Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (28 page)

In the cold, clear light of day, all the confusion of the night is supposed to fade away. Right? Unfortunately, there’s nothing cold or clear about a hot, hazy Florida morning.

He loves me. He said it last night, the l-word, standing outside the Cayenne, parked in the Chadwick lot. He said it as he kissed me, his arms wrapped around my back, pulling me close against the whole slim length of him, the nighttime breeze moving through the palm trees with this dry, papery sound. You couldn’t have scripted a more romantic moment, and I felt my heart break open as I wondered,
Is this it, then?

How can you be in love with someone you’ve known for a month? But what else could this be? This stupid, crazy, dizzy way I feel if I only
think
of touching him. If I see him across a room, or watch him hit a tennis ball. Or smile. God, that smile.

So why didn’t you say it back?

Halfway to the shower, I realize what I need even more than a few gallons of water streaming over my head: a long-overdue chat with a best girlfriend. Who knows you better than you know yourself, and still likes you anyway. Who tells you to put on your big-girl panties and face down whatever scares you, or makes you mad, or thrills you to the bone. Or at the very least, helps you figure it all out.

I dial Eva. We haven’t been connecting lately. Her cell has been off and she doesn’t answer my messages. When I get her cell voice mail again, I call the Smiths’ house.

Someone picks up after a single ring. A woman’s voice.

“Smith household.”

“Uh, hi. Is Eva there?” A pause.

“Who is this?” she says.

“It’s Henry. Mrs. Smith?”

“No, this is Laura Blythe, the Smiths’ neighbor. Are you a friend of Eva’s?”

“Yeah, I’m a really good friend of Eva’s. Is she home?” I’m trying to get my head around this strange conversation. Where are the Smiths, and who is this woman?

“I guess you haven’t heard. Eva is in the hospital. Her parents are with her now.”

Body blow. Mind blow. No way. I’m not hearing this.

“What happened?” It’s all I can manage.

“You should probably talk to her parents. Would you like me to—”

“Was there an accident? Is she okay?” Impatience rises in me. Gives me back my voice.

“Oh, no, nothing like that. But you should talk to Rhonda. Do you—”

I press “end,” cutting off the infuriating voice, and dial home. Mom picks up.

“Mommy, why is Eva in the hospital?” I demand loudly, not even bothering to say hello.

“Henry? Honey, calm down. Who told you?”

“What is going on?” I practically yell. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“It only just happened. I only just heard myself.”

“Just heard WHAT?” I am yelling now, for real. My mother sighs.

“Eva had a heart attack.”

This is stupid. This is what happens when you drink champagne and stay out until two o’clock in the morning: you
hallucinate. Because heart attacks don’t happen to fifteen-year-old girls from New Jersey. We’re a red state, cancer clusters everywhere, and you’d get skin cancer from lying out at the Jersey Shore before you’d have a heart attack. You’d get in a car crash while cruising down the Turnpike, blasting “Thunder Road,” before you’d have a heart attack.

“Eva didn’t have a heart attack,” I say. Like I’m picking a fight.

“She was at the swim club,” Mom continues. “The girls she was with noticed that Eva didn’t look well. Thank god they were at the club, because the lifeguard knew what to do.…” Mom’s voice catches. There’s a silence. She’s crying when she speaks again. “She had a seizure. By the time the ambulance got there, she’d started breathing on her own again, but at the hospital she went into cardiac arrest, and they needed to use the paddles.”

“When did this happen?”

“Last night.”

“This is unbelievable! Big fat men get heart attacks. Not kids my age!”

My mother is silent.

“Mom? What’s going on?”

“She’s gotten very thin, Henry.”

“Define ‘very thin.’ And what does that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know what she weighs. But you’d scarcely recognize her. It happened very quickly, after she had to drop out of
the ballet school. She just stopped eating. Rhonda has been hysterical about it.”

“When is Rhonda
not
hysterical?” I say fiercely.

“I’ve never seen her like this,” Mom continues, ignoring my comment. “The doctors were warning them that if Eva didn’t turn it around, they’d have to institutionalize her.”

“Turn
what
around?” I demand.

“The anorexia,” my mother says. “It’s gotten so much worse.”

I’m stunned into silence. Never has anyone actually used the a-word about Eva, although they’ve all suggested it. Even at school, kids were constantly remarking on how little she ate, how thin she was, the dark circles that often appeared in her pale face. Yeah, she could have stood to gain a few pounds. But she’s a dancer. They’re thinner than the rest of us.

But this is different. Mom says it so matter-of-factly. How much worse? I want to ask. Why didn’t anyone tell me?

Why didn’t Eva tell me?

Or did she?

“When were you planning on calling me about this, Mom?” I say accusingly.

“We talked about it. We all agreed that there was no point upsetting you.”

“No point? What do you mean, no point?”

“Honey, there’s nothing you could have done. Eva is very, very sick. In her mind as well as her body. She’s not rational, and the less she eats the worse it gets.”

“No! I don’t believe that. Mommy, this is Eva we’re talking about.
Eva.
” I know her better than I know myself, I want to scream. I can tell her anything. She can tell me. We are there, always, for each other. Even a thousand miles apart, Jersey Tomatoes. Forever.

“Henry, I’m heading over to the hospital this afternoon. I’ll call and let you know how she is. Meantime, you need to stay focused. This is a big week for you. You’ve got a tournament … when? Friday? That needs to be your priority right now. Eva’s in good hands.”

It’s a lights-on moment. Of course. That’s why they didn’t tell me. Because nothing, not even sickness or possible death, should deter Henriette Lloyd from her path to stardom.

’Cause we’re all riding on it.

“I can’t believe this,” I say. I don’t wait to hear her response.

I press “end.”

*   *   *

I pound on his door. I wait. I pound again.

When it opens, the room behind him is dim. I’ve woken him up. I step inside, uninvited, and am met by a wall of musky sleeping-boy smell. He stares at me, bewildered, dressed only in these light blue cotton boxers. His hair is rumpled; there’s a trace of pillow crease along his cheek. Reflexively, my eyes strafe the length of him: the hard muscles of his belly. The tan line just above the elastic waistband. He closes the door.

“What’s goin’ on?” he says thickly.

David’s bed is covered with rumpled, still-warm sheets.
There is junk on the floor, a tennis bag, tossed clothes. Maybe eight feet of clear space, but I pace it. Three fierce steps, pivot, three back. Pivot. I am a riot of energy. I want to pound something.

“Henry, what’s the matter?” he says. He stares. I seem berserk to him.

Somehow I manage to say it. To admit that while I was drinking champagne and dancing, my best friend’s heart stopped beating. That she’s so sad she doesn’t eat anymore. That everyone kept it from me, even her. Even my parents.

Even me. Why didn’t I know?

When I’m done raving, he steps close to me, takes both my hands and pulls me toward his bed. His eyes are fully alert now, filled with concern. We sit on the edge of the mattress, his fingers laced tightly through mine.

“You couldn’t possibly have seen this coming,” he says.

Our knees bump. His legs are dark from the sun. The hair on his calves looks gold over the tan. Farmer’s tan, that’s what we’ve all got, tennis players. I see the line midway up his thighs, the line circling his upper arms. His chest is lighter than his face. Smooth, muscular.

My best friend is in the hospital. Almost died. And I’m checking out my boyfriend.

What’s wrong with me?

I pull my hands away, jump up from the bed. Three steps, pivot. Three steps back.

“Henry.” Commanding. I halt.

“Stop blaming yourself. There was nothing you could do.”

“Who says I’m blaming myself?”

“It’s kind of obvious.” He sees right through me. I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to see what I’m really like. I put my hands over my face.

He’s up, his arms around me. He rests his cheek on the top of my head.

“David, while we were at the
quinces
, she was in an ambulance.”

“And if you’d been in your dorm room reading last night, she’d have still been in an ambulance. Stop guilting yourself out.”

I deserve a little guilt, I almost say. I’m a bad friend. A mean, mind-game-playing bad person.

“I’ve got to go.”

I say the words before I fully comprehend their meaning. He pulls back to arm’s length, peers into my face, puzzled.

“Go where?” he asks.

“Home. Jersey. I need to see her. Let her know that I’m there for her.” He lets go, steps back. He doesn’t look happy.

“It’s a thousand miles to New Jersey.”

“I don’t care. I can’t concentrate on tennis right now anyway.”

“Be reasonable. How are you going to get there?” I take a deep breath.

“Can I borrow the Cayenne?” His eyes widen. An incredulous smile forms.

“Are you forgetting that you need a license to drive?”

“I have a permit. I’d have my learner’s license except I’ve been too busy to take the test.” He takes a step closer to me.

“Are you also forgetting that I don’t actually own the Cayenne?”

“David, I will be so, so careful.” The frown line has formed between his eyes. He realizes I’m serious.

“Do you know how much trouble you will get into for ditching camp? Driving a car you don’t own, without a license? Not to mention that it’s dangerous to drive that far all alone?”

“It’s twenty hours one way if you don’t stop,” I continue. My mind is working; I’m picturing this drive. “My father broke it up eight, eight, and four hours the last day. I can be there tomorrow morning.” I’ll need something, I think. Six-pack of Red Bull. Hell, a whole case of Red Bull. I can do this.

“No.” Finality in his voice. “If you need to go home that badly, buy a plane ticket. Talk to Missy. Get permission to leave for a couple of days. Don’t be stupid about this.”

“I already talked to Missy.” More surprise on David’s face. “Right before I came here. Mom had already gotten to her. She must have called Missy the
instant
I hung up.”

“And?”

“Missy says I can’t leave campus without parental approval, and they want me to stay put.”

David looks relieved. His shoulders actually relax.

“Well, I guess that’s the answer then. Keep checking in by phone. If you call Eva a few times a day, she’ll know you’re there for her.”

He takes a step toward me. He’s going to touch me again, wrap those gorgeous arms around me, pull me in close to that just-out-of-the-bed scent of him and …

I’ll forget. Not completely. But for huge chunks of the day. Then days turning into a whole week. I’ll start by kissing him, here in this messy room. Maybe we’ll end up on those sheets for a while. We’ll walk, holding hands, to lunch, late, barely making it in time. We’ll go to afternoon drills. We’ll cool off in the pool before late-afternoon match play. Showers, then dinner. Sunday dinner is usually pretty good. Steak, or even shrimp.

And a few times during the day I’ll pick up my cell phone and press the number next to Eva’s little ballet picture. Check in with Mom for the latest updates. Maybe at some point Eva will feel like talking.

There’s a word for this: compartmentalize. Concentrate on what’s in front of you, right now, and think about the rest of it later. Put the messy junk you don’t want to deal with in a box. Like you’re doing the right thing by stuffing all these unpleasant feelings, all these unpaid bills, into a file folder marked
TO DO
.

Gazing at this amazing boy who wants me, I wish I could tumble into this sweet life with him and forget all about the rest of the crap I left behind in Jersey. But it’s not possible anymore.

As he steps forward, I step back.

“Don’t,” I say warningly. He looks confused.

“Don’t what?”

“
Don’t
tell me you love me,” I manage to say. “Just do me that one favor.”

I’m out the door before he can reply. I take the stairs, two at a time, to the girls’ floor. People wandering around the hall. Somebody asks me how Yoly’s party went. Awesome. Great. I don’t know what I say before I make it to my room and shut the door. I struggle to control my breathing. I can’t control my tears.

It’s quiet, everyone’s left for lunch, when I hear the soft tap on my door. It’s been, what? Thirty minutes? I ignore it. Tap again, a little harder.

“Henry?”

When I open it, the first thing I notice is his hair. Slicked back and wet. He’s showered. The next thing I notice is the bag. Slung over his shoulder, a compact, square black travel bag.

He steps into my room. He looks raw. Not like he’s been scrubbed on the outside, but scraped out from the inside. He’s fully dressed but looks more naked now than when he was wearing only those blue cotton boxers.

He closes the door. Drops the bag on the floor.

“Get packed,” he says. “I’ll take you.”

I’m in his arms before I’m even aware that my feet have moved. Tight. He’s holding me, hard, but his words come out tight, squeezed from some deep place in his chest.

“Don’t ever walk away from me like that again,” he says.

Chapter Thirty