Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (19 page)

By the time Rhonda arrives from Jersey, the verdict is in: I’ve broken the big toe on my left foot. And not just a hairline fracture. This baby’s broke good. The doctor suggests that perhaps there already was a hairline, and the pressure of dancing
on it simply made it worse. Of course, there is good news: it will heal and it’s not serious. There is also bad news: I have to stay off it for it to heal correctly. And worse news: I probably won’t dance for the rest of the summer.

And finally, the worst news, contained in lab results the doctor holds. Papers which have caused this worried crease to form on her forehead. We’re still in the emergency room, where I sit on a high hospital bed, my foot elevated, my toe securely wrapped. Rhonda, poker straight, sits in a chair beside me. The doctor speaks.

“The X-rays confirmed that the toe is broken,” she says. “Then, because she complained about pain in her elbow, we x-rayed her arm. Good news there: no break. But I saw things that concerned me, so I ordered a bone-density test.” She pauses. The crease deepens.

“Eva is suffering from a condition known as osteopenia, or low bone density. It’s a precursor to osteoporosis, and it makes her more susceptible to breaks.” Rhonda gasps.

“What could have caused this?” she asks. Doc widens her eyes.

“A nutritional deficiency, most likely.” Rhonda makes another sound. A scoff that reminds me of a Henry snort.

“That’s ridiculous. We are very nutritionally conscious in our home.”

The doctor turns to me.

“Eva, when was the last time you got your period?”

Silence. A cold ball of panic begins to form in my stomach.

“I don’t remember.” Rhonda stares at me. She doesn’t answer for me. That’s because she doesn’t have a clue, either. My period is not something that’s been foremost in our minds.

“Within the last year? Last summer?” the doctor persists. My mind scrolls back. What did I do last summer, and did I have my period? I can’t remember.

“I don’t think so,” I say. The doctor nods.

“And when did Eva’s menses begin?”

“Excuse me?” Rhonda asks.

“How old was Eva when she first got her period?”

“Oh, young. So young! She was in fourth grade, only ten years old. But, that’s Eva. She’s always done everything early!” Rhonda’s high-pitched laugh sounds maniacal to me.

“And Eva, how tall are you?” the doctor asks.

“Five-one,” I reply.

“Do you know how much you weigh?” she continues.

Too much! Too much, you pig! You’re so huge your bones are cracking from the sheer weight
.

“I don’t know. There isn’t a scale at the dorms where I’m staying.”

Rhonda stands up swiftly.

“May I ask the purpose of these questions?” she demands.

“How much did you weigh last time you got on the scale at Mom’s house?” the doctor persists. I hesitate. I can’t make myself say it. The feeling, that dark-to-light feeling, descends on me, and the bees are buzzing again.

Pig! Elephant! You are disgusting
.

“Stop this! Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?”

The doctor whirls on Rhonda.

“If Eva were a dog, you’d have been charged with animal abuse by now,” she says icily. “But because she’s your daughter, I’m going to have to discharge her to your care, where I predict she will continue to starve herself. In your nutritionally conscious home.”

The doctor takes a step closer to me.

“When was the last time you ate, hon?”

Chapter Nineteen

M
ark’s voice feels like a slap. Even a thousand miles away and through a cell phone. I have this overpowering urge to press “end.”

I’ve just told him I’m playing in Miami this weekend. A junior invitational tournament, the type he has kept me away from. Apparently one of the players had to drop out, and the tournament officials invited Chadwick to fill her spot. After the Dundas performance, the coaches decided there was only one girl to choose: me.

Predictably, Mark explodes.

“Who the
hell
signed off on that?” he demands.

I’m in my dorm room. Yoly is seated at one of the desks, writing a letter to her family. She looks up. She can hear Mark yell all the way from Jersey.

“My coach,” I say calmly. “The school. I’m going with a group from Chadwick.”

Okay, Hen, since when does two equal a group? You and
David are the only players going. Plus two coaches. So four. I guess four’s a group?

“Yeah, well, I’ve got news for them. You don’t have permission to play in semipro tournaments.”

“Dad, there’s no such thing as semipro. And you guys signed a form giving Chadwick permission for away tournaments.”

“Bullshit, Henry. I signed no such form.”

“Well, Mom did. It was with the stuff giving the school permission to use pictures of me on their website.”

He swears loudly. Yoly doesn’t look up this time, but I see her eyebrows rise.

“You see,
this
is the sort of crap I’m talking about! They are exploiting you. Not to mention it’s like an open invitation to predators. I’m calling them, right now. And Henry: you will
not
, I repeat,
not
play in that tournament this weekend. Do I make myself clear?”

“As a bell, Dad,” I reply. My voice is controlled. It gives no hint of the adrenaline-induced rage that makes my hands shake. I press “end.”

Weeks without Mark, the freedom of No Mark, has softened me. While I was home, I was used to his anger. Ever ready for it. Now, a few weeks into doing my own thing, the taste of the bit in my mouth again is harsh.

“You okay?” Yoly says softly. I shrug. I throw myself onto my bed.

“He doesn’t want you to play in the tournament?” she persists.

“Nope,” I say flatly. She shakes her head.

“Why not? It’s such an honor. Doesn’t he realize you were singled out?”

She doesn’t get it. How could she? Yolanda Cruz’s father … her entire family … orbits in a completely different solar system from Planet Mark. She is in the middle of the pack here at camp, and the way her family acts, you’d think she was a Wimbledon champion. They call her every night, telling her how much they miss her, how proud they are of her. You’d think she’d moved to China, and not just gone to some camp up the highway.

For the first time in my life, I’m envious. Not because I want a huge family. Not because I want to live above a restaurant in a hot, crowded city, although I could get used to Cuban food. Not because I want to get applause for playing mediocre tennis. I envy their simple enjoyment of her. The way they laugh together. I think if she told them she wanted to quit tennis and enter a nose-picking contest, they’d all show up to cheer her on. Armed with boxes of Kleenex.

I know my parents love me, and miss me. But I wonder if they would be so obsessed with me if I were ordinary.

“My dad’s complicated,” I begin.

“All dads are complicated,” she says. “Especially about their daughters.”

“Yeah, well, Mark’s the President of Complicated,” I say. She frowns.

“Who’s Mark?”

“Oh, my dad. I sometimes call him Mark. When I’m annoyed with him. We do that, Eva and I. She calls her mother Rhonda whenever she gets too over-the-top. Which is, like, always.” Yoly gets up from the desk and sits, cross-legged, on her bed.

“You white girls have no clue about over-the-top,” she declares. “Try living in a Latino family, with Grandma in the apartment next door, and
tell
me about over-the-top. Try making it through a
quinceañera
with your sanity intact, and then, maybe, I’ll listen.”

“Keensy-what?” I ask. Yoly’s eyes grow big.

“Do
not
tell me you’ve never heard of a
quinceañera
.” I shrug. She gives a little scream of shock and horror, and jumps off the bed. She goes over to her dresser, rummages around in the bottom drawer, and pulls out a large manila envelope. She turns to me, holding it tightly against her chest.

“What I am about to show you stays between us, understand?” she says seriously.

“Sure,” I say.

“I mean it, Henry. This is not very … Chadwick.”

“I promise.” She sits next to me and pulls an eight-by-ten photo from the envelope.

It’s her. Dressed up like Glinda the Good, the nice witch from
The Wizard of Oz
. More like, stuffed into a Glinda the Good costume, without the wand. She’s wearing a little diamond tiara in her hair, which is swept up into this high, fancy do. An enormous white dress billows around her. She wears
diamond-drop earrings, a diamond necklace, dark red lipstick and plenty of eye makeup. She bears no resemblance to the sweaty, tennis-ball-pounding girl I know.

“You clean up real nice, Yoly,” I say. She slaps me on the arm, but her face relaxes.

“This,” she explains, “is the formal photo for my
quinceañera
. My ‘sweet-fifteen’ birthday party. Like a sweet sixteen, only more. For Latinas, when a girl turns fifteen, it’s like she’s officially a woman.”

“Sounds cool,” I comment. She doesn’t answer right away. She looks thoughtful.

“There are a lot of expectations,” she says carefully. “A lot of traditions. Expenses. It’s like throwing a wedding. There’s a band, a sit-down dinner. Drinks. Clothing. You plan for months, all for this one huge party. My family actually has sponsors to help pay for it. Like, the Gonzalez family who owns the cigar shop down the street from my parents’ restaurant? They sponsored all the soda, beer, rum, you name it. My
tía
Blanca donated all the flowers. My
abuela
bought my dress. Do you get the picture?”

“Uh, it sounds like you’re planning a big, fun party and people are being generous?” I say. Yoly flops backward onto my bed. She stares at the ceiling.

“They
own
you, Henry,” she says. “They chain you with their love and generosity. Whether you want it or not, and I never wanted it. I’m a jock, always have been, and I’m not into the whole retro-Cinderella thing. But what do you do when your grandmother says she’s emptied out her bank account and
bought you the most beautiful
quinces
dress in Miami? And she wants you to go to the dress shop to see it and have a fitting? And next thing you know, you’re standing in front of a full-length mirror decked out like a Disney character in a dress two sizes too small?” Yoly is talking faster and faster. She’s approaching a rant.

“You say, ‘No thanks’?” I suggest. She rolls over and looks squarely at me.

“You compromise,” she says. “You swallow the urge to say, ‘Sorry, Abuelita, but I’d rather be shot at sunrise than seen in public like this.’ Instead, you tell her she’s the best grandmother in the whole wide world. Which she is, despite her need to parade you out like a Barbie in front of everyone you know, and quite a few you don’t. Then, after she dries her tears from crying over how beautiful you look in your
quinces
dress, you go to your parents. And tell them the only way on earth you’ll subject yourself to this torture is if they let you go to a really cool tennis camp over the summer.” Yoly smiles at me knowingly.

“And
that’s
how you got to Chadwick,” I say.

“When the Miami Grocers’ Association offered to sponsor the band for my
quinces
, I told Papi we could hire a DJ instead and ask the grocers to pay for camp. He asked, they agreed, and here I am. Compromise.”

I look at the picture again. Despite what she says about Barbies, there is radiance in Yolanda’s eyes. She looks overweight and overdressed and overly made up and … happy. She wears a smile I’ve never seen on her at Chadwick.

“You look beautiful in this picture, Yoly,” I say quietly, handing it back to her.

She looks at me curiously. Silently, she replaces the picture in its envelope, returns it to the dresser drawer. Returns to the bed and gives my shoulders a squeeze.

“Can’t you compromise with your father?” she asks kindly.

She is trying so hard to be nice, but the fact that Yoly cannot possibly
get
Mark only makes me suddenly miss Eva. Terribly, like a stab of missing. I realize I haven’t spoken to her in days, and I make a mental note to call her, tonight, before lights-out.

“ ‘Compromise’ is not a word in Mark Lloyd’s vocabulary,” I say grimly. “But listen. I don’t want to be negative. Maybe the Chadwick people will convince him to change his mind when he calls.”
Yeah, right. Not in your lifetime, Henry
.

“Well, in that case … I have some big news,” Yoly says brightly. “Guess who’s going to your match this weekend?”

“Andy Roddick?” I say hopefully.

“So much better: me. And my mom. And my sister Carolina. I asked Missy if I could come down to watch on Sunday, for the finals, and she got us tickets. And afterward, if you all want, my parents said everybody should come to the restaurant for dinner. We’ll make a real
fiesta
out of it!”

“Yoly, you do realize I might get knocked out during the first round Friday night?”

“Henry, you are going to win this tournament. I feel it in my bones. I feel like this is going to be a very, very big weekend for you.”