Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (15 page)

W
ith both hands, Yolanda cradles a steaming, bowl-shaped cup. It gives off the near-burned smell of strong coffee beans.

“Ooh, a latte,” says Maney, staring enviously at the concoction.

“
Café con leche,
” Yolanda corrects her. “A little bit of strong espresso, lots of hot milk and sugar.”

Maney rolls her eyes. We’re at that stage at camp where we don’t know each other very well, but we do know each other’s annoying habits well. For Maney it’s Yoly’s Latino thing. (Actually, for Maney it’s a lot of things, but this is a particular irritant to her.) Personally, I’m entertained when Yoly describes how you make
sofrito
, or tells us how you can distinguish among Cubans, Mexicans, Dominicans and Puerto Ricans. Maney, however, only likes to talk about the other players at camp. Or herself.

I’ve never met anyone like Yolanda. She’s like two different people inhabiting the same body. When she speaks Spanish, she’s transformed. She moves differently. Looser. More
animated. Then, when she switches to English, it’s without a trace of accent, and if you closed your eyes you’d assume you were talking to any Miami gringo.

Maney shrugs. “No diff,” she says. “Latte,
café au
whatever.” Yolanda shakes her head.

“Big difference,” she says. “
Café au lait
, which is French, is first cousin to
cappuccino
, which is Italian.
Café con leche
is totally Latino. The coffee is very strong, and the milk is
hot
. We’re talking
muy caliente, chicas
. And it’s mostly milk, you know? Like, ‘Have some coffee with your milk, girl.’ And sugar? You want to
shovel
it in.” As if to demonstrate her point, Yolanda dumps two more heaping teaspoons of sugar into her cup.

We’ve just come back from a “Feeding the Athlete’s Body” lecture, where we heard all about the dangers of refined sugar, among other things. So Yolanda’s shoveling is looking pretty rebellious.

“Feeding the Athlete’s Body” is one of the afternoon seminars. Right after we knock off the day’s on-court work, we have an hour to shower, change and attend a mini class on some topic related to training and nutrition. Yesterday I went to the one on cross-training. Tomorrow it’s “Yoga for Tennis.” After the lectures, a bunch of us usually drift over here, to the snack bar, for a little predinner refueling.

“I grew up drinking
café con leche
,” Yolanda continues. Almost to herself. “We all do. When we’re little children, it’s pretty much hot, sugary milk with only a splash of coffee. Every day after school I would go to my
abuela
’s house and we would have our
café con leche
.”

“Yeah, but Yoly, you’re supposed to be training now,” Maney says. “All that caffeine is, like, poison. And the sugar is just empty calories.”

Yolanda shrugs.

“If I had to give up coffee to play tennis, then I wouldn’t play tennis anymore,” she says. As if she means it. As if this is something she’s been thinking about.

I can’t help it, I laugh. Snort, actually. Eva calls it the yeah-right contemptuous snort, halfway between a laugh and a rude remark. It comes out of me, unbidden, usually at inappropriate times.

“Gimme a break,” I say. I wave my hand, gesturing at the snack bar around us, the drop-dead-gorgeous courts arrayed outside the windows, the sun-kissed players drinking their healthy juices and eating granola bars. “You’d give up all this for a cup of coffee? Hello? How ’bout decaf?” Maney laughs. Yolanda looks serious.

“When you put it that way, sure it sounds stupid,” she says. “And I should probably drink decaf and cut out the sugar. Although I don’t think my grandmother would ever buy her Café Naviera in a green decaf can!” She smiles, but I don’t get the joke.

“No one is asking you to give up afternoon coffee with your grandmother,” I say. “I’m just saying that caffeine and sugar are inconsistent with what we’re trying to accomplish here.”

“I know. I know,” she says quietly. She stares into her cup. She seems less enthused about drinking it now. Maney gets up to buy another juice. I feel bad about the snort.

“You seem to have a very clear idea of what
you’re
trying to accomplish here,” she continues, kind of wistfully. “You’re playing great, by the way. Didn’t you make the top of the ladder today?”

“Yeah, Yochenko went down this morning,” I say, grinning. “Thanks. But hey …” I kick her lightly under the table. “You ended up at seven. Dead center. Not shabby.”

The words feel awkward. I’m not used to complimenting a rival player. Because even if Yoly is my roommate, and as close as I’ve got to a friend here at Chadwick, she’s still a potential opponent. It’s strange having a nightly sleepover with someone you may have to massacre.

A shadow falls across our table. Before Yolanda can reply, a familiar male voice cuts into our conversation.

“Good afternoon, ladies.”

It’s Jon Dundas. Unbelievable. The jerk has been doing an excellent job of staying out of my eyesight and earshot for the past week, thank you very much, but now he strolls right up to our table and says hi? Something’s up.

I glare at him. He pulls out Maney’s vacant chair, spins it 180 degrees, straddles it and crosses his arms nonchalantly over the back.

“So, I hear we’ve got a date,” he says to me.

“A what?” I say. Jon’s eyes open wide in mock surprise.

“You haven’t heard about our big date?” he replies. Loudly. Predictably, heads turn.

“Dundas, you must be on those drugs again,” I fire back, matching his volume. “Because I can’t imagine a life that
would include a date with you.” Whistles. Male exclamations of “Ouch!” Yolanda bursts out laughing. Amazingly, Jon smiles. Like he’s in on some joke. He turns to a table of guys across the snack bar.

“Hey! Doesn’t the number one guy on the ladder always play a match against the number one girl?” he asks. A couple of the guys nod.

“It’s a Chadwick tradition,” one of them says. “The top players on the girls’ and boys’ ladders do a challenge match. Usually on Saturday night.”

“Yeah, right,” I call back. “I’ve never heard of that.” I look at Yolanda. Her smile has faded. Her expression is not reassuring.

“It is a tradition here,” she says. “I read about it in the orientation packet.”

Once again, I find myself wishing I’d taken the time to actually read through the whole orientation packet.

“But if I’m supposed to be playing the number one boy, why am I matched up with Dundas?” I ask the room, which draws more loud cries of “ouch” and a few snakelike sizzle noises.

Dundas doesn’t flinch.

“You’re lookin’ at number one, baby,” he says, smirking. Despite my bravado, I feel sick.

“You beat David Ross?” I fire back at him, managing to keep the shake out of my voice. For an instant, Dundas wavers. This little cloud passes over his smug expression.
Stung, didn’t it? You know he’s better than you. Take that
.

“Ross didn’t play the ladder,” Yolanda says. “He’s too good.”

“So you’re second best?” I sneer. “I don’t know if I want to play the second-best guy.”

“Afraid of me, Henry?” he says. Quietly now. This time, he isn’t playing to the room. He stares at me, and this queasy realization washes over me that Jon Dundas has a score to settle.

“You’re going down, Dundas,” I reply evenly. It’s an Academy Award–winning performance. No one would ever guess that I feel like throwing up. Dundas shakes his head carelessly, flipping the golden hair out of his eyes. He rises slowly, and his eyes rest on Yolanda. In addition to the round cup of milky coffee, she has a big banana-nut muffin on a plate before her.

“I’d watch the calories if I were you. Roly,” he drawls, before sauntering out of the snack bar. I look across the table at Yolanda, expecting to see a hurt, stricken expression.

Instead, I see fury.

“Promise me you’re gonna kick his ass,” she says.

*   *   *

Later that evening, after no answer on her cell, no reply to my text messaging, and two solid hours of busy signals on the landline at Eva’s house, I finally decide to give up. Yoly and most of the girls on the hall went to the rec room to watch some chick flick. I wish I were more of the gal-pal type, and enjoyed crunching popcorn in my jammies in front of the tube with the girls, but that’s just not me. Never has been.

A packet of books arrived from Mom today, so I decide to give literacy a chance. I pull on my T-shirt and boy boxers,
tuck myself into bed and have just decided that this is indeed a fine way to spend the last hour before lights-out when someone knocks.

“It’s open,” I call, too comfy to get up.

David Ross steps into my dorm room.

Did I neglect to mention that I’m wearing Eva’s T-shirt? I pull the covers up over my tomatoes.

“Hey,” he says. “Mind if I come in?” He glances around the messy room. Of course, there is a bra on the floor. Naturally, there is an open box of tampons on the desk. Shoot me now, please, someone.

David pulls a chair out from one of the desks, swivels it so the back faces me, and sits, straddling. I’m wondering if this posture is something they actually
teach
guys at Chadwick.

“Make yourself at home,” I comment. To his credit, he blushes. A little. Hard to tell, he’s so tan. A little color seems to darken two patches beneath his cheekbones. He has these high, sculpted cheekbones.

“I heard about your match. With Dundas,” he says.

“And I heard you’re too good to play the ladder like everyone else,” I reply. He frowns.

“Only campers play the ladder. Since I’m not really part of the camp, it wouldn’t be fair,” he explains.

“Hmm. You sure look like you’re part of the camp. You eat with the rest of us commoners. Play on the same courts. If you’re not part of the camp, what are you?”

David locks his eyes on mine and doesn’t blink. The blush has faded.

“I’m a nationally ranked junior who’s planning to go pro next year, and it would be a waste of my time to drill with rich-kid summer campers who Chadwick hauls in here to pad the budget,” he deadpans. His gaze doesn’t falter. He’s not bragging; he’s simply stating the facts. Setting me straight. And he’s ice-cold honest about it.

David Ross is an assassin.

“Well. Thank you for explaining that,” I say, struggling to regain my composure. “And to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Before answering me, he leans over. Leans way over, tilting the chair forward, and with these long, tan fingers he plucks the bra from the floor, then nonchalantly places it on the desk. Alongside the tampon box.

“Sorry,” he says. “That was distracting me.”

My turn to blush. He waits, lets it burn real good before continuing.

“I thought,” he says carefully, “you might like some help.”

“Help?”

“With Dundas.”

“Oh. Well, you know, he’s being a jerk … big surprise … but I think it’s okay. He stays away from me pretty much, and when we play our match, there’ll be a million people around. So it’s cool. But thanks.” I’m surprised that I feel a little disappointed. I’m not sure what I want from David Ross, but it isn’t personal bodyguard service.

“Actually, Henry, that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about on-court help.”

“Do you think he’d try something
on court?
With everyone watching?” David shakes his head.

“No. I’m talking about … some coaching. I’m talking about beating him.”

Brilliant, Henry. This guy must think you are a total ditz. And a slob. With boring underwear. Bet now you wish you were one of those girls who wear lacy undies from Victoria’s Secret instead of sports bras from Sears
.

I struggle to keep my game face on.

“I thought I’d just play him in my … typical way,” I say. “You know, grind from the baseline and wait for him to mess up?” A hint of a smile crosses David’s face as he shakes his head at me.

“Okay, can we call a truce? Please? I’m sorry I insulted you. I didn’t think you’d take it so personally. I actually think you’re good. Very good. And if you’d come off your high horse and take a little advice, you could beat Dundas.”

He means it. Bra-plucking, almost-pro, too-hot-to-be-in-my-dorm-room David Ross thinks I’m a good player and wants to help me win. Okay. I can do this. See? Stepping down from my high horse right now …

“What sort of advice?” I say. He leans forward again. There’s eagerness in his eyes.

“Dundas has been coming here for three summers, and I know his game inside out. I spoke to Missy, and we’ve got the pro court tomorrow. I reserved it. All morning, just the two of us. We’ll map out a strategy, and I’ll run some classic Dundas
moves by you. I know what he does and I can imitate it. What do you say?”

I am so completely surprised that I can’t respond. David Ross … 
the
Little Andre … has gone to my coach? Is giving up his morning practice time to drill with me?

David must have some deep, abiding grudge against Jon Dundas. The number one girl has never beaten the number one boy (yes, I finally got the lowdown on this delightful Chadwick tradition), so for me to take out Dundas would be a serious blow to his manhood. It would be the best, most humiliating way to bring the guy down.

And even in the worst case, say I lose to the Perv, at least I’d have gotten the morning alone on the pro court with the famous David Ross.

“I say let’s do it.” I smile. He smiles back. Awesome smile.

He gets up, and rubs his hands together briskly.

“Great!” he says. “So how ’bout we start right after breakfast? Actually, why don’t I meet you at breakfast? Seven-thirty?”

“Sounds good,” I say. I am processing the concept of eating breakfast with David. Chewing in front of him. Being with him, while the rest of the camp watches. He flashes another killer smile at me before turning to leave. Hand on knob, however, he wheels around.

“Henry, just so you know. I think you have a good chance of beating him
without
my help. I just think if I give you some pointers, you can seal the deal.”

Okay. I could get used to this guy. I could forgive him for handling my bra and using the word “typical” in reference to my game. Wow. I could fall, hard and fast
.