies. He sticks his tongue out at his big brother. “I know the word, I was just talking too fast.” Then he disappears beneath the water again. It seems like Ryan does most things fast.

  Spencer shakes his head at the spot where Ryan was in the water, a glowing pride sweeping across his face. “Never slowed him down. Because he never had a full arm, he just learned to do everything the first time without it.”

  “That’s great,” I say.

  “He’s awesome,” Spencer says. His face transforms as he says it, his eyes glancing over at the little boy swimming through the water, a smile quirking up at the corner of his mouth. “But not because of or in spite of the arm, but just because he’s a cool little guy, ya know?”

  I flop over a noodle, resting my chin over my crossed arms, enjoying the lazy bob of the pool water.

  Mr. Ford strides out of the house, tucking his phone into his back pocket. He spots us in the pool, and something like a smile appears on his face, though it looks alien to me, and from the lines on his forehead, it seems like it might be a little alien to him, too.

  “You up for a game?” he asks Spencer, swinging an invisible racket.

  “Sorry, Dad,” Spencer says, shrugging. “All wet.”

  “Come on, it’s hot. You’ll dry.”

  “No thanks,” Spencer says, his voice firm and dismissive.

  “I’ll play!” Ryan says, furiously treading water in the deep end. He kicks hard toward the side and starts to pull himself out of the pool.

  “Nah, that’s okay, kid,” Mr. Ford says, glancing back down at his phone, furiously tapping at the screen. Then he shakes his head and ruffles Ryan’s hair with his hand before turning back toward the house. “I’ve gotta deal with this. Another time.”

  Ryan’s shoulders droop for about fifteen seconds, then he shakes like a dog drying off and resets his smile. It’s almost like the move I’d seen Spencer pull earlier after his dad demanded tennis time.

  “Cannonball!” he cries again, this time producing a splash nearly as big as his voice.

  The tension around us squeezes me right in the heart.

  “My dad treats Ryan like he can’t do anything,” Spencer says, the venom in his voice unmistakable. He glances over to make sure Ryan isn’t listening, but he’s busy climbing out of the pool and executing consecutively larger cannonballs at top speed. “All the time he’s pestering me to get on the court, when Ryan would die to play with him. And that thing about investing his money? Ryan would probably love to be pressured into going into Dad’s line of work, but does he ever get the full weight of parental expectations? Nope.”

  Spencer slips beneath the surface and kicks off, swimming silently like a predator toward the ladder. When he emerges, he stalks out of the water and peels off his shirt. He turns to wring it out over the surface of the pool, and the sight of his clouded face is only overshadowed by the tanned, taut skin of his chest, water rolling down in fat drips. He shakes his head hard, water flying off him. His hair fluffs and falls in his face. Swimming is over, I guess, even though Ryan is still splashing around like a madman.

  “Gotta get out, dude,” Spencer calls to his brother. “You know the rules. No swimming without adult supervision.”

  “You’re not an adult,” he replies, but Spencer gives him a look that has Ryan making his way reluctantly out of the water. The two of them head toward the pool house and return with a stack of fluffy white towels. Ryan takes his and bolts for the back door, barely drying a drip. Spencer and I towel off in silence.

  “I should go get out of these wet clothes,” I say, tugging at the fabric of the skirt, which is now soaked and bunched up around my left hip.

  “Yeah, same,” he says. Whatever ease he had earlier, either on the court or in the pool, is gone.

  “Thanks for the tennis lesson.”

  “Anytime.”

  I hand the towel back to him and turn to start back toward Kris’s house.

  “Hey,” he calls, and I spin around at the sound of his voice. He’s got an armful of towels clutched to his chest, bright white contrasting against his tan. He’s practically glowing in a sunbeam, and when he smiles, I swear there’s a twinkle and an attendant ding.

  “Yeah?” I ask, though I’m not sure he hears me, since my voice is practically breathless at the sight of him.

  “You wanna go do something?”

  “You mean something other than a tennis lesson and a reverse skinny-dip?”

  He laughs at that, and my stomach does a somersault. But then it stops with a splat when I remember my plans for the evening. In fact, I probably need to hustle if I’m going to get showered and ready before Ali arrives at five. He didn’t tell me what the plan is for tonight, so I’m aiming to go casual, but I at least want dry hair and some lip gloss. I’m not an animal.

  “I can’t,” I say, fumbling for an explanation. I decide to leave it vague. “I’ve got plans in a few hours.”

  He gives a short nod. “Oh, okay. Well, maybe another time.”

  “Definitely,” I say, answering a little too quickly. “Thanks for the lesson.”

  “It was nothin’,” he replies. He tosses the towel into a wicker bin by the door. “Later.”

  The door shuts behind him, and I’m left standing there, dripping on the concrete, wondering if he’s upset that we aren’t hanging out tonight, and wondering why I care so much.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I’m just applying a swipe of my favorite cherry lip gloss when I hear the doorbell chime in the house. In my haste to make it to the door first, I catch my foot on the fringed edge of the Oriental rug in my bedroom, which sends me flying arms-first into the hall and crashing into the opposite wall like some manic cartoon character. I land with an emphatic ““oof” before righting myself.

  “Hot date?”

  I turn to see Pete standing at his bedroom door in running gear. I must make an eyes-widened face of horror that makes him realize how spot-on he was, because he immediately starts trying to walk it back. “Oh, uh, well, you look nice. Do you want me to get the door or … something?”

  Before I can answer, I hear Kris beat
us both to it.

  “Hi there,” she says. I run to the top of the stairs in time to see her step aside and invite Ali in. Crap. I was hoping to meet him at the door and then bolt, avoiding any weird meet-the-foster-parents situation. But apparently that is happening whether I want it to or not. At least this gives me a moment to take him in and remind myself of the evening ahead. Ali is wearing a pair of dark jeans, a soft emerald-green shirt that my fingers are itching to touch, and flip-flops on his feet. I breathe out a sigh of relief, because I’d opted for a pair of jeans I cuffed at the ankles and a simple white tank top, my hair braided loosely down one shoulder. The aforementioned lip gloss was the only makeup I’d decided to wear. I chose correctly.

  “You must be Ali. Can I get you something to drink before you guys head out?” Kris cocks her head, and he nervously steps in, his eyes sweeping around the entryway. It reminds me of my first night here, when everything was new to me. I wonder what he’s seeing, what he thinks of the house. But if I want to try and extract us as quickly as possible, I need to get down there before any kind of beverage is poured, or—god forbid—Kris tries to make tea.

  “Hey, I’m ready!” I call from the top of the stairs, then take them down two at a time. I prepped Kris for my date by telling her just enough about Ali (soccer player, parents own a restaurant, super-nice guy) to keep her from asking a million questions, in hopes that it would keep her from asking him a million questions. Now it’s time to see if that gamble paid off. “We’re going to head on out.”

  Pete must have been behind me on the stairs, because Kris trades a questioning look over my shoulder. Apparently, I have Pete on my side, because Kris smiles and nods. “Well, remember your curfew, okay? And text to let me know where you are.”

  It takes everything I have not to visibly bristle at this new rule. Why doesn’t she just put one of Pete’s GPS trackers in my purse and cut out the middleman? But I don’t want to argue about it, so I just say okay. Then at the bottom of the stairs, I grab Ali’s hand and pull him out the door, letting it swing shut behind us.