Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (33 page)

“A what?” I ask.

“A first-strike weapon in the War on Ed,” she says, grinning. “In shrink terms: a counter journal.” She perches herself on the edge of my bed and opens the notebook. On every page, someone has drawn a straight line down the middle, forming two wide columns. On the left column, penciled in at the top, the word “Irrational.” On the right side: “Rational.”

“Ed is a clever liar,” she says. “He disguises himself as your inner voice and tells you horrible things that you suspect might be true. They’re never completely outrageous. Outrageous lies would be easy to dismiss. For example, you wouldn’t believe it if Ed told you that Elvis lives. On Mars.”

“He doesn’t?” I say. Wendy smiles.

“Okay, maybe not a great example. However, you get my drift,” she replies. “But if Ed said mean things about how you
dance? How you look? How your friends feel about you? You might be willing to listen, because those things get at our insecurities. Those are the very things we worry about. And if Ed’s voice sounds remarkably like your own, after a while it’s almost impossible to distinguish his mean, negative voice from your own positive, balanced thoughts. No matter how crazy, or wrong, or”—she points to the left-hand column of the journal—“
irrational
Ed can be.”

I stare down at the page. The neat lines dividing the pure white sheets into manageable, organized sections. Linear.

“So here’s how it works,” Wendy continues. “On the left, in the ‘irrational’ column, you write down what Ed says. All the mean, scary stuff. Then, on the right, in the ‘rational’ column, you write what Eva knows is true. You ‘counter’ Ed’s lies.”

She makes it sound so simple. As if irrational and rational thoughts are twin highways crossing my brain, with clearly marked speed limits and signage. What she doesn’t realize is that my thoughts are more like a tangle of spaghetti. Or a Gordian knot. Try to pull one thread free and the whole mess tightens. Around your neck. Making it difficult to breathe.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” I say honestly. She smiles encouragingly.

“You can,” she says, “but I won’t lie to you. It’s hard. It may be some of the hardest work you’ll ever do. It’ll make
pointe
class look like a walk in the park.”

“Great,” I grumble. She plucks a thin-tipped Sharpie from the heap and holds it out to me. I shake my head and go for the purple pencil instead.

“Start simple,” Wendy suggests. “Start with the biggest lie Ed tells you every day.”

I clutch the pencil tightly, the tip poised over the first line of the first column of the first page. I am loath to put a mark on it, to sully the clean white sheets. But I know exactly what I have to write here.

“Eva is fat.”

It hurts to see the words on the page. Making myself write it is hard, but reading it back is like getting slapped. I am so ashamed of being fat. I am such a weakling, so embarrassed that I can’t control what I eat, that I’ve turned myself into this gross, waddling …

“Okay. Now counter it. What do you know is true?” Wendy’s voice tugs at me.

“It is true,” I whisper.

“Eva. If that were true, would you be in a hospital drinking Boost?” I shrug.

“C’mon. What
is
the truth?” Wendy prompts gently.

“Tell me,” I plead with her. She shakes her head.

“You have to tell yourself,” she says. “That’s the only way this works.” She waits.

What is the truth? Shouldn’t that be easy to answer? Up, down. Left, right. North, south. When did I lose the ability to distinguish? When did my inner compass lose its bearings? I press the pencil against the paper. Maybe if I just move it, the words will magically appear.

“Eva is not fat. Eva is so skinny that she had a heart attack and has to stay in the hospital.”

Oh, good for you! Goody-goody Eva! Doing exactly what Wendy-girl tells you. Since when do you let women with fat ankles tell you what to do? What to think? You are such a weakling. Anyone can boss you around
.

“I am so proud of you,” Wendy says emphatically. “I know that was really, really hard.” My eyes swim.

“Can we stop now?” I ask her. I don’t feel better. I feel worse. He’s shouting at me. He, it, Ed, whatever. I just want him to stop. I just want it all to go away.

Maybe later, at lunchtime, if they’re not watching too closely, I can dump a little, just a little, of the Boost into that plant. He’ll shut up then. I’ll show him that Wendy doesn’t boss me around.

Okay then. Lunchtime. Catch you later
.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

R
ay Giordano sits across a table from me in the Chadwick Academy conference room. He’s a little less tan than I remember, and not quite as lean. His green eyes smile along tiny creases at the corners, road maps left by a thousand sunny afternoons spent on tennis courts. He’d flown in today from Chicago, a few hours before my own flight into Fort Lauderdale touched down.

I’m dressed to drill. I’ve got the pro court reserved in thirty minutes, which gives Ray and me just that much time to talk. He’d requested this one-on-one with me, no Chadwick people present. They think my sponsor has flown down here to ream me out for leaving campus. I know better.

“I was pretty surprised to get your letter,” he begins after our awkward handshake and hey-it’s-great-to-see-yous.

“Yeah, I guess that makes two of us,” I reply. “Being surprised, that is.” Ray looks a little sheepish when I say that.

“I hope you understand why I felt … anonymity … was important.”

I study my fingers, the tops of my hands, so brown against the white of my tennis skirt. There are calluses between my thumb and index finger, where the racket rubs.

“I’m not a big fan of secrets these days,” I finally say, looking up at him. “I know why you did what you did. If my father had known you were involved, he never would have let me come here. And as I said in my note, I’m really grateful to have this opportunity. But we’re … beyond that now.” He raises his eyebrows.

“Why do I suspect telling your parents about me and Philmont was hard?” he says.

“It wasn’t pretty,” I admit. “But once the three of us got started, we just couldn’t stop.”

“Couldn’t stop what?” he asks.

“Telling the truth,” I say firmly. “The good, the bad and the ugly. And that brings me to something I needed to say to you in person: I’m sorry.” Ray looks surprised.

“It was my fault Dad fired you. I mean, it wasn’t my fault he went berserk. But it was my fault that the whole thing happened. You see, I thought …” I can’t go on.

Ray helps me out.

“You thought something inappropriate was going on between your mom and me,” he says gently. I nod, grateful that he said it.

“Marian and I figured it out a few days after the big blowout,” he explains. “She realized that you had come home from school early and seen us talking on the patio.” I nod again.

“Your mother and I had become friends, Henry. Over you,
initially. Discussing your talent, figuring out what was best for you. But then it moved into talking about your father and what a potentially damaging influence he was. That’s dangerous ground: a man outside the family talking to a woman about her husband? Especially when that husband is …”

“Paranoid,” I mutter. Ray grins ruefully.

“I overstepped,” he says simply. “I started giving her advice about things that were none of my business. That was a mistake. But it was my only mistake. And you shouldn’t blame your mother for anything.”

“I know that now,” I tell him.

So does Dad, I neglect to add. It wasn’t easy, dredging up all those bad feelings. Especially when you’ve got years of resentment and suspicion clinging to them like barnacles. But somehow we Lloyds had done it, and everyone was still standing when it was over.

I look at Ray. I see him, maybe for the first time, for what he really is. No hero, no devil, just an adult like any adult, who sometimes makes mistakes and sometimes gets things right. Like my parents. Like me.

“So, since we’re telling the truth, explain the overnight-mail letter bomb you sent me,” Ray continues. “Why are you quitting tennis?”

This startles me.

“That’s
not
what I wrote.”

“Henry, you are asking if Philmont would transfer your sponsorship from Chadwick to the Greenlake Academy. That’s as good as quitting.”

“Seventy percent of Greenlake grads go on to play college tennis, some even Division One—” I begin. He cuts me off.

“I’ve read the Greenlake brochures, too,” he says. “But Henry, in the tennis community it’s considered second-rate. And you’re a first-rate player.”

“And a third-rate everything else,” I say quietly.

“What?” he asks. I sigh. There’s not enough time to explain, and I’m not sure he’d get it anyway. But I have to try.

“I love tennis, Ray,” I tell him. “But I don’t own it here. It owns
me
. It owns me with all the expectations, the glamour, the hype. It owns me by telling me that what makes me special is my ability to smack a tennis ball. Nothing else. Friendship, family, loyalty … behavior … they are way less important than winning. I’ve experienced that here, up close and personal. And you know what? It’s sick. And scary. Because where does that leave me if I lose? Or get injured?”

This look comes over his face, as if someone’s just turned a light on for him.

“This is about your dancer friend, isn’t it? The one who got sick,” he says. “Missy told me you were upset about that.…” I shake my head.

“That’s
not
it,” I say. “I mean, sure, Eva’s illness has made me take a hard look at things. But it hasn’t changed the way I feel, or who I am. It’s helped me … sort out what I really want.”

I can tell he’s listening. He wants to understand.

“And what do you really want, Henry?” he asks.

“I want to play serious tennis, but I need to take it down a
notch,” I explain. “I want to be sane about it. Listen, Greenlake is a real school. Chadwick is where the kids pretend to do homework between workouts and drills. Greenlake is trying to develop players, not just spit out future sports celebrities. And I gotta tell you: if Philmont is looking for the new fresh face of Tag Heuer or Nike, I’m not your girl.” He laughs softly.

“You could be, you know,” he says. I shrug.

“I’ve had my picture taken a few times lately. I’m not into it.”

He considers me as he thinks, those green eyes boring, unblinking, into mine.

“Your parents are on board with this?” he asks.

“Both of them, one hundred percent,” I tell him.

“And you’re sure Greenlake would be different?” I shrug.

“I hope so. ’Cause I’m not staying at Chadwick,” I say firmly.

Ray’s heard all he needs to hear.

“I tell you what,” he says. “I’ll tour Greenlake and meet with the staff. If I like what I see, we can
try
. No guarantees. Philmont has never withdrawn support from one school and transferred it to another. But if I tell them it’s the difference between you staying in tennis or quitting?” He pauses. “Well, nobody wants you to quit, Henry.”

I stand up. It’s almost my court time.

“Thank you, Ray,” I tell him. He stands and extends his hand.

“You’re an impressive young lady, Henry Lloyd,” he says. “And not just on the tennis court.”

We say good-bye, and I grab my gear and head out. People are drifting out of the dining hall; dinner has just ended. A few call out to me, “Welcome back!” As if I’m some returning hero. I need to get behind those privacy windbreaks and pound a basket of balls, for sure.

As I cross campus, I think about Ray’s words. Impressive off the court. If he believes it, maybe I should, too.

*   *   *

Someone on staff has set out an iced pitcher of water for me with lemon slices floating in it. Plus fresh towels stacked on the teak bench. You’d never know I’d just broken every rule imaginable, short of drinking and smashing the windows.

I don’t hear him come in. My back is to the entrance, and of course, the pro-court gate swings open without squealing. I’ve just hit a sweet second serve into my imaginary opponent’s backhand, and I’m about to toss up another one.

“Nice kick,” he says.

He looks like he’s just come off the court himself. The roots of his hair are dark with sweat.

“Oh. Hi. I didn’t see you there.” We look at each other awkwardly.

“D’you just finish practicing?” I say. He nods.

“Yeah, nothing much. Scotty hit ground strokes with me for an hour while Harvey commented.” His eyes scan the court. “You serving?” I reach into the basket and pluck out another ball.

“Yup,” I say. I toss it high. The trajectory is off; I catch it. I try a calming breath and focus on the toss. I hurl the racket face
forward. A resounding
pock!
echoes through the enclosed sanctuary of the court.

Yes! Grace under pressure. If you can serve now, you can serve through anything, girl. You Jersey Tomato
.

“Why didn’t you answer my phone calls?” he says. I turn my back to him. I fire another serve over the net. Not quite as good this time.

“I didn’t have anything to say, David,” I reply. I pull out another ball.