Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (23 page)

“Tell me,” he said gently.

So I did. To the extent that I could. How do you explain hating your father and wanting desperately to please him at the same time? How do you explain his volcanic emotional eruptions followed by genuine affection and praise?

Harder still: how do you explain your growing fear that being around him is turning you into some sort of monster yourself? Yeah, right. You
don’t
say that to the hot new boyfriend. You say things like “my dad’s a control freak” and “he has anger-management issues” and “I’m lucky my mom’s really nice.” And you let him listen with those patient, gorgeous eyes and kiss the tears off your face, and you pretend his hugs make you feel better. And you eventually head up to your dorm room to sleep, but you don’t.

“Things” were worked out. There was a prebreakfast meeting, including Mom on conference call (she’d had no idea where Dad had gone), and he seemed way calmer. The Chadwick people were also calm, but in an unsmiling, watchful way. Made you wonder if they’d posted a SWAT team in the foliage, ready to pounce if Mark so much as hiccuped. I’d come down to breakfast early: still red-eyed, hesitant. The place is such a rumor mill that I knew everyone had probably heard about Henry Lloyd’s crazy father.

I was stunned to find him standing at the entrance to the dining room, alongside a grim-faced member of the coaching staff.

“Your dad’s going to be joining you for breakfast today,” the coach said as I approached. “You can eat in the private dining room next door if you’d like.” I stared uneasily at them.

“It’s okay, Hen,” Mark said, trying to smile. He put up both hands, like he was surrendering. “They shot me with the tranquilizer gun and I’m as tame as a kitten this morning.” He laughed, although the coach and I didn’t join him. I shrugged and walked into the dining hall. I loaded a tray with scrambled eggs, oatmeal and fruit and slipped into the room off the main cafeteria. Dad trailed me and we sat.

As I squirted ketchup onto my eggs, he began.

“I’m sorry about that little scene last night,” he said. I snorted.

“That’s a first,” I said sarcastically.

“What?” he asked.

“You. Apologizing. You probably shouldn’t get started, Dad. We’ll be here all summer.” He frowned but contained himself.

“Yeah, I probably had that coming,” he said quietly. “But I do mean it, Hen. I’m sorry.”

“And one more thing,” I continued. “Last night? That was not a ‘little scene.’ It was huge. It was
awful.
”

To my amazement, he nodded. He cleared his throat.

“Honey, one of these days you’re going to be a parent, and you’ll understand …”

“No, Dad. I’ll
never
understand how you get so crazy. This is a good place. I’m learning tons and playing great tennis.”
Real tennis, Mark. Mind-game-free, trash-talk-free tennis
.

“Why can’t you just be happy for me?” He didn’t answer. He took a bite of his toast. A swig of coffee. The tears started welling again.
Damn, dammity damn damn …

“When are you leaving?” I said.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “I’m invited to sit in on your lessons and join you at meals today. As long as I behave,” he added, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. Something between a sneer and a smile. I stared at him.

“What if I don’t want you hanging around?” I continued.

“That’s not up to you,” he said shortly. He picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth carefully. He’d run out of patience. “Let’s not forget that you are a minor and you are here with my permission. If I don’t like what I see, you go home.”

His words felt like a light blow to my brain, and I finally got it. He was behaving so the Chadwick people wouldn’t have him forcibly removed from the property. They were appeasing him so he wouldn’t pull me from the school. It was an elaborate game of give-and-take, over me.

And it was depressingly familiar.

*   *   *

Standing on the baseline of the pro court, a basket of balls behind me, I try to erase Mark from my sightline as I work my serve. I’d forgotten how much it sucks to play while he’s watching. Luckily, he sits outside the court, peering in between the windbreaks. Missy has invited these two other Chad-pros (that’s what we call them) to join us today: Paul and Scotty. It’s great to have all the attention, but not lost on me that this is intended to impress my father.

The three of them watch and offer suggestions as I concentrate hard on each phase of the serve: the loose, muscle-sleepy moment before you coil; knees bent, racket back with the head dropped behind you; the ball tossed high, hovering in the
air; the hurling, whipping motion of the racket face, flung like a baseball; the
pock
of contact.
God, it feels so good to hit something
.

Thirty minutes into it, I’m bathed in sweat.

“How ’bout a water break, Henry?” Missy suggests. Paul nods, and the two of them head to the Igloo cooler parked alongside the court.

“You’re a fast learner.” Scotty stands next to the basket of balls.

“You guys are good teachers,” I concede.

“Next thing to work on is your toss,” he says. “You’re twisting your hand at the end of the toss, and the ball spins.” I nod. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that.

“I know. I need to place the ball in the air, and finish the toss with my palm open. Pretend I’m catching raindrops.” Scotty’s eyes widen, and he smiles.

“That’s the same visual my coach at Florida used!” We walk toward the coolers.

“His name wouldn’t happen to be Ray, would it?” I say jokingly. Scotty stops.

“Ray Giordano,” he replies.

Thirty feet away, Missy and Paul sip from little conical paper cups as they chat with Mark. He’s stepped inside the fence and stands with them beneath the umbrella.

“Ray Giordano was your coach at Florida State?” I say quietly.

“Until I was a junior,” Scotty says. “He left because he had some family problems. Sick mom, I think. He moved back to
the Northeast, and I heard he was doing some private coaching and helping to take care of her. Do you know Ray?”

“Wavy dark hair? Probably my dad’s age?” I say.

“Green eyes?” Scotty continues, enthusiastically. “Throws his head back when he laughs?” I nod. “Damn!” he exclaims, laughing. “Who says it isn’t a small world?”

“Too small, if you ask me,” I reply nervously. “Listen, Scotty. My dad isn’t a member of Ray’s fan club, if you know what I mean.” Scotty’s eyes register instant comprehension.

“Check,” he says. “But, just out of curiosity,
when
did you work with Ray?”

“A little over two years ago,” I say quietly. “When I was fourteen.” He does some quick mental calculations, then nods his head.

“Right,” he says. “I heard he stayed up north for a year before joining Philmont.”

Missy is motioning us toward the water, and it’s time to cut this conversation off. Still, I can’t resist one more question.

“What’s Philmont?” I ask. Scotty chuckles.

“That’s like asking, ‘What’s Bechtel?’ ” he says. “It’s some global corporation that makes everything from widgets to bridges. They also sponsor athletics, and that’s the part Ray got involved in. Look for their logo at your next pro baseball game. Or in the Chadwick lobby.”

“Chadwick?” I say.

“Philmont’s one of our sponsors,” Scotty says. “I think we’ve got three Philmont students this summer. What about you? Do you have a sponsor?”

“I have a scholarship,” I explain. He shakes his head.

“There are no scholarships at Chadwick. People either pay full freight, or a sponsor picks up the tab. Make sure you find out who’s covering you, Henry,” he says. “You’ll want to write a thank-you note at the end of the session. Even more important than getting your toss right is making sure to always, and often, thank your sponsors.”

We’ve reached the cooler by now, and Scotty, good as his word, instantly switches the conversation. Mark seems astonishingly relaxed, actually pulling his lips back and revealing his teeth in a canine sort of smile. He obviously likes what he’s seen this morning; Missy and Paul, meanwhile, also wear rather self-satisfied expressions. It’s a freakin’ lovefest under the umbrella, but as I hold my paper cone under the Igloo spout, my hand shakes. And I make a mental note that this afternoon, if I can lose Mark for a little while, I’m going to spend some time in the front office.

I want to know who’s getting my thank-you note.

Chapter Twenty-Four

R
honda claims it was ants. A curving, determined line of black ants marching into my bedroom. Plus an odor. Whatever. I’m sure she’s lying. Lying to cover up the fact that without my ballet to obsess over, she’s reduced to rummaging through my stuff.

Paige’s mom drops me off from the swim club at three, even though it’s the heat of the day and prime time for floating in the pool. Paige whined about leaving early, but Rhonda had scheduled a four o’clock appointment with my new shrink, so I had to come home. Not that I explained anything about it. Nor did Paige ask. It’s amazing how little one has to say to be friends with this girl. Just pretend to admire her as she tugs at her bikini and struts repeatedly past the good-looking lifeguards, and you’re in.

I walk into the kitchen, the arctic air-conditioning doing an insta-freeze on my still-damp hair, calling out, “Mom! I’m back,” and from upstairs she replies, “Eva. Could you please come here right now?” There’s that special
something
in her
tone, and I know we’re in for yet another wonderful mother-daughter moment.

I climb the stairs slowly: Doc’s orders. Baby that toe. Of course, I’m not in the mood to get there quickly. And I’m tired. My heart races, as if I’m running bleachers.

Well, what did you expect, whale butt? Three weeks of absolutely no exercise. You are so miserably out of shape that you can’t even walk up the stairs to your own room
.

The smell hits me at the door. Rhonda stands in the middle of my bedroom, surrounded by boxes, random clothes and whatever else she has disgorged from my closet. She wears gloves, that yellow rubber-chicken kind you put on when you scrub something greasy. She also wears this sick expression. Like she’s going to vomit.

She points to a plastic pail on the floor.

“Would you mind telling me what this is?” she says.

I take two timid steps toward the bucket and peer inside. Brownish liquid, moldy chunks floating in it. There’s a clear plastic bag mixed in with the liquidy ooze, and it reeks. I see a small blue plastic tab poking from the surface, those Ziploc tabs you pull to seal storage bags … and then I know. There are about seven or eight month-old uneaten dinners in that bucket. I had completely forgotten about them.

My mind freezes. I cannot think of a word to say.

“Eva! What is this garbage doing in your closet?”

Garbage. Well, she’s right about that, isn’t she? The garbage they’ve been force-feeding you since the summer began. You were right to not eat it
.

“I have no idea what that is! It’s gross. Get it out of here!” I exclaim. She stares at me.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she replies. “Eva, it was in
your room
. Behind the plastic storage bins. I’ve been noticing ants upstairs, and this morning there was a line of them leading into your closet. I opened the door and the stench practically knocked me over!”

“Well, get it out!” I shriek. I turn and race down the stairs, no thought for my toe. Weird floating sensation. My heart bangs against my ribs again, but somehow my legs feel weightless, like I’m flying. It occurs to me … in a strange detached way, as if I’m watching myself … that maybe I’m falling? But I reach the den, still upright.

She follows. I’ve burrowed deep within her overstuffed couch, my damp head pressing into the cushions. For once she doesn’t reprimand me for wet hair on her precious furniture. She chooses her words carefully.

“Tell me what was in the bag in your closet.”

She hates you. You are a pathetic little loser. All she’s ever cared about was bragging to her stupid friends about your dancing. Bragging about all the things she’s too uncoordinated to do herself. And now you’ve gone and injured yourself, and she can’t forgive you. So she’ll get back at you in every way she can, starting with this: making you fat. Don’t tell her
.

“I don’t know!” I scream into the cushions.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Rhonda replies, her voice slightly higher. “Who else puts things in your closet?”

“Paige,” I say. Instant, nonsensical, knee-jerk response. Rhonda looks dumbfounded.

“Paige is putting garbage in your closet?” she says. I sit up. My mind races.

“That was something she wanted me to throw out for her. I remember now. It must have fallen out of my backpack. I forgot to dump it.” Rhonda sits wearily on the edge of the couch.

“Eva, this makes no sense,” she says quietly.

“It’s from her soccer game,” I say. “Paige is the captain, and she’s supposed to clear the bench before they leave? It’s a drag, people always leave their empty Powerade bottles lying around. Sweatshirts. One day there was even a laptop under the bench. So Paige asked me to help her carry all this stuff, and there was a bag of orange slices the team didn’t eat. I put it in my backpack and must’ve forgotten to dump it. It really got gross, didn’t it?”