The Valeditztorian (20 page)

“Want an apple?” I ask.

Aimee shakes her head. The kid doesn’t realize how lucky she’s got it.

Then inspiration hits me.

“Hey, Aimee,” I say.

“What?” she snaps, clearly frustrated
by the lack of worthwhile goodies.

“I’ll make you a deal
. You tell me what snack you’d like to have, and I’ll buy it for you, within reason. After you finish the math problems, you can eat the treat.”

“Before I finish
them.”

The
kid drives a hard bargain.

“Okay, but only if you promise to do your homework afterward.”

“I promise.”

Fifteen minutes later, following a quick trip to the candy store on the corner, I’m back with a loaded paper bag
. The gluttonous stash includes candy corns, red licorice, caramels, gummy worms, and a bunch of sour patch kids. Once I relinquish the goodies, Aimee dives back under her comforter.

Ten minutes hence
, when I no longer hear the sound of chewing, I call to her, “Aimee, Earth to Aimee?”

“Aimee’s back on Mars.”

“Now that Aimee has eaten, will she be visiting Earth again today?” I ask.

“Not today
. Maybe next week.”

I sigh
. The kid’s not going to keep her end of the bargain. In that case, enough is enough.

“Well,
I’ll see you next week then,” I say.

On my way out, I
carefully place my feet between hazardous objects, trying not to kill myself as I journey toward the door.

“Thanks for the candy,” she says at the last second.

“You’re welcome.”

Before heading home, I leave a note for Mrs. Santos explaining that
although Aimee didn’t do any homework, we did make a little progress. I indicate my plans to return the following week and urge her to call me with any questions. Judging from the contents of the refrigerator, Aimee’s parents are probably a bunch of crazy health nuts, so I decide not to mention the candy. Nonetheless, because it’s my only bargaining chip, I’m already planning to use Aimee’s sweet tooth to my advantage during our next meeting.

When I get home
, Helen calls to me from her bedroom, “Hey, Emma. Thomas delivered something for you this morning.”

“What is it?” I ask
.

“Look in your room.”

Sure enough, upon arriving in my bedroom, I find a vase containing 12 yellow roses sitting on my desk. Then I recall that roses were on sale at the corner deli this morning—only $4.99 a dozen. Reaching to grab the card in the middle of the bouquet, I accidentally prick my finger on a thorn.

“Ouch!” I yelp
.

“You okay?” Helen shouts from her room.

“Yeah. I just cut myself on a thorn.”

“That figures,” she says through the wall.

Sucking on my injured middle finger, I manage to pull the card out with my left hand, avoiding any additional wounds. The card reads as follows:

Dear Emma,

I miss you
. Call me.

Thomas

Un
surprisingly, Thomas is still a man of few words. After carefully lifting up the glass vase, I march into the kitchen and dump the entire bouquet into the trash. Then I rinse my finger and sit down in front of my computer. Since I’ve sustained a pretty deep cut that continues to ooze, typing is challenging.

Subject: Flowers

Dear Thomas,

The roses are lovely. Thanks to a puncture wound I received from a thorn, my right middle finger is now bleeding profusely. I’m sorry you miss me, but it’s time to move on. Though I won’t be calling you, I wish you the best. Please don’t give me any more flowers.

Emma

After hitting “send,” I notice that my keyboard is covered with blood
. Hoping to find a suitable tourniquet, I take a break from writing and scrounge through a pile of first-aid items in the bathroom cabinet. Unable to locate any Band Aids, I wrap some toilet paper around my finger, wipe down my keyboard, and launch into my second letter of the morning. Boy, oh boy. I’m really on a roll today.

Subject: Paula

Luciano,

You are a pathetic excuse for a human being. How could you bring Paula to that horrible place? I won’t mention it by name, but you know what I’m talking about. And abandoning her at our apartment afterward? How dare you?! Do you know what happened next? Did she even tell you? Paula almost died! Were it not for the antibiotics in my suitcase, she probably would’ve died, and you would’ve been to blame.

Why are men such idiots
? That’s a rhetorical question, so if you were thinking about answering it, don’t bother.

Furthermore,
I’ll never understand why you didn’t marry Paula in the first place. Any man would be lucky to have her, but you treated her like garbage. Since I never want to hear from you again, you can just forget about writing back.

Emma

After sending the second letter
, I lift my fingers from the keyboard. Pausing for a moment, I wonder why I feel contaminated. Then I realize that similar to revenge, the taste of verbal retaliation is bittersweet. Looking around for something to eradicate the unpleasant aftertaste, I start digging through the mound of surgical scrubs that has accumulated on my closet floor over the last three years. At the bottom of the heap, I find what I’m searching for—my tennis racket and an old container of balls. Soul-cleansing equipment in hand, I hop on the elevator, descend 25 floors to the lobby, and jog to the nearest playground with a concrete wall, located a mere two blocks away.

Like other sports that require a modicum of hand-eye coordination, my tennis game is horrendous
. Despite my lack of natural ability, when I was in high school my father attempted to teach me a few basic skills. Though overweight, my dad’s an excellent player, and he probably hoped we’d play an actual game of tennis together someday.

One perfect summer evening
, we faced one another on opposite sides of a tennis court, under the lights at the Park and Rec.

“Come on, Emma,” he said, “
serve the ball into the box. You can do it.”

“Which box
? The big one, or the little one?” I asked.

“The little one,” he said.

“Right or left?”

“Since you’re standing on the right, you serve
the ball to the left.”

“That’s
a pretty small space, and it’s kinda far away.”

‘It’s not that difficult
, Emma,” he said. “Just throw the ball into the air, and hit it into the box.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Take first in,” he said. “I’ll wait until you get it, so no pressure.”

“Alright
, then,” I said.

On my first attempt, I hit a moon ball that sailed right over the fence, into the parking lot.

“That’s okay,” he said. “We’ve got extra balls. Now try hitting it a little lower.”

“Lower
. No problem.”

Next I hit a muffin that flounced into the bottom of the net.

“That was better. This time, aim a little higher, and hit it hard.”

“How hard?”
I asked.

“As hard as you can
. Try putting some muscle into it.”

“If you say so
.”

For my next attempt, I tossed the ball into the air and slammed it with all the strength I could muster
. On contact, my racket strings made a satisfying twang against the ball, which surprisingly sailed over the net. Unfortunately, the ball continued past the service line without bouncing, nailing my father directly in the crotch.

“Aargh,” he yelled, grabbing himself.

A moment later, my poor dad was splayed flat on the court.

“Are you okay
?” I asked, running to his side.

“No…
not yet,” he said, in a high-pitched, breathless voice. “Will be…soon. One minute.”

Eventually he pulled himself off the ground.

“Do you want me to try again?” I asked, once he was standing upright.

“Oh, no,” said my dad
. “I’ve had more than enough tennis for one night. Hey, I know what we should do instead.”

“What?”
I asked.

“Let’s
drive to Wentworth’s and get some ice cream.”

“That sounds great
! I’m starving.”      

Along with being patient, my father
is also a realist who knows when to quit.

On this chilly March afternoon in the
city, hitting tennis balls to decontaminate seems like an excellent idea. Although a few kids are running around near the playscape, the wall is situated far enough away that I’m unlikely to injure them. Gripping the racket against the wind, my fingers are initially inflexible icicles, but after a few swings they begin to defrost. Soon I’m running around the court like a puppy, wildly chasing mishit balls that drift in every direction with the gusting wind. Though my aim is awful, and I can’t sustain anything resembling a rally, whacking a bunch of schizophrenic tennis balls turns out to be wonderfully therapeutic. After half an hour of zooming back and forth like a lunatic, I’m exhausted and joyful.

“Thanks for the
racket, Dad,” I whisper.

Then
I wonder how my dad is doing. In May he’ll turn 51, which seems so old. Although I’d prefer to see him on a regular basis, my mother’s strict “no visitation” policy has made this difficult. Despite her disapproval, my dad and I still manage to get together two or three times each year. A few days before my Brazil trip, for example, we met up at Aunt Pam’s house in White Plains.

“You look go
od, Emma,” he said. “You must be very excited about your trip.”

“I am
, but I’m also a little nervous.”

“I b
rought you something,” he said.

“Really?
” I asked. “What is it?”

“Take a look in the bag.”

Peering into the CVS shopping bag, I said, “Perfect. Sun block and a hat…just what I needed.”

“Did you check the bag thoroughly
? I think there might be something else in there.”

Reaching into the bottom, I
pulled out five crisp, hundred-dollar bills.

“
Oh, Dad, thank you!” I said, throwing my arms around him. “This is so helpful!”

“I’d l
ike to give you more, but your mom keeps a pretty close eye on our checking account.”

“No problem
. This is wonderful.”

“Just take care of yourself in Brazil,” he said, looking worried
.

“I’ll do my best.”

At that last visit, my dad’s hair looked grayer than ever, and he seemed to have far less of it. Watching him age this way, in pieces over time, instead of more gradually, is disconcerting. While my dad’s easy-going personality has thankfully remained intact, I can’t help worrying that I’ve accelerated his aging process by forcing him to take the uncomfortable middle ground between my mother and me. Though I hate the idea of being the one responsible for driving him into an early grave, I suppose children do this to their parents all the time. Long before she threw me out, in fact, my mother pointed out that I’d already shortened her lifespan.

“Did I ever tell you about the time we almost lost you?” she asked when I was in sixth grade.

“Maybe, but I don’t really remember.”

“In
that case, I’ll tell you again. When you were eighteen-months-old, your father and I took you to a museum.”

“In Connecticut?”

“No. At the time, we were still living in California. One afternoon we went to this museum and….”

“What kind of museum?”
I asked.

“An art museum,” she said.

“Was I interested in art when I was that young?”

“Only if
you were the artist. As a toddler, you loved finger painting, and it’s a good thing your paints were water soluble.”

“How come?”

“Because whenever I turned my back, you’d be running around, splashing rainbow colors all over the walls of our old house, just like a miniature Jackson Pollock.”

“So what happened at the museum?”
I asked.

“Your father and I were walking a
long on the second floor of this art museum, while you were asleep in your stroller. When we stopped to check out a painting by Picasso, I looked down at the stroller and discovered that you were gone.”

“Where’d I go?”

“Initially I didn’t know where you were, but then I noticed you running up ahead. I sprinted as fast as I could, but before I could reach you, you slipped through a gap in the guard rail overlooking the first floor.”