Open Court (4 page)

I
n my upstairs hallway, if I place my ear directly over the heating vent in the floor, I can clearly hear the conversation of whoever is in the kitchen. Since my parents talk about us in the kitchen, my brothers and I use this technique to our advantage: we admit guilt or feign innocence depending on what they already know.

Brad spotted my ear to the floor. “You, me, or Michael?” he asked.

“Shush. Me.”

“Good,” he said, and moseyed back into his room.

The conversation was definitely about me and it was going something like this:

Dad: “She's outgrown Trent.”

Mom: “Academies are four thousand dollars a month, some of them more. Not to mention the pressure they put on those children. They're
children,
Frank, not marines. The places are run like boot camps. They look so sad.”

Dad: “Ridiculous. Most are resorts—
we
should be so lucky. The facilities make Trent's coaching seem minor-league. A one-to-five teaching ratio from former pros!”

Mom: “Frank, I—”

Dad: “An academy is a springboard for the international circuit, Vivian. Junior
world
rankings. Kick the heck out of Russian girls, French girls … German girls.” He sighed. “She'll be
challenged
instead of driving in the back of Trent's car to a Vegas tournament for the hundredth time.”

Mom: “What about the pressure? I don't want her crumbling like Janie Alessandro. That's a tragedy.”

Dad: “You've asked her about Janie a hundred times. She's fine with it. She won't end up like Janie Alessandro.”

Mom: “How do you know?”

That was all I could hear because the dishwasher rinse cycle kicked in, flooding the vent with a gurgling ruckus.

The United States Tennis Association junior rankings are only for girls in the United States. In order to qualify
for an International Tennis Federation junior ranking, which is way more important, I'd have to start playing bunches of foreign tournaments. We couldn't afford it; we could barely afford tournaments in the United States.

I know it bothered my dad. Internationally I'd be ranked much lower. International tennis is
serious
tennis.

Still, I felt renewed. My parents didn't have enough money to auction off their only daughter to a lame tennis academy. Yay for poverty! I could go to practice with an easy conscience. Yet somehow I knew they wouldn't give up that easily.

Trent stood outside his office. “Glad I caught you. I've got a meeting. Hang out for a while. Meet me at the court at one o'clock.”

“Sure.”

I keep a beach bag in Coach's office for times like this. No reason to wait in his office when I can be outside. After I slipped on my swimsuit, I headed to the snack bar and bought a Diet Coke (Coach doesn't want me consuming lots of sugar) and a slice of pizza. I almost made it to the pool area alive; my toe jammed into the corner of a chair leg. Bone against metal. “Ow, ouch, ouch.” I seized my foot. My Diet Coke sloshed out of its container and slopped all over my white shirt. “Typical!”

As I limped to my lounge chair and wrung out my shirt, I realized how lonely practice had become without Janie around. Had she been here she'd have made fun of me for being a klutz. Janie's personality made everything lively. Shielding my eyes from the sun, I scanned the club members, hoping to see her, knowing I wouldn't.

Could it be? It was! Not Janie, but Luke Kimberlin … twenty feet away and fast approaching.

I grabbed a magazine and pretended to read. My toe ached something fierce. I sort of waved my foot around, hoping to ease the pain. The Greek God approached my island and stood, waiting to be adored. Kicking my lounge chair, he scooted it inches across the cement. I met his eyes and looked away with a big dumb grin on my face.

“I thought it was you,” he said. “I didn't know you were a member.”

Incredibly, he sat at the foot of my lounge chair. He was actually speaking to me.

“Oh, well, urn … I'm not, really. Urn, my tennis coach works here, so they let me use the courts for free.”

The stain on my shirt left a question mark on his face.

“They should have lids for the cups,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said calmly, “they do have lids.”

“I didn't see any.”

“Right up there, by the straws.”

“I'm sure they are, but I didn't see any.”

“What happened to your toe?” he said.

“Stubbed it. It's fine.”

“It's bleeding all over the cement.”

“I know. It'll be OK in a minute.”

He ran his fingers through his dark hair; that seemed to be a habit. Wavy strands fell perfectly back into place. His deep brown eyes were flecked with gold, making them shine in the light. His forehead looked like wealth: perfectly shaped, tan, completely zit-free. Great forehead. His beauty slapped me in the face and said,
Look at me.

Luke's father was a doctor. They vacationed in Europe. I knew so much about him I felt like a stalker. But why was he talking to
me?
Maybe he wasn't. Maybe I was imagining this. No, it had to be real. My toe throbbed too much for it to be a daydream.

“Feels good to be out of school, huh?” he said.

“Three months of freedom.”

“I was supposed to take golf lessons, but I didn't sign up in time. Now the classes are full.”

“Too bad,” I said.

“I'd rather swim and hang out with my friends, anyway.”

“Oh … yeah … sure.”

“Hey, can I borrow a dollar? I need a drink.”

Oddly enough, the Greek God was panhandling money from me. I felt honored. “I just used all my cash on lunch. Sorry.”

“That's OK,” he said, visually surfing the crowds for other financial opportunities. He looked back at me. “Are those your tennis trophies in that glass case in the lobby?” He seemed impressed.

“You saw those?” I asked.

He nodded. “Are they yours?”

“Yes.” I was at a loss as to what to say to Luke. My heart thundered. I didn't know how to talk to a boy I liked. I'd never liked anyone before now.

“That's awesome,” he said.

I nodded. Luke was complimenting
me?
I needed a camera! Quick! I had to snap a photo of Luke and me together or the girls would never believe it. Everything in me wanted to stay put and see where this would go. But if I didn't head toward the courts in about five seconds, I'd be late for practice.

“My tennis practice starts right now. You can watch. If you want. I mean, since you're here,” I blurted out, stunning even myself.

He glanced at his watch. “Let me grab my beach towel. I'll catch up.”

“It's court three—the outside courts.”

He nodded, starting a slow jog to retrieve his towel.

What luck! I slipped my shorts on over my swimsuit. Carrying my bag, I cut through the grass.

“Holloway Braxton, wait up!” He knew my last name! It sounded beautiful, angels singing my praise into the country club air.

“Coach yells if I'm late.”

Luke grabbed my icy drink, his fingers against mine. “Can I?” He pressed his pink lips to the paper rim, gulping. Then he dug ice out with his fingers. “Thanks.”

Trent stood waiting. The man hates waiting.

“Coach, this is Luke. Luke, this is my coach, Trent.”

“Two minutes late. No time for conversation.”

Luke captured the strap of my tennis bag. “Want me to take this? I'll sit on the bleachers.”

My Wednesday was in full bloom. I grinned stupidly. “Hold my drink?” I asked. I took a big swig out of the cup, placing my mouth exactly where his had been, before handing it to him.

Thump
…
thump
…
thump…

…
thump
…
thump
…

I didn't have to fret about getting Trent's voice to bubble from my belly into my head. Coach's real voice plagued my eardrums from the moment practice began until it ended. Thank God.

I listened to the specific twang a tennis ball makes when it hits the racquet strings just right. I dream about this twang. This twang makes me feel beautiful even though I have hair and eyes the color of mud. Maybe Luke Kimberlin liked girls who reminded him of mud. Anything seemed possible.

“Pick-up-your-damn-feet-and-move-to-that-ball-what-do-you-need-an-invitation?” Coach hollered.

…
thump
…
thump
…
thump
…

The ground strokes hypnotized me.

Trent moved me from one side of the court to the other and back again, forcing me to hit expert shots while running at top speed.

“Look alive, look alive …”

…
thump
…

“Rotate your hips toward the net; it's going to go out, going out …”

…
thud
…

“Out! Told you. You've got the open court. Take advantage. Rotate your hips when you hit a crosscourt shot, or the shot is playing you.”

…
thump
…

“Rotate!” he screamed.

…
thump
…
thunk.
The ball crashed into his tennis shoe. He tripped slightly as he tried getting out of the line of fire. I laughed.

“Was that rotated enough?” I asked innocently.

“Smart mouth.”

“Admit it, Coach, you like the precision.”

“Yeah, show-off.”

“You
love
the precision, Coach.”

“Love it,” he mocked. “Do it again.”

…
thump
…

“Can she do it? Does she have the skill?” He jogged across the court, trying to break my concentration. “Batter, batter, batter, swing!”

Keeping one eye on the moving target, one on the ball, I set up the shot.

…
thump
…
thunk.
Amazingly it hit the side of his shoe.

“Dead-on-target, Coach.”

“Shit,” he said, gently shaking his head.

“What was that?”

“Shoot,” he said, clarifying.

“I'm telling Annie you're corrupting me with bad language. She won't be happy.” Annie is Coach's wife.

“Tattletales will not be tolerated. Are you through jabbering?”

“Yes.”

“Can I hit a ball now? Can practice continue?”

“Sure, Coach.”

Thump
…
thump
…
thump
… Penn balls flew skillfully, precisely, obscenely inside the lines.

Suddenly remembering Luke, I glanced toward the bleachers—he was still there, waiting, watching. I waved. He waved back. I hoped he wasn't bored out of his mind. But it didn't matter either way. That was the thing about tennis: it took all my focus. Who watched didn't matter. Couldn't matter. I was a circus animal, trained to perform.

The ball sailed toward me.

I took command straightaway and hit a deep angle. Coach ran far right to meet it. His return was marginal. With him out of position, the court opened. The court lines framed my shot; I saw exactly where to place the ball. I hit it clean. It cleared the net easily. Streamlined. The yellow ball fell with vengeance right where I knew it would. Trent struggled, bending, running to the opposite side of the open court. “Agg! Uh, uh.” He barely got a racquet on it.

Again, the court opened.

I had the easy put-away—a scorching forehand on the unmanned half. Coach saw no use trying to run it down. The point was mine. Coach looked at me for two, maybe three seconds. Wanted to commend me, but stopped short. After all, I was only doing my job. But his
smirk said it all: he respected the shot. He'd taught me how: hit the angle, open the court, the point is mine.

Trent's new employee appeared, shuddering as Trent bellowed commands. Trent was a difficult boss: he went through workers at an alarming rate—so much so that I didn't bother learning their names. This particular helper guy was hesitant and terrorized, prompting me to brand him Skittish Helper Guy. Between points, he monitored his watch, waiting for the magic number that would cause his freedom.

“Move, move, move!” Trent screamed. “Chip and charge … chip and charge.” Emotionless, I obeyed.

Thump
…
thump
…
thump
…

“Keep that attitude in line,” Coach lectured. “Don't roll your eyes at me! Hustle! Focus, now. Hit it like you mean it.”

…
thump
…

Trent pointed at Skittish Helper Guy, demanding that he take over as my drill partner. Skittish Helper Guy flicked graceful lobs into the sky for me to slam into whichever box of the court Coach screamed.

“Right!” …
thump
…

“Left!”…
thump…

“Right! Snap your wrist!” …
thump
…

“Right!” …
thump
…

When an opponent hits a nice arch-filled lob, the
point can be won by hitting an overhead shot. I missed a few easy overheads at my last tournament. Unacceptable. Now Coach filled my drills with overheads, rubbing it in, making me ashamed. I'll never miss another one, trust me.

“Remember, an overhead is all about the wrist snap.”

“I know.”

“Get some control here, Braxton. Slam the ball—look alive, woman, slam that ball! Get some air under your feet. Jump, Braxton! Snap! Remember placement.
Feel
the point, feel the point …”

“Left!”…
thump
…

“Left!”

I struggled. “Agg!”…
thump
…

“Good girl.”

Skittish Helper Guy stopped to gather the balls that littered the court like flecks of gold. This was my cue to take a breather. I walked to Luke, panting and sucking down water. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck, cooling small portions of my skin.

“You hit the ball so hard,” he said.

“Force and placement are the key ingredients.”

“Oh.”

I sat next to him. “I changed to this racquet a few months ago. It's got a bigger sweet spot. I'm still getting used to it.”

“Sweet spot?” he asked.

“Yeah, it's this.” I laid my hand on the strings in the middle of the racquet. “You don't have control unless you hit it here.”

“You call it sweet?”

“Everybody does. That's what it is—a sweet spot.”

“For real?”

“I promise. I'm not making it up.” I was talking to a Greek god whose entire face was one big sweet spot. I
knew
about sweet spots.