Open Court (2 page)

“Sure,” she said.

I pressed my back against the O'Donnells’ screen door and clicked the latch open with one perfect jab of my elbow.

“Bye, Melissa,” Polly chirped.

“Later,” Melissa said.

The screen door slammed. Polly and I stepped out clutching cans of root beer. The wind collided with my skin and crept up my spine. Polly hummed a few lines of “The Star-Spangled Banner” while watching a fluorescent grasshopper jump across the sidewalk. The girl was an oddity: plain on the outside but exotic in spirit.

“Crap!” She seized my shoulder. “I forgot the water! Can you turn the hose off on the way up? I'll be late,” she said sweetly, like I might say no if she didn't coat it with sugar. “I go to math camp in the afternoons,” she explained. “Can't miss the bus.”

“Why?”

“Why can't I miss—”

“No, why math camp?”

“So I can be brilliant.” She giggled at the thought and pushed her bangs out of her eyes. She stood stiff, waiting for me to dismiss her or something.

“Urn … Melissa and Eve and I hang out at Eve's all summer long. Like, every day. You can come if you want.”

I'd made her day. “Really?”

I nodded. “Sure.”

She backed up, ready to run. “The hose—you'll turn it off?”

I nodded. “Bye.”

I was mildly amused when half a minute later I found myself in the mud, crouched down like a chimpanzee, to cut the water supply. I had known this Polly girl for less than twenty minutes and she already had me doing her a favor.

“A
ll right, warrior, how does it feel to win?”

“Hmmm?”

“Don't play dumb with me.”

My coach, Trent, and I sat in his office at the country club. He loomed behind his massive desk. I lay like a dishrag on the couch, ready to die from muscle aches. My mom was late picking me up from practice, so I'd decided to hang out and bug Trent. It was more like he was bugging me.

I rolled my eyes to irk him. “It feels nice,” I said.

“Well, that's a load of crap.”

Coach questions me at unsuspecting moments to see if my thoughts toward the game are pure. I'm a warrior
and I'm supposed to think like one. It gives him pleasure to crack open my head and rearrange things. If painting my stick (players call their racquets sticks when off court) bright orange would make me win, I'd be forced to comply. Mostly I give in and see things his way.

“Come on, Coach, I'm tired. Even my eyeballs hurt.”

“Practice hasn't ended until you answer the question.”

“You threatening me?”

“Yes.”

Trent is simply huge. Muscles ripple from his tall frame like large smooth rocks. His deep voice is packed with authority. His skin is the color of chocolate. Lots of people, I can tell, are afraid of him.

“OK, OK, urn, when I win it feels like my feet have wings. The tennis balls are as big as coconuts coming over the net. Can't miss. I have no fear.”

“How does it feel to lose?”

“Sucks.”

“Explain.”

Coach knows it rattles my cage when I lose. Champions, when they lose, are
supposed
to be upset, but it doesn't simply upset me, it makes me go berserk. Girls who
always
lose don't have to worry about pressure. No one expects them to win. Sometimes I'd prefer to be them—they get to go home early and rest their aching
flesh. I can't say that to Trent, though, the man will behead me, so I tell him what he wants to hear.

I cleared my throat. “Losing sucks worse than anything. When I lose, my legs are so heavy it feels like I'm wearing cement shoes. Easy shots become difficult and it's my fault entirely. Losing equals fear.”

“So you'd rather …”

“Win.”

He sipped his iced tea and studied my face, looking for sincerity. He wasn't talking
to
me about tennis, he was talking
at
me. “What are you?”

“You should start a cult or something. You could have players across America reciting your mantra on demand.”

He wiped nonexistent dust off the top of his beloved, case-enclosed, signed Roger Maris baseball while pretending to be offended. “They laughed at Noah, too, until it rained.”

“Coach, come on, I'm tired. Can't I sit here without being grilled?”

“No. What are you?”

I sighed. “A warrior.”

“What do you do?”

“Play tennis.”

“Who wins?” he demanded.

“I do.”

“Who has a better fitness level, you or Kim Clijsters?”

Kim Clijsters was a Belgian top-ten pro player whose athleticism was stunning. I'd seen her do the
splits
on court when running down a ball and still hit a winner.

“I do.”

“Who's got better focus out there, you or Maria Sharapova?”

Maria Sharapova was a six-foot-tall pro Russian whose focus never wavered. The girl could be down two match points and manage to squeak out a win.

“My focus is better.”

“And when you turn pro who are you going to blast off that court the first chance you get?”

“Kim Clijsters and Maria Sharapova.”

“When you're losing what do you do?”

“Find a way to win.”

His jaw relaxed into a smile. As always, he'd won our battle of wills.

“My mom is probably here by now,” I said, gathering my tennis bag. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Working on your serves tonight?”

“As soon as I get home.”

“Good girl. Think big, you'll be big.”

“See you, Coach.”

The Country Club of Colorado is different from the
real world—harsher somehow. I tried befriending club girls in the past but it never worked. Most were snobs. The only reason I'm allowed at the club at all is because Trent works here. He finagled free access for me in exchange for my tournament trophies being displayed at the club. My accomplishments are often used as a bartering chip. Sad but true.

I walked down the air-conditioned stairwell into the clubhouse lobby. Exactly fifty-eight steps bring me to the club's front entrance; the fifty-ninth spits me out the door and into the parking lot. My mom waited in her usual spot, illegally parked in front of a fire hydrant.

My mom and dad don't involve themselves in my tennis activities. They don't go to practices and rarely have time to go to tournaments. They never ask if I've won or lost. My mom only says, “Did you have fun, honey?” My dad says, “Was the umpire fair?” That's it. Once in a while, when they find out I've really clobbered someone, my dad's face breaks into an obnoxious smile. Then my mom jabs her elbow into his ribs and he's quick to let his face straighten. My parents want me to think they love me because I'm their daughter, not because I win tournaments.

But lately when they find out I've won against a difficult girl or that my ranking has gone up
again,
they act weird. My dad suddenly takes the whole family to
Baskin-Robbins for ice cream. Lets us order anything we want; he never does that. Then my mom surprises me with a subscription to
Tennis
magazine—without me asking.

I'm kind of suspicious, paranoid, ill over things like ice cream and magazine subscriptions. I wonder if all kids get paid off like this before they get shipped off to slave tennis academies.

I hopped in the front seat and threw my bag in back. My mom floored the gas and within seconds we were headed home.

“I've got to meet your dad in forty minutes, so I'm going to drop you off at the practice court on the way.”

“But it's nearly seven o'clock. I'm starving.”

Keeping her eyes on the road, she rummaged through her huge purse, producing a ham sandwich wrapped in plastic and a warm bottle of Evian. “Dinner is served,” she said.

“I ate a ham sandwich for lunch.”

“If we had a stove in the car I'd make you something else.”

“Why can't I go home and walk to the court after I eat real food?”

My mom sighed. “Honey, don't complain. I'm saving you from walking six blocks. I don't have the energy to argue. It's not going to kill you to eat a ham sandwich.”

Silence.

“Your dad doesn't have to work tonight. I snuck out of work early so I could drop you off and meet him on time for once. Don't argue.”

“OK.”

My dad works a second job at night to pay for my coaching. Trent isn't a hack who only knows the basics; he's a real coach. He develops talent, nurtures abilities. He's molded me into a player. Developing, nurturing, and molding cost piles of cash.

She pulled the car to the side of the court. “See you at home,” she said.

“Bye,” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich.

“Michael and Brad should be here soon. Don't walk home alone.”

“Yeah, OK.”

“Hall?” my mom said as I got out and started to shut the car door. “Did you talk to Trent about Janie yet?”

My mouth got dry. “Yes,” I lied. I stared at the zipper of my tennis bag.

“What did he say? Is he going to take you to see Janie?”

I stared at her, exhausted. My mom is the Essence of Momness—the type who makes sure I have lunch money and says the right thing when I'm sad. I know she wants to protect me from the crisis that's happened
to my old doubles partner, Janie Alessandro. But there is no protection. And I think I know that more than she does. Still, Janie is our undercurrent of tension, the lump in our throats, her plight fresh in our minds.

“Hall, what did Trent say?”

“He said a lot of stuff, Mom. I told you before. I don't want to talk about it with you. You barely knew Janie.”

“And you don't have to talk about it—to me. But are you talking about it to Trent?”

“Yes, I talked to him,” I lied again. “I'm OK about it, I swear,” I said. Two lies in less than two minutes; that must be a record. I didn't want to think about how poor Janie had been ruined by tennis, much less discuss it.

“All right, Hall. You know I'm here if you want to talk,” she said, her thumb tapping the steering wheel.

“I know,” I said. “See you.”

“Have a good practice, honey.”

As I took a step toward the court déjà vu nudged me again.
Polly.
Her joy and ample cheeks—those were Janie's traits.
That's
why she seemed so familiar. No wonder I liked her.

I practice my serves in the dark. This old court is six blocks from my house. It's across from the Benet Hill Center, which used to be a monastery. No one except
me plays here. The court backs up to the bluffs and the nearby street is quiet—great for practice. The gate is padlocked, but around back there's a place in the fence wide enough to shimmy through. The court itself is in terrible shape. Weeds grow out of its cracked surface. The windscreen is all but ripped off. I don't mind, though. It's the only court within walking distance.

Yesterday I rigged the sagging net with duct tape and heavy string to get it back to the regulation three feet. The right net height is important when I practice serves.

My parents don't want me out after dark because they're afraid I'll get kidnapped or something. My brothers, Michael and Brad, are supposed to walk me to the court at seven-thirty, then walk me home around nine-thirty. This thrills them in a way I can't express. The idea (my mom's) was that they'd ride bikes or play street hockey with their friends outside the court while I practiced. That's not what happens, though. They ditch me the minute the court is in sight and don't return until well after dark.

Protecting me is not high on my brothers’ list of priorities. But I never tell on them—I prefer to practice alone.

I usually warm up by hitting against the backboard. Then I move on to serves. At dusk they're precise. By the
time darkness rests on the court I'm close to perfection. The wobbling court light still works. It flickers on automatically, causing my body to cast a huge, ominous shadow. I look eight feet tall. An Amazon armed with a racquet.

I practice half my serves with my eyes closed. Coach taught me how. Serving blind allows me
to feel
the serve instead of
thinking
the serve. Makes me trust myself rather than trying to bargain the ball inside the lines. Trent says there's no bargaining in tennis, only trust. His voice is inside my head guiding me as I hit each shot.

…
take it on the rise
…

…
hustle, hustle
…

…
extend racquet
…

…
chip and charge, chip and charge
…

I step to the baseline and look across the barren court. I see myself as Trent sees me; I am a warrior who hurls Penn balls over the net and crushes the bones of my weaker opponent. In the darkness each move I make is larger, bigger, more. Every shuffle of feet and turn of shoulder echoes of glory. The Penn balls throb with beauty.

I love this game.

Mentally, I let go of the barriers of my limits until I think of nothing. A blank head is where perfection rests. It's how I hear Coach's voice. It's how I get in the zone.

…
thump
…

…
thump
…

Stepping outside my flesh, I wait for each flawless hit to perfect me. Here I am not someone's little sister. Not someone's daughter. Not someone's friend. This game beckons me—chooses me. I am a warrior. An Amazon. I am beautiful. And I play to win.