Open Court (6 page)

“Did you remember the list?” my mom asked.

I dug it from my pocket. “I could use some new underwear.”

“Let's concentrate on tennis gear. I don't have time to be running all over town.”

“I wear underwear when I play tennis. I suppose I don't
have
to, though. Course, if it's breezy and my tennis skirt flies up, it could be quite a spectacle, could be—”

“Fine, we'll stop at Target on the way home. You're full of sass for a girl who didn't empty the dishwasher this morning.”

“Not my turn. Brad's turn.”

“That's what he said about you.”

“Ladies, ladies, hello.”

“Hi, Wes.”

“Hello, Wesley,” my mom said. “Shoes first?”

“Sure thing.”

I walked ahead.

“Have you heard anything about Janie? How's she doing?” Wes called from behind me.

I felt my mom's eyes on the back of my head, hot, burning. I looked straight ahead, pretending I hadn't heard, and stopped at a shoe bench.

“Wesley,” my mom said, “Hall doesn't really want to discuss it. She and her tennis coach are dealing with it.”

Way to go, Mom!
I caught her eye. She winked. I exhaled. Answering to Coach about it was one thing; having to answer to Wes wasn't necessary.

“Oh, OK. No problem,” Wes said, having realized his blunder. “Shoes, then …”

He grabbed a pair, lacing them as I took a seat.

“What size is that?” I asked.

“Your size.”

“Ill need a half size bigger. My toes feel too tight in the ones I've been wearing.”

Selecting a different shoe, he laced again. I slid my foot in, making noises so everyone would laugh.

“Ahh … Wilson DST 02, women's size eight. Pure bliss, ladies and gentlemen. Pure bliss.”

“Room enough?”

“Perfect.”

Wes looked to my mom. “Mrs. Braxton?” He referred to her, always, for the quantity because she possessed the credit card.

“Three pair.”

“I only need two,” I said.

Sweaty shoes cause blisters, to which I'm prone. Alternating shoes is important so sweat-soaked shoes have a chance to dry before they're worn again (gross, I know). I don't need three pair. I can make do with two.

“We'll get three.”

“But I only need—”

“Three,” she said to Wes. He headed to the stockroom.

Perfect example of the weird stuff that's been happening.
Three pair!
I used to have to beg for
one
new pair, and now she's ponying up for three pair of Wilson
DST 02s at ninety-five dollars a pop, willingly. We argue over
underwear,
but suddenly tennis gear is a necessity, like oxygen or water. It's unsettling.

Tennis is a hugely expensive sport. Coaches, shoes, tournament entry fees—it adds up. Some out-of-state tournaments require plane tickets
and
hotel stays. Heck, even the gas to get me to the country club my own family can't afford to join costs an easy thousand a year! We scrimp and save any way we can. We never buy three pair!

“What's next?” my mom asked.

“Racquets,” I said.

“Wesley will catch up.”

Prince. Best stick ever. Great for my game. Two hundred bucks apiece, unstrung. Coach will string them for me later. He likes to do it himself, wants it done right. I grabbed two. This isn't negotiable. Have to have racquets. This racquet. Others mess up my game.

As I searched for my racquets my mom moved down the aisle to study rows of thick sport socks.

Wes caught up to me, balancing shoe boxes. “New racquets? I thought you were getting free Prince racquets.”

I shook my head, indicating my mom's ignorance of the matter. We stepped aside. “I am. But I left my club locker unlocked and my bag got hauled off to the lost and found. My racquets weren't in it when I got it back.
My fault, really. And I'm not due another shipment of Prince racquets for a month. I thought I had a spare in my room, but turns out that was the one that sort of broke a few weeks ago,” I said.

“Broke? How?” he asked. Wes enjoyed scandals.

“It sort of got slammed into the court after a lousy point. I sort of slammed it.”

Wes made an O with his mouth. “I see.”

“For racquet abuse, Coach made me do laps around the court while singing the theme song from
Rocky.
You believe that?”

“That was harsh of him.”

“No kidding.”

My mom rejoined us, holding five pair of Thorlo socks. Eleven bucks a pair. “Are we done?”

“I need more blister crap.”

“Don't say ‘crap.’ “

“Blister stuff.”

I gathered Blister Band-Aids, Dr. Scholl's Molefoam, Coban tape, and extra Coban tape since I lose it constantly.

“I'm done.”

“Step right to the register, ladies. Ill get you squared away.”

I prepared myself for the strained look on my mom's
face as she handed Wesley her credit card. Never enough money, everything so expensive. A good stick costs two hundred dollars. It's no one's fault. She knows this. I know this. My talent requires equipment; the equipment costs money. So I braced myself for the strain, except this time it wasn't there. A hint of something else rested on her face … it was hope, I think. I'm pretty sure it was hope.

I
walked down the street, finding Polly loitering on the barren curb in front of Eve's house. She drank what looked like lemonade out of a clear plastic pitcher. Her lips were bright orange with lip gloss. It made me want to laugh. “What are you sitting out here for? Eve gone?”

She motioned to the opened garage door. “You'll see.”

I ambled up the driveway just as Eve came out of the garage. “Hey,” she said. “I just tried to call you. My mom and I are going to the Castle Rock outlet mall. So I can't hang out. Sorry.”

Her mom stepped out of the house, digging through her purse, getting into their car. Eve glanced back, knowing she had to go.

Now was as good a time as any. I pulled out the crumpled, cola-stained cup from my pocket and held it up. “Guess what this is.”

Eve shrugged impatiently. “A piece of trash?”

“Luke Kimberlin,” I proclaimed, “drank from this cup!
My
cup. He watched me practice at the club!”

That got her attention. “Really? Cool. Has he called you?”

“Well, no. Should he have?”

“When are you gonna see him again?” she asked, wanting something solid.

“Maybe at the club.”

“When is that gonna be?” she pressed.

I expected celebration, not an interrogation. “Eve, you don't get it—Luke talked to me
on purpose.
It's a big deal.”

Brake lights pulsed red as Eve's mom backed out. We stepped to the grass. Polly hadn't moved from the curb. Eve's eyes darted toward the car, preoccupied.

“But you don't know if he likes you. He only watched you play tennis. That doesn't mean—”

“Eve—”

Her mom beeped the horn. Eve edged away. “I gotta go. We're meeting my aunt up there. It's an hour drive. Tell me about Luke later, OK?”

“Sure,” I said, feeling drowned.

As Eve drove away, Polly walked over, orange lips blazing. “Told you,” she said. “Want some lemonade?”

I handed her my used Diet Coke cup. “Guess what this is,” I said.

With no other shade in sight, we trudged across the blacktop of the nearby grade school, our steps clumsy in the swelling afternoon heat. The playground was deserted save for a few boys riding bikes in the dirt. We situated ourselves under the shade of an awning. Polly was genuinely interested, and I was grateful.

“Luke Kimberlin!” she said, riled up. “I can't believe you didn't tell me before. Luke Kimberlin … wow … this is exactly what you wanted!”

I know it was silly, but hearing his name made me happy. I shook myself out of my own little world and glanced at my watch. “Hey, Polly, aren't you supposed to be at math camp today? Like right now?”

She smacked her orange lips defiantly. “I'm supposed to be a genius, too, and I'm not that, either.”

“You ditched?” I asked, astonished.

“Math camp blows.”

“I bet.”

“Sucks to have math homework in June. Besides, it's not like I'm stupid. But A's aren't good enough, I've got
to get A-pluses. Maren wants me to be a chemist like her. I can't do that being average. I've got to be exceptional. Do I look like I want to be a chemist?” she asked, hugging the nearly empty plastic pitcher.

“No.”

She sighed. “I've been to work with Maren. It sucked.”

I felt the need to hug her or something, but she didn't look like she wanted a hug. Looked more like she wanted to punch someone.

“But you're good at math?” I asked.

“Duh.”

“You don't like being smarter than everyone else?”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“Yours.”

“How many hours a day do you spend playing tennis?”

“Five. Three hours with Coach. A couple hours on my own, practicing serves.”

“Five,” she said smugly. “Including math camp, I spend four hours a day doing math problems.”

I shrugged. “What's your point?”

“We're twins. We're slaves to sports and numbers.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said uneasily.

“So be on my side. I don't want to be a chemist. I hate math.”

*   *  *

Before I knew Polly, I thought she was nerdy. Back in April the seventh grade held their annual science fair. Most of the projects looked like they'd been thrown together the night before. Battery demonstrations, erupting volcanoes, and models of the solar system packed the room.

Polly's was different. She performed an experiment charting the growth rate of bacteria at different temperatures. Her booth contained petri dishes, a microscope, and an array of drawings of bacteria. Teachers hovered over her like she was the next Jonas Salk.

At the end of the day the principal announced that even though “learning was its own reward,” he had plaques for the best projects.

When Polly's name was called, she hauled ass to the front of the room and collected her grand prize, her face beet red from embarrassment. Her mom cheered loudly; it was clear she took the achievement personally. Talk about embarrassing. The more I knew about Polly, the more I appreciated my mom's lack of involvement.

Polly's mother seemed to be an exact replica of Janie's bewildering father. I'd go mad if I had parents like that. My mom asking about Janie was bad enough.

I was lost in my thoughts when Polly pointed her bony finger in my face. “Are you gonna let Luke Kimber-lin stick his tongue in your mouth?”

“Funny, Polly,” I wryly said. “Do you think he should've called by now?”

“Don't know,” she said.

“I'm not a country club girl. I wonder why he likes me, if he does.”

She elbowed my arm. “Why wouldn't he? You're likable.”

We sat for a few seconds.

“So, are you?” she asked.

“Am I what?”

“Luke's tongue.”

“Heck, yeah,” I said.

Polly laughed hysterically.

The air was cooler than usual. I'd forgotten to pack a warm-up jacket in my tennis bag, so I froze in my T-shirt, bouncing up and down on court, trying to get warm. I corralled the balls out of my way so I wouldn't trip. Checked my watch—I'd only been here an hour. Still had an hour to try to wrestle Coach's voice back into me.

Rise, Coach, rise. Please.

Step to the baseline. Bounce ball. Separate hands.
Racquet back. Extend racquet. Make contact. Follow through. Out. By a fourth of an inch. Barely out. Hmmm.

Breathe. In and out. Keep warm. Ignore the breeze. Ignore chattering teeth. The ball matters. A fourth of an inch matters. Let everything else fall away. Let Trent's voice rise.

Rise, Coach, rise.

Bounce ball. Separate hands. Racquet back—

“Hey, Hall!”

I whipped my head around. Polly was crouched down, looking at me through a patch of the torn windscreen. Thank God I wasn't hallucinating now, too. “What are you doing?”

“Came to watch you practice. How do I get in?”

I pointed. “You gotta go through that hole.” I jogged over and held back the jagged wire fence. “Careful, it'll rip your shirt.”

“Whew,” she said, standing upright again, holding a paper bag, dismayed.
“This
is where you practice? Yuk.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Melissa told me. I want to watch you play. So here I am.”

“What's in that bag?”

She bit her lip. Scrunched up her nose. “You'll find out in a minute, nosy.” She looked back. “Melissa?”

“How do I get in?” Melissa wailed.

“Melissa is here, too?” I said, astonished.

“Sure, why not? I wanted Eve to come, but she said she had something else to do.”

Melissa struggled, getting in. “Hey, Hall,” she said.

“Are those weeds growing out of the court?” Polly asked.

“Yeah, this court … sucks. I usually practice alone, you know, so I can concentrate.” I felt my face burn. I was thrown. Aside from Melissa's occasional questions, my friends and my tennis never mixed. Eve would never … I laughed at the sight of them, my two separate worlds blending like this.

Polly freed a homemade sign from the paper bag and began hitching it to the metal court fence. Melissa dropped her jacket and helped. I stood back, watching, revived.