Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (8 page)

“I’m not that hungry,” she replied, and walked away.

At the entrance to the crowded reception room, Eva stands just inside, with her parents and Mrs. Fleisch. She still wears her ballet costume, and her skin glistens with perspiration. She reminds me of a china doll: porcelain pale, freckles sprinkled across her nose and shoulders. Her long, red-gold
hair is gathered into a tight, smooth bun. Other families gather around them, and it reminds me of the receiving line at a wedding I attended. Mom and I move toward the dessert table, but not before I manage to catch Eva’s eye and flash her a big thumbs-up.

I polish off two of the biggest and best brownies known to mankind, and wash them down with sweet red punch before Eva appears at my elbow.

“Thank goodness that’s over,” she breathes into my ear. “My cheeks hurt from smiling.”

“Get used to it, girl,” I tell her. “
Yer a stah.
” I put my arms around her shoulders and squeeze.

“Oh my
gawd
!” she exclaims. “A
stah?
Really? Me?”

“A dancin’
stah
. From
Joisey.
” Eva giggles. She loves talkin’ Jersey.

I glance down at the desserts and notice that I’m not the only one who has discovered the to-die-for brownies. There are three left. I scoop one up in a white paper napkin.

“
This
is a life-changing brownie,” I say seriously. “You must have one.” I lift the brownie to Eva’s mouth, holding it for her to take a bite.

She backs away as if I were holding a snake. Her eyes actually widen in horror.

“No!” she exclaims. “I mean … I’m really full. We ate breakfast late, and I never feel like eating right after I dance. But I’m so thirsty! Is there anything to drink?”

She pivots and walks quickly down the length of the table toward a bowl filled with ice and bottles of sparkling water. I
stare at her retreating back before she disappears in the crush of people. Her shoulder blades stick out like stunted wings. Beginning at her neck, you can see lumps along her spine, knobby vertebrae that disappear into her waist. The bones that frame her back fan out from the spine like long fingers just beneath her skin.

As if some creature had her in its clutches.

Chapter Eight

“I
can’t wait to show you this. You are going to be
so
psyched.”

“So why do I feel
so
nervous?”

Henry and I sit in my bedroom, eyes glued to the laptop, where, amazingly enough, I am introducing her to Facebook. My latest obsession in particular: a page I’ve created for her. And a group I’ve joined for her: the Chadwick Tennis Academy Summer Camp group. It’s a crucial step in her education.

Because Henry’s leaving for Chadwick. In a week.

To her credit, she has at least
heard
of Facebook, but up until this point she hasn’t joined. I realize it’s not her fault that she is cyberculturally inept: Mark polices her computer access with secret police–like zeal. It’s not that he suspects she might post lewd pictures of herself, or knowingly join chat rooms with pedophiles. He just thinks everyone’s out to stalk his daughter, and the computer is one hole he is bound and determined to plug.

Anyway, several days ago the gods of tennis and ballet got together … just like our parents, downstairs at this very
moment, sipping gin and tonics and discussing their daughters’ brilliant careers over a smoking grill … and good fortune rained down on Henry and me. Within days of my hearing from Madame DuPres, Chadwick offered Hen a summer scholarship. Depending on how things go, that could become a full-year scholarship.

How Mark agreed to this is beyond me. Henry says the price was right. Plus he thinks it’s just for the summer. Plus her mom went to the mat for her. Voices were raised to epic volumes, she says.

I think they slipped something into his nightly cocktail to make him less controlling.

I’ve opened Henry’s page, and a photo of her appears on the screen. It’s a picture I took in May, at our school’s spring formal. She’s wearing makeup and clip-on, gold hoop earrings.

“Hey! That’s me!” she exclaims.

“Glam, don’t you think?” I say.

“Yeah, but I’m not glam, Eva,” Henry says. “This is false advertising.”

“This is a smokescreen,” I explain. “Think: everyone is checking out everyone else. All the Chadwick girls are looking at your picture and thinking, ‘No comp! We’ll take pretty girl in straight sets.’ Meanwhile, the guys are thinking, ‘Hot babe!’ ” Henry looks confused.

“Why would anyone at Chadwick read this?” she asks.

“Because you’ve joined the Chadwick Tennis Academy Summer Camp group, and I’ve already garnered forty-eight friends for you,” I tell her. I glance at the screen. “Correction!
Fifty-one friends. Three more requests were answered overnight. Oh, and look! You have a message.”

“Message?” Henry asks, blankly.

“People who have friended you, or whom you have friended, can leave messages,” I explain.

“Cool,” Henry says. “Who messaged me?” I don’t bother to explain that while “friend” is a verb, “message” is not, so I just read it:

“
What
rules?” Henry says.

“We need to email her
immediately
and set her straight about this Henriette thing,” I say. “Didn’t she read your profile? I wrote very clearly, ‘Nickname: Henry.’ I will murder anyone who calls you anything else.”

“Hold it. You wrote a profile of me?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Eva!” Henry shrieks.

“What?” I reply, innocently. “This is how you make friends! ‘I love you, you love me …’ ” I sing the theme song of
Barney & Friends
. We loved Barney when we were little. She grabs me around the shoulders.

“Show me,” she says, faux-menacingly.

I point to the profile box on the screen and read aloud:

Henry looks completely confused.

“I’ve never eaten liverwurst in my life,” she says.

“Trust me, you would hate it.”

“Eva!” she shrieks again. This is becoming a pattern.

“What?” I counter. “It’s cute. It’s funny. And it’s not controversial; everyone agrees about liverwurst, and there is not a single stuck-up guy on the planet who
knows
he is stuck-up.”

She puts her head in her hands.

“Let’s check out the other happy campers,” I say brightly.

The Chadwick group appears on the screen as an array of thumbnail photos. Most are pretty traditional head shots. A few are these teeny action pictures you can barely make out of someone swinging a tennis racket. Everyone, in every picture, however, looks tan.

“Promise me you will use sunblock,” I say, scrolling through
the photos. “These kids are going to look like alligators before they’re thirty.”

“Click on him,” Henry says, ignoring my upbeat observation. She points to a cute blond. She’s getting into the spirit of Facebook.

I click and his photo enlarges. He is seriously hot, and he has great teeth. I’m a little OCD about teeth. I mean, they are the gateway to the French kiss, a phenomenon I’ve yet to experience but whose success I imagine is wholly dependent on fresh breath and sound oral care. Blond dude has awesome ones: very straight, highly polished white perfection gleaming from a broad smile in an unfortunately overly tan face. Hair is good, though. Kind of long, with these light streaks.

“ ‘Jonathan Dundas,’ ” I read aloud from his profile. “ ‘Home: Salinas, California. Age: 17. Nickname: Jon.’ Hmm. That’s original. Okay, here’s what he has to say about himself: ‘I love the high you get after groovin’ on backhands for an hour in 80-degree heat, then jumpin’ into an icy pool. I love workin’ out, anything that gets my heart rate up, especially if I can do it outside. I like chillin’ with friends, playin’ guitar, especially around a fire, at night. Life is Good then.’ ” Henry snorts, and we look at each other.

“Eeeeew!” we both squeal simultaneously, then dissolve into laughter. This is our signature reaction to guys who are totally full of themselves.

“He has completely negated the allure of his excellent teeth,” I say.

“No way are those streaks natural,” Henry adds.

“Next,” I say.

We go on like this for a good half hour, rating the guys from Hot But Pretentious (Jon Dundas), to Super Jock With Kissing Potential (very buff fellow from Florida, more great teeth), to Foreign and Hopelessly Incomprehensible (some Czech kid with no vowels in his name). There are plenty of girls, too, but they all blend together for me, like one giant Megan or Amber, with tight ponytails, freckled turned-up noses and muscle definition in their arms. Henry, however, seems fascinated by them. She leans forward, head close to the screen, reading their tennis “pedigrees”: what tournaments they’ve entered, and won; how long they’ve played; whether they work with private coaches or have attended other academies or camps.

I watch as she stalks her prey. To her, the Chadwick guys are an interesting diversion. But the girls? They are already on the other side of the net.

After we’ve read every friend profile, Henry sits back. She looks thoughtful.

“I doubt anyone will get the tomatoes thing,” she says.

“Ah,” I reply. “Funny you should mention that.” I go over to my closet, where I’ve hidden a box. It’s wrapped with this great paper I bought that has little tennis rackets all over it.
That
was a find.

“What’s this?” she asks.

“A very appropriate going-away gift. Let me ask you, although I’m sure I already know the answer. What are your plans for T-shirt night?”

“What’s T-shirt night?” Henry’s brow furrows.

“Hen,
what
are you going to do without me?” I sigh. “It’s on the Chadwick website, and I’ll bet it came in that orientation packet you got. Every camper is supposed to wear a T-shirt that describes where they’re from. As a fellow Jersey Girl, I thought it was appropriate that I gift you with the perfect T-shirt representing the Garden State.”

Henry looks touched.

“Eva, that’s so thoughtful. It almost makes up for the liverwurst.”

“Open it,” I prompt.

Henry rips the amazing paper. (I have to hold my breath. I always carefully pull off the tape and unfold the paper in a single, intact sheet.) From the gift box within, she pulls out a short-sleeved white T-shirt.

“ ‘Jersey Tomatoes Are the Best,’ ” she reads aloud, then gasps. The words are emblazoned across the chest of the shirt, just beneath the neck. Beneath the words are two strategically positioned plump, ripe red tomatoes.

“You will be the rage of the opening-night ceremonies,” I tell her.

“I will be the slut of the opening-night ceremonies!” she exclaims. “No way can I wear this. It’d be like
asking
guys to stare at my … tomatoes!”

“Only the perverted guys will stare, and
that’s
how you’ll sort them out from the nice guys,” I say.

“Any guy over the age of ten with a pulse will stare!” Henry insists.

“Put it on,” I suggest. Henry yanks the T-shirt over her
head, and we move to my full-length mirror for a look. The tomatoes fall precisely where they should.

“Let’s go downstairs and see what Mark thinks,” I suggest.

“You are so nuts!” Henry is yelling and laughing at the same time. She begins prancing around in front of the mirror, sticking her tomatoes out as far as possible.

“Look out,” she says to her reflection in a deep, sexy voice. “I’m going to kick your ass in straight sets.”

Henry cavorts like this for a few minutes, and I stand back from the mirror. No girl wants to get a look at herself side by side with Henriette Lloyd. It’s like agreeing to pose for photographs with a Russian supermodel. Makes your own thighs expand.

Henry finally flops on my bed. I flop beside her.

“I’m gonna miss you,” she says quietly.

“I know. You’ll be completely lost without me.” She reaches behind her, grabs a pillow and bats me over the head with it.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

“You do understand that I can’t possibly wear it?” I roll over and look Henry in the eyes.

“No. Explain to me why you can’t do something wacky and funny
for once.
”

“Gimme a break, Eva. Would
you?
”

“Henry Lloyd, I have just one thing to say: Tinky Winky.” Her eyes widen.

“Oh god. That’s right,” she says.

Freshman year, October, Henry and I gathered our courage
and went to our school’s Halloween dance. We both loathe and despise school dances: Henry, because despite her looks she is shy around guys, and me, because it kills me to watch my peers grinding and sweating to bad music and calling it dance. Anyway, dress code for the night was “costumes optional,” so most people wore jeans and a dumb hat, or some lame pirate thing. Paige came as a hula girl and wore a top that was nothing more than two coconut shells and some bungee cords.