Open Court (22 page)

I thought of the boys at Bickford—the ones on the group run, with tanned legs and excellent foreheads. I laughed at myself. Out loud. Why hadn't I thought of that before? Luke Kimberlin wasn't the only hot boy in the world. “Well, yeah, I could like a tennis player,” I said.

“If someone doesn't respect your tennis, they don't respect you.”

“Got it, Coach.”

“Good. Can we go back to the club now, Braxton? Are all your errands done?”

“Sure, Coach.”

Coach jolted the SUV into gear and pulled out of the parking lot. I wanted to tell him about Bickford, about my scholarship, about my future. About the new, perfect voice in my glorious head. But I decided to wait one more day; otherwise he'd sideline practice to hear the details. Right now I needed to get back on court. And play.

I
wrote Trent a postcard after my first hellish week at Bickford Tennis Academy to let him know I was still alive, that I'd survived so far. Sensing my homesickness, he called immediately, the sound of his booming voice making me laugh.

Both Annie and my mom send me a continual stream of care packages, and I know that they do care.

Janie and I talk on the phone about everything
except
tennis. I wrote Eve a handful of letters but never got a response. Friendships aren't forever. I wish her well. Melissa remains a fixture in the neighborhood, and I read her letters with amusement. Polly and I made a pact to stay friends. I'm not sure how long it will last; our
lives are so different now. Things change. People change. From what I hear, she rules the halls of Westland Prep, just like she planned. She tells me the Greek God spends the majority of his free time in detention. I don't miss his forehead as much as I thought I would.

The Dead Grandpa Bonus Fund is getting some use after all, in the form of airplane tickets to the swampy Florida heat. Who would have thought I'd stand in an airport anxiously awaiting my brothers? I can hardly believe it myself.

At some point, I guess everyone has to decide what's important to them. There are no right or wrong answers. Janie was brave to decide she didn't have the head for tennis. Polly spent a summer fighting against math, only to invite it into her life for the chance to go to school with Bruce. While Luke chose his friends over chess, Eve and I decided our friendship wasn't worth our time anymore.

But one thing is true and constant: anything that matters in life, that's pure, is going to be a hassle. It's going to be hard. Maybe even hurt. I don't know why, it just is. Getting to Bickford Tennis Academy isn't the end of my challenges but the beginning. It's complicated here at times, but I'm pushing aside expectations. It's going well. I'm feeling good.

Tennis matters to me. It's who I am. It's what I do.

I'm willing to put up with the hassle.

Besides, I'm one of the lucky few who got assigned a single room. And it isn't true what that girl said in the bathroom of villa 2 that day: they still like me even when I
don't
win. I lost a couple of times on purpose just to make sure.

M
any thanks to my parents, Shirley and Robert Clippinger, the most excellent people I will ever know. Somehow “thank you” doesn't say enough.

Much appreciation goes out to my huge family: Linda, Ken, Chris, and Josh McDaniel; Jennifer, Travis, and Katie Tillett; David, Vickie, Kyle, and Kevin Clippinger; Sue, Len, and Kelly Meyer; Jimmy and Jeff Kemp; Ron, Kelly, and Witney Clippinger; and Don, Rochelle, Jade, Lindsay, and Tristan Clippinger. Winners, every one of them.

With special thanks to Julie Rey for the million days of my childhood that I walked down Wynkoop Drive to get to her front door.

Also to Glen Agritelley for his connections and to Chris Wade, the athletic director at T Bar M Racquet Club, and Karla Jones, USTA Player Development.

And thanks to Sherrill Oglevie, my captive audience and cheerleader, at Sherrill's Shears.

And last but not least, much gratitude to my enthusiastic agent, Steven Chudney, and to my intrepid editor, Erin Clarke, for her encouragement and guidance.