Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (17 page)

“You beat him? The Perv?” I say excitedly.

“Straight sets!” Henry shouts, and I hear more riotous noise. Marguerite and Anna stare at me with these very confused expressions.

“It’s Henry. She just won a huge match,” I explain. Marguerite stands. She raises her arms in a big, V-like stretch. She practically yawns.

“Cool. Tell her we said congratulations,” she says, then heads for the door. Anna smiles and follows. “Catch you later, Eva,” she says. They leave.

The noise from the cell phone has diminished. Maybe Henry has moved to another room.

“Hen?” I say.

“I’m here. Phew! That’s better. I couldn’t hear myself think. Eva, I won! I beat him!”

“Of course you beat him!” I say. “You are amazing. He never had a chance.”

“No, you don’t understand. He doesn’t suck. He hits the ball really, really hard. Guy hard. I have never played anyone who hits like this.”

“Henry, you play against guys all the time.”

“Not like this. These guys are at a whole different level. They’re not just high school jocks slamming the ball at you. It is an entirely different game.”

She is soaring. So, so happy. Something wells inside me. Tears.

“I am really proud of you,” I say.

“I wish you were here!” she shrieks. “This is so cool!”

“I guess all that coaching from Little David paid off,” I say. She laughs. Then I hear her say to someone else, “She wants to know if Little David’s coaching helped.” She giggles. A sound I’m still not used to. I hear a male voice in the background.

“Tell her I’m Big David, okay?” A pause. Rustling.

“Henry?”

“I’m here, I’m here. Sorry. Look, Eva, I have to call my parents, and then these
people
have to throw me into the pool. Another Chadwick tradition. This place is so crazy! But I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? I love you! I miss you!”

“I miss you, too. You are the best.”

Henry is gone before I say another word. I press “end” and the phone jingles its closing theme. The annex hum seems strangely muted now. My room feels like an insulated box. There’s a crack of light at the base of the door, and I can make out the passing shadows of people walking by. I feel so tired. I place the phone on my night table, crawl into bed, still dressed, and pull the covers over my head. I wrap my arms around my body and rest one hand on the hard, reassuring bone of my hip.

Chapter Seventeen

D
avid reaches around me. He came up behind me as I signed off with Eva, and as he gently pulls the phone from my hand, his lips brush my ear. I hear him breathe, feel him rest his cheek, briefly, against my hair, and I turn in the circle of his arms. There’s no time to look into his eyes. I’m kissing him, melting into this sweet, dizzy kiss that just … happens.

When it ends, he looks at me, one corner of his mouth turned up in this teasing smile I’m starting to recognize. He rests his forehead on mine and whispers:

“You taste salty.”

“How romantic of you to notice,” I say, and kiss him again.

He moves on to my neck. The spot behind my ear. The place where my neck becomes my shoulder. Little kisses, exploring, like butterfly wings. I stifle the urge to laugh.

He doesn’t know I’m ticklish. He doesn’t know anything about me, really. And right now, at this moment, I don’t know anything about me, either. Not this part, anyway. This
swooning, crazy part that finds me sliding my hands down his chest, past his belly, to the belt loops of his shorts. Big baggy cargo shorts he always wears when he’s not on court. I hook my fingers in the loops and pull him in close to me. He makes this little “ummm” sound, and his lips return to mine. Press harder against mine.

*   *   *

It had been building since breakfast. When I got down to the cafeteria at seven-thirty he was already there, sitting at a table for two near the windows. He was writing on a small dry-erase board, and his empty dishes were pushed to one side. As I came up behind him, the sun shone brightly on the back of his head, igniting these red highlights in his brown hair.

“Hey. D’you already eat?” He looked up at me. The smile.
Oh, help
.

“Yeah, I got here early. Couldn’t sleep. Go on, get your breakfast. I’m plotting our strategy.”

Our strategy. Couldn’t sleep.
Up thinking about me all night, David? Yeah, right. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Henry
. As I shoveled scrambled eggs onto my plate and threw a couple slices of wheat bread into the toaster, I tried to redirect my thoughts. Refocus.
Tennis. Eyes on the prize. Not on the guys
.

When I got to the table, I slid my tray next to the dry-erase board, unzipped my Windbreaker and draped it over my chair. David looked up and his eyes went straight to my chest. One corner of his mouth turned up and his eyes crinkled into laugh lines.

“Last night’s T-shirt was friendlier,” he said. I glanced down at the words printed on the front: “Boys Are Dumb. Throw Rocks at Them.” I shrugged, trying to look all innocent.

“Just want to get in the spirit of the match, you know? The whole battle-of-the-sexes thing?” David leaned forward. He leveled his gaze at me, and spoke quietly.

“Don’t forget: I’m a boy, too, Henry. You don’t want to hurt my feelings.” I held his look, and leaned in farther. I dropped my voice to my closest approximation of husky.

“Actually, David, you’re no boy. You’re the
man
.” His eyes grew round. A flash, just a hint, of genuine surprise flickered across his face. For one deeply gratifying moment David Ross was slightly off balance.
Yes! Point goes to Miss Lloyd. Fifteen–love
. Then it disappeared. He moved on without a comment, returning to his plans.

As I wolfed down eggs, he drew sweeping lines on the dry-erase board and talked. Dundas, he explained, was impatient. He liked to finish points early, go for winners when he should still be hitting rally balls.

“His attention span doesn’t extend beyond four shots,” David explained. “The trick is hanging with him for those four, ’cause he hits really hard. Too hard, actually. He’s not fit enough to sustain that level of effort for five sets. Which is why he tries to finish points quickly. But people who can hang with him always beat him.”

“Is that how you beat him?” I asked.

“No. But I think that should be your strategy.”

“Well, how do
you
do it?” David hesitated.

“I hit harder than him, I’m fitter, and I don’t lose focus,” he finally said, shrugging.

“Oh, right. If you do say so yourself,” I smirked.

David sighed and tossed the dry-erase marker on the table. It skittered onto the floor. He didn’t bother to retrieve it.

“Listen, Henry, can we get serious for five minutes? This is not about me. It’s about
your
match in”—he glanced at his watch—“eleven hours. Now, do you want to talk tennis, or flirt? Because frankly, I canceled my morning drill session to work with you, and if you’re not serious, then I’m gonna go find my coach and …”

“Whoa. Hold it right there, cowboy. Flirt? In your dreams.” I willed my face to remain cool, but it was useless. I could feel the crimson spreading over my cheeks like a brush fire. David held the thought for a good ten seconds, until I turned completely red.

“I stand corrected. I thought you were flirting outrageously with me instead of concentrating on the business at hand.”

“I don’t flirt.” He raised his eyebrows.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s a shame. Because despite having a boy’s name and playing tennis like a man, you could be a really, really good flirter.”

“Don’t make me hate you, David.” That earned me another killer smile.

“Now
that’s
more like it!” he said. He pushed his chair back and stood up. “I think we’re ready to hit some balls!”

*   *   *

I’d never stepped foot inside the pro court before. That’s because it’s not intended for the general scrubs. Ringed with palm trees, screened with forest-green windbreaks secured to the high metal fence, it was like stepping into someone’s private living room. There were the stacks of fresh white towels. Icy water in an insulated cooler. A teak bench.
Teak
.

For the first hour, we drilled. First short balls, using exaggerated topspin so that they dropped three feet beyond the net. Next, net shots: sharp, hard. Then we moved back to the baseline, for fifty high, deep crosscourt forehands, catching them on the rise. Fifty backhands. Fifty down-the-liners. If the ball went out, we’d start the count over.

When we finally took a break, I was drenched. As I sat on the bench, swallowing a steady stream of icy water, I felt something cool on the back of my neck. David had soaked a washcloth with cold water.

“Behind your ears. Your wrists,” he said. “Pulse points. If you press something cold there, you can actually get your body temperature to drop.” I pulled the washcloth from my neck. It was already hot where it had touched my skin.

“I think I need complete submersion in the pool,” I said. “Or a dry shirt.”

Hmm. There’s an idea. A shot he doesn’t expect
.

I went over to my bag, rummaged and pulled out a sleeveless, wicking tennis shirt. And a dry bra. I turned my back to David, took a deep breath and pulled the sodden clothes over my head. I dropped them on the ground and slipped the dry
shirt and bra past my shoulders. When I turned, David’s shocked look greeted me.

Point to Miss Lloyd
.

“What?” I said, willing myself to sound nonchalant. “Nobody can see in. The windbreaks are like privacy curtains.” He gestured toward himself.

“Am I nobody? Jeez, Henry.”

“Oh, c’mon. I turned my back. And besides. You’re already familiar with this bra.” I picked up my racket and started walking back onto the court. When I got to the baseline he hadn’t budged. He stared at me, hands on hips.

“What?” I repeated.

“You play mind games. You are completely, totally awesome at it, aren’t you? It’s one of your weapons. It has to be. I’ve never seen anyone more expert at getting under another person’s skin.” There was no trace of a smile on his face when he said this.

Game over, Hen. You overplayed that one. What must he think now?

I was silent. I hadn’t intended to make him mad. I was only joking around. Okay … flirting. I should have stopped. He’d asked me, at breakfast, to stop.

I walked back to the bench.

“I’m sorry,” I said. He didn’t reply. Just looked at me with this quizzical expression like he was trying to sort something out.

“You’re right. I’m the queen of mind games. It’s, like, this really, really bad habit.” His face relaxed.

“Apology accepted,” he said.

“I shouldn’t have changed in front of you,” I continued. “You must think I’m some sort of teasing slut. God. I don’t know why I did that. I’ve never …”

Once I got started, it was hard to hold back. There’s something about being forgiven so easily that greases the skids for further confessions. David finally held both his hands up in “I surrender” mode.

“Whoa. Stop, Henry. Stop.” I stopped.

“There is a time and place for mind games. Just … not with me. Let’s make you and me a game-free zone, okay?”

You and me
. I nodded, incapable of speech at the moment.

“And let’s … compartmentalize. Right now, tennis. Later, we’ll talk about all your outrageous flirting. Deal?” That sweet corner of his mouth turned up for the second time that morning.

Oh, who’s playing mind games now, David?

“Deal,” I managed to say.

“Then get to the baseline,” he said. “I’m gonna shoot some hard ones at you.”

*   *   *

I wish I did it on good tennis alone, but the fact is the mind games were what finally pushed Jonathan Dundas over the edge.

The guy didn’t suck. He had a great second serve, really mean kick. I had a tough time returning it, but he didn’t seem to notice, and kept trying to blast me off the court with a big first serve, which, unfortunately for him, rarely landed in.
Then, if he couldn’t slam a winner off me within the first few balls, he’d lose his composure and do something stupid to blow the point. So I won the first set 6–3.

As we toweled off between sets, I moved in for the kill.

I walked over to his end of the net. His face was beet-red and he was sitting.

“Wanna quit now?” I said. Loudly. Most everyone was watching from the Overlook, draped over the balcony rail, spilling in and out of the lounge, where the staff had set up cool drinks and snacks. But a few of the pros and coaches were sitting courtside. They whooped when they heard my comment. “Hey man, don’t let her get away with that!” someone said. “You tell him, Henry!” another called, laughing.

It was circus time, and I had decided to give them a show.

Dundas wasn’t having any of it.

“Just go back to your side of the court,” he said between his teeth. No trace of his usual attitude.
Oh, yes, Henry, this one’s yours
.

“Would you at least like me to tell you what you’re doing wrong?” I replied sweetly. He jumped to his feet.