Open Court (16 page)

“I imagine they'd have to be,” my mom said.

“Of course, we aren't in full session right now. Official check-in doesn't happen until August twenty-seventh. I suppose you already know that from the literature we sent …”

I didn't know why this stupid man kept talking. Apparently he thought I was going to
attend
Bickford Academy. Not likely. I was only here so my mom, the Weak Link, could see how atrocious the place was. So far it wasn't working. Though I'd played tournaments in Florida before, Trent and Annie, not my mom, had acted as my chaperones. Now she took in each trivial sight like an excited tourist.

“Look at all the palm trees!” my mom squealed.

“Gee, a palm tree, neat,” I said inaudibly.

“The atmosphere is so relaxing,” she continued. “I feel a sudden urge for a banana daiquiri.”

“I feel the urge for a barf bag.”

“Did you say something, Hall?” the driver asked.

“The air feels swampy,” I said. “Feel that? Muggy.”

My mom shook her head. “It doesn't. It's nice.”

“It's swampy.”

“It's no such thing.”

About thirty boys decked out in wrinkled white and navy Bickford Academy T-shirts ran down the middle of the street like a pack of rabid wolves. Each seemed to
have a wealthy-looking forehead and tanned skin. Several of them could be considered downright gorgeous. The whole mess of them bobbed up and down on the pavement at various speeds, all staying within the group. Sweat flying. Sore muscles aching.

My mom watched me watch them. Our car and their jogging route met and went opposite directions. Soon another pack of wolves—girls in ponytails, with matching shirts and gray shorts—jogged past as well. An instructor yelled things at them to keep up morale. Exhaustion sat on the faces of some, pain on others. I expected as much.

“Evening conditioning run,” the driver said.

“Doesn't
that
look fun,” I said.

“Here we are. Beautiful, isn't it? You'll notice the entrance is secured. In case of escapes,” he said, laughing.

The gatekeeper waved our car through.

“Escapes? Look how high those walls are!” I'd definitely need a ladder to flee.

“No one can leave without a pass,” he said, reading my mind.

“Of course,” my mom said, as if this was comforting.

The car slowed to five miles an hour for our viewing pleasure. Sprawling grounds prompted
oohs
and
aahs
from the front seat. It looked like a resort. I had hoped
it would more or less resemble a prison or Marine Corps barracks. We drove along the perimeter of the compound.

“These three buildings are the boys’ dorms; up farther are the girls’. The cafeteria, library, and staff offices are all housed in this main building. The pool is around back. Can you see from back there, Hall?”

“Yeah.”

“We weren't expecting something so elaborate, were we, Hall?” my mom said.

“We have ten each of clay and grass courts and thirty-eight outside hard courts. Plus indoor hard courts as well.”

“Hmmm.”

“Our scheduling system is tight. The emphasis is on hard courts with adaptation techniques for clay and grass. You'll love clay,” the driver said, looking at me from the rearview mirror, “it's great fun.”

“I've won two tournaments on clay,” I said.

One, two, three car doors slammed as we got out, inspecting the courts. My mom raised her eyebrows, trying to telepathically tell me this was great. I ignored her.

“Look at these courts. Not a nick in them!” she said.

“I'll let Phil know you're here,” the driver said. “You must be starved. Nice meeting you both.”

Whatever.

My mom could be impressed all she wanted. All she had to do was witness the grim, pasty-faced, unloved, exiled children, thousands of miles away from their hometowns, and the woman would break like fine china. Weak Link. I could hear her on the phone to my dad—
They're children, Frank
and
They look so sad
— and we'd be outta here.

I hadn't told any of my friends about my Bickford debacle, so my so-called secret was safe. The trip amounted to a few hours tonight and all day Sunday, with our plane leaving on Monday at 8:00 p.m. I figured I could handle anything, even Bickford, for thirty-one waking hours.

Phil was about forty, with a chin that was roughly the size of Nevada. He had simply huge dimples and a big, energetic voice.

“Hall Braxton!” he greeted me. “I'm Phil Flickett. I'm the head coach. You can call me Coach.”

“No thanks. Trent is my coach.”

Phil Flickett and his big chin were unfazed. “All right, call me Phil, then.” He shook hands politely with my mom but continued to look at me as though I was an item, a commodity, a product.

“It's so wonderful of you to bring us here,” my mom
gushed. “Hall's been working hard on her game. She's been with the same coach for years and years, so this is quite a new experience for us. Her coach is the one who contacted Thomas Fountain originally.”

“Oh yes, Thomas is a friend of ours from way back. He scouts recruits for us now and then. Hall impressed him a great deal. But we'll talk tennis later. There's a good place to eat not far. How does ravioli sound?”

The veal-stuffed ravioli swam in a pool of red sauce. I chewed the rubbery pasta while I halfheartedly listened to my mom grill Phil and his big chin.

“What about the dorms? How are they set up?”

“There are three separate buildings for girls and three for boys. We call them villas. Each villa holds a different age group.”

“The place seems cozy. Unusual for the size,” my mom said, putty in the guy's hands.

“Glad you noticed. We're proud of that. Anyway, there are four girls to a room. Each villa also has four single rooms. The better girls in each age group get the singles.”

I knew it—the
better girls
from each age group got the singles. It was unspoken although constant competition, even for a bedroom. My mom hated unnecessary competitiveness.

“I see,” she said, her words breaking off in chunks.

Phil shoved garlic bread into his big dimpled cheeks, making him look like a chipmunk. Sensing my mother's disapproval, he tried calming it.

“We focus mainly on skills, coping under pressure, mental strategies. We don't turn out faceless robots. We stress individual style. No competing in every tournament that comes around, no need.”

My mom exhaled and relaxed, significantly soothed. “Oh, that's nice.”

“Yes, it's very nice,” I said.

“It was a long flight,” my mom said, as if I needed explaining. “It's a lot to grasp. Butterflies getting the best of her.”

Butterflies, ha!

“Nah,” Phil said. “She's a tough cookie. That delicate face doesn't fool me. We'll get you on a court tomorrow, get a stick in your hand, be good as new.”

“Just butterflies,” my mom said again.

“Your coach said you won the Junior Orange Bowl two years in a row?”

“Yes. I had easy draws.”

“No such thing as an easy draw at the Junior Orange Bowl,” Phil the Chin said. “That's a huge accomplishment.”

“It is,” my mom agreed.

“It
was
an easy draw,” I protested. “Two players in my half defaulted.”

“She got to the finals of the Copper Bowl and did well at the Columbus Indoors in Ohio as well. Won the Great Pumpkin Sectionals.”

Stunned, I looked at my mom. The woman had barely uttered a tennis term in her entire life, and she was choosing to become an expert now?

“Haven't played many tournaments this summer. Why?”

The only tournament I'd played was the Cherry Creek Invitational, thank God. I'd made such a mess of it, I felt sick just thinking about it. If I didn't start playing some tournaments, my ranking was going to plummet. In fact it probably already had. “Coach says the competition isn't hard enough. Wants me to concentrate on drills instead,” I said.

“Is that why you didn't play in the USTA Girls 14's National Clay Court Championship in July?”

I shrugged. It fit that he kept mentioning the Junior Orange Bowl and the National Clay Courts; they were Florida events.

“But you won the Clay Courts last year; you didn't want to defend your title?” he asked, prodding further.

Trent withdrew me from the Clay Courts after Janie had her breakdown. He didn't want to push me, I think.
But I didn't want to explain that to The Chin. My mom recognized me floundering and piped up.

“Money is a factor,” she said, rescuing me. “All the traveling gets to be quite a financial burden.”

Phil nodded. “If you stay visible, stay winning, you can get some sponsorship deals going. Nike, Reebok, Fila … get free equipment at the very least.”

“Representatives from those companies have already contacted her. Her coach doesn't like the idea.”

“Why?” The Chin asked me.

“Because I'm not for sale.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Her coach feels it's important to change her equipment as her game grows. He doesn't want her feeling forced to use specific brands. Prince ships her free racquets every so often. Right now we're more concerned with the cost of coaching, not equipment.”

“I see,” The Chin said. That shut him up for a while. But not nearly long enough. “Have you played any international tournaments yet?”

“Only one in Mexico, in February, a lowly level 5 tournament. I lost in the first round to a girl from Argentina,” I said.

“That girl was
eighteen,
“my mom added.

I gulped down my Diet Coke until only ice remained and looked around, hoping to spot our absent waiter.

“Thomas Fountain was impressed with your serve-and-volley game. What's your best shot otherwise?”

I couldn't bring myself to answer. The level of his coaching prowess was questionable. A good coach is supposed to
see
a player's game, not
ask.

“Just butterflies,” my mom assured The Chin.

I opted for the indoor hard courts at noon on Sunday. I hadn't had a racquet in my palm in a day and a half. My hand actually itched for it—felt complete again. The Weak Link sat to the side and watched me hit ground strokes against the backboard. Her face was fresh, spry, and curious. I ignored her. Phil joined her with cups of hot coffee.

A group of girls goofed off, waiting to watch.

“Katie!” The Chin called. “Rally with Hall?”

“Sure,” she hollered, stepping on court. I'm pretty tall, but Katie towered over me by four inches. We hit easy shots so she could warm up. “I'm Katie.”

She didn't look quite as depraved as I'd expected.

“I'm Hall. You thirteen?”

“Fourteen. Been here two years. Did I see you at early admission?”

“No. I'm just here for the weekend. I won't be back.”

“Too bad.” She caught the ball. “Ready?”

“Let's do it.”

She let me serve first. The ball echoed slightly in the building's steely acoustics. The twang made my heart skip.

Thump
…
thump
…

…
thump
…
thump
…

Katie was a baseliner. Although she was a year older, her skills were years behind mine. Her strokes were haphazard and soft. If Trent were here, he'd holler at her lack of effort.

Thump
…
thump
…

…
thump
…
thump
…

I charged the net like a warrior, suffocating her intentions.

…
thump
… Out!

Katie's next shot barreled down the court. I met it before it hit the ground, tenderly lifting my racquet. Hit gently, easy like an egg. Barely clearing the net, it rolled as it landed on her side of the court. A flawless drop shot.

I felt like kissing that ball.

“Vicious drop shot, Hall! Looking good! Exact amount of ease,” Phil said, confirming.

I won the next three games. Katie made a good-natured grimace. The girl wasn't the least bit depraved for someone who'd done two years at Bickford.

“I shoulda known you were a serve-and-volley girl,” she said. “Most of us are baseliners.”

“That's good for now, Katie,” Phil called. “Send Millicent over.”

Katie walked to the net, waiting to shake my hand. It seemed silly since we hadn't played a whole set, but I obliged. I thought briefly of Trent and sportsmanship.

I was relaxed, my head clear. I was playing like my old self again. Power and finesse dominated my strokes. Maybe the whole fiasco at the Cherry Creek Invitational was just an off week. I'd been worried about nothing. Trent's voice was gone, but apparently I didn't need it here. I was a fine player without his voice. A warrior after all.

Katie lowered her voice. “Millicent Mumfred is sixteen—turning pro this year, in time for the Aussie Open. She's good—high-world-ranking good. Good enough to have a single room. They tell you about the single rooms?”

“Yes.”

Katie looked around. “Millicent hates sprinting to the net. If I were you, I'd hit a few more drop shots,” she said.

“Really? Shame on you, giving me pointers.”

She shrugged. “It's only fair. Millicent's been sizing you up since you stepped on court.”

The Chin hollered, “Any day now, Katie!”

“See you,” she said, and then called, “Millicent, you're up!”

“Hall, need a drink?” my mom called nervously.

“No.”

Millicent Mumfred, a big healthy girl, walked to the net. We shook hands. Bickford Tennis Academy was high on manners, of that I was certain. The complete absence of grim, pale-faced girls concerned me.

“Hello, Hall,” she mumbled, indifferent to me, my game, and the fact that I existed. “I hope you're ready to lose.”

I ignored her silly head games. “Need to warm up?”

“Not for a scrawny thirteen-year-old.” Tossing her hair, she waddled like a duck to the baseline. No wonder she didn't like drop shots—her butt was obviously too big to get to them.

The group of kids watching respectfully off court had increased by ten, including Katie. Reverence so dominated the air I felt like I was in church.

Thump
…
thump
…
thump
…

…
thump
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thump
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thump…