Open Court (8 page)

“Hello, Hall. Do you remember me?” Thomas said, offering his hand.

I wiped the sweat from my hand to shake his. Both Trent and my dad looked at me like I'd better be polite or I'd have hell to pay later on, so I said, “Yes, I do. Nice to see you again, Mr. Fountain.”

My mom exhaled.

“She likes the battle of it. The bloodier the better,” Trent informed him.

Thomas cracked a smile. “I can see that. Quite impressive out there, young lady.”

“Thanks.” I hate it when people call me things like “young lady.” It's condescending. But he was a former pro, so I decided to let it slide. Plus, Trent would've hollered at me if I said anything.

I sucked down half of the water in my bottle and poured the rest on the top of my head. Cool water
dribbled down my face and body, further soaking my sweat-sopped tennis dress. The four of them watched this and said nothing.

Back on court, Skittish Helper Guy set up the ball machines. I strained to seize the words of Trent and Thomas Fountain as they walked toward the gate, talking
about
me in
regard
to tennis.

“Haven't got much time. Wouldn't want her to miss her window,” Coach said.

“Twelve would've been better, but at thirteen—”

“She's
barely
thirteen,” Coach said.

“Possesses the game, anyway. Layered with the right shots. How is she on strategy?”

“Girl could be a general. Got the one intangible of tennis, the rhythm. Changes the pace ever so slightly to confuse her opponents.”

Thomas nodded. Coach seemed satisfied as they stood near the gate. “Thanks a lot, Thomas. Sure appreciate it. If they could see her—”

“No problem. She's a hoot. Got the attitude, that's half of it. That's what they like out there.”

“We'll talk later, then,” Trent said. “You've got the home number?”

“Yep.”

Thump
…
thump
…
thump
…

A scheme to send me away was definitely in the plotting stages. It wasn't just my parents; Trent was in on it, too, involving former tennis pros, no less. My world was closing in. No one could be trusted. The Fourth of July was fast approaching—a third of the summer gone. Time was running out. I had to regain my champion status. I had to get my confidence back.

…
thump
…
thump
…
thump…

Trent stood at the net. My parents were out of earshot. “Give me some control out there!” Coach screamed. “Get aggressive, charge at it. Focus on placement … show me some control. No bargaining now.
Place
the ball … dominate the point … go, go …”

“Agg!”

“Move, move, move! Braxton, wake up out there. What do you need, a nap? Dominate the ball… move, move, move!”

…
thump
…

“On the line, excellent.”

…
thump
…
thump
…
thump
…

My parents did the wave from the bleachers, standing up with arms overhead, then sitting back down. Again, this stole my focus. I hit a backhand lob into the net.

“Nice try anyway, honey,” my dad said from across the court, not realizing it was his fault.

“What the hell was that? Concentrate, Braxton,” Trent bellowed. “One hundred more backhands for that mistake.” He called to Skittish Helper Guy, “One hundred more.” Helper Guy nodded.

…
thump
…
thump… thump
…

“You can do this in your sleep, no reason to miss even one. I don't care if there's an elephant in the middle of the court, you hit that ball. Kill that ball!”

Emotionless, I obeyed.
Thump
…
thump
…
thump
…

“In the corner, excellent.”

…
thump
…
thump
…
thump
…

“On the line, good girl.”

…
thump
…
thump
…
thump
…

A
s I walked in the door, Michael turned and grunted. It was his way of getting my attention. “Two of your stupid little friends left messages for you/’ This kind of disrespect was the main reason my friends never hung out at my house. Brad blocked my way, pretending to be the hero of a martial arts film.

“Move, Brad.”

“Hi-yaaa!”

“Quit.”

He flung his foot an inch from my face. “Hi-yaaa!”

“Stop it, Brad.”

“I could do damage. Two hits and you'd be a dead woman.”

Lately my brothers and their friends have ditched
their usual football games in favor of tae kwon do. Instead of being tackled on my way up the stairs, I'm now the endless recipient of exotically named kicks to my body and aggressive blows to my throat. They never make actual bodily contact but act like I'm lucky they spare my life on a daily basis.

“Let me by, Brad, you brat.”

“Hi-yaaa!”

“I'm telling!”

“Crybaby,” he said, moving aside.

I grabbed the messages. One from Eve:
Do you want to spend the night? Call me hack if you do.

And one from Polly:
Maren is going out with her boyfriend tonight. Do you want to spend the night?

I grabbed Polly's message.
Polly's.
Not Eve's. It took no thought. Chose Polly over Eve. Snap. Like that. Surprised myself, but did it anyway. Eve would never know.

I dialed her number. “Hey, Polly. Yes, I'll be there.”

Polly instructed me to walk in without knocking, but I knocked anyway. As I stood on the steps a twinge of confusion stabbed me. I considered myself a loyal person. But I was
here,
not at Eve's. And I didn't feel half as much guilt about it as I thought I should.

Polly's mom's boyfriend, a tall blond, sporting an unbuttoned shirt, greeted me. He was in his late twenties, I guessed. Since when do moms have cute boyfriends?

“I'm Pete Graham, who are you?” I followed his exposed skin upward until I reached his aqua eyes. My brothers spent their summers shirtless; somehow this was different. He snapped his fingers at me, indicating I should hand him my sleeping bag, pronto.

“I'm Holloway. Call me Hall.”

“Well, that's a name, I suppose.”

He was sort of a jerk. Leaning down, he grabbed my bag and stepped on a chew toy left on the floor by Sugar, the Cassinis’ Labrador. As the chew toy slid violently across the floor, so did Pete, landing hard on the Mexican tile. I waited for a four-letter expletive to fly from his mouth. He didn't curse, but he
wanted
to.

“You just missed them,” he said, picking himself up. “They're getting a pizza. I'll put this in Polly's room,” he said, finally wrestling the sleeping bag into submission.

While he proceeded down the hallway I forged into the living room to wait. Because we all hung out at Eve's so much, this was the first time I'd been inside Polly's house. It was clean, modest. A makeshift office was set up in an alcove near the sofas. I scanned the small desk,
my eyes dropping to the paper shredder beside it. It just so happened that I'd stored my confiscated tennis academy catalogs in the bottom of a bag, the very same bag that was now slung over my shoulder, which held my toothbrush and oversized sleep T-shirt.

Quickly I dropped the bag, opened it, and scraped tennis academy brochures and catalogs from its insides. I clicked on the machine. Green buttons lit the surface. Whirling, the contraption made horrific choking noises as I fed handfuls of pages into its violent jaws.
Faster, come on
… One, two, three down; twelve to go. They could never be traced back to me now.
Come on, dumb shredder, faster
…

Pete Graham entered the room carrying Diet Cokes, eyes fixed on the tower of catalogs. I sat frozen, a brochure dangling over the shredder, waiting to be yelled at, or sent to reform school, or something. His face had erased its guile. It was clear he wasn't a parent.

“Need a Coke?” he asked. “All they have is diet.”

I hesitated. “Urn, sure.”

I'd assumed our brief conversation would be the extent of his tolerance for me, but here he was again, with beverages, no less. His attitude had changed: his indifference morphed into politeness.

“What are you doing?”

“Urn, nothing … shredding some things.”

“What are they, catalogs?”

“Something like that.”

He was amused. “Something like what, catalogs?”

Something like none of his business, but he wasn't taking the hint. “Yeah, catalogs, kind of.”

“Why?”

“Um … because.”

“Well, don't let me stop you.”

I shoved more in, panicked. Pete sat on one of the large sofas. He didn't try to read the pages. I wondered why the sudden courtesy.

The shredder coughed mournfully, a second from exploding.
Shut up,
I thought,
shut up, only a few more, a few more
…

“Hall?”

I turned innocently. “Yes?”

“I think you're supposed to take out the staples before you shred it, otherwise you get that noise.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

I ripped out the staples on my last booklet, for Lang-ley Academy in California, and let the machine suck it down and shred it until it was unrecognizable.

Refreshed, I sat opposite Pete. We popped open our cans simultaneously. I wasn't sure why he waited with me. Maybe he thought he had to entertain me, or keep watch in case I put my feet on the furniture, or something.
I didn't mind. He was cute. It was like a fifty-dollar bill falling out of a birthday card from the grandma who usually sends a five.

I wondered what he thought about female athletes and the sport of tennis. I wondered if he knew tennis academies existed and that terribly misguided parents, such as my own, considered
exiling
their own children to
live at them
a grand idea.

“You're dating Polly's mom?” I stupidly asked. I have the bad habit of asking questions I know the answer to. I didn't know what else to say.

“Yep,” he said. “Maren is an interesting woman.”

“Oh. Uh-huh.”

My mom says I've got to be careful of adults. Some of them, men especially, pretend to be nice but are actually perverts. My mom says in addition to acquiring good judgment about people and listening to my gut, I should tell her immediately if some guy, even Trent, does something that makes me uneasy. I thought maybe I shouldn't be here talking to this guy who was possibly a pervert or something. Except my gut told me Pete Graham was an OK guy so far.

Pete gauged my face for a moment, and then the mystery of his sudden respect was solved. “Holloway? Hall? You're the tennis girl, right?”

He must have realized it after he'd taken my sleeping bag. Otherwise he'd never have offered me a drink. He was neither a pervert nor polite—he was a
sports fan.
When adults discover I'm a tennis player, they become nice to me. Lately, for some reason, it makes me sad.

We were friends suddenly. “I'm talking to the famous tennis girl?” he continued. “Should I curtsy?”

“No. Only women curtsy. You could bow, though.”

“So, tell me about this. How does one become a tennis star? Polly says you play at the national level?”

“I'm OK, I guess.”

“Is it hard?”

“Hard? Urn, certain girls are difficult to beat. The older you get, the tougher the competition.”

“Does it get boring, practicing?”

His questions were misplaced. No one asked me questions like “Hard?” or “Boring?” In fact, no one talked to me about tennis; they talked
about
me in
regard
to tennis. Tennis was the dragon that needed to be slain; I was the sucker with the sword.

“It's just a game.”

Pete Graham scoffed. He leaned forward, as if trying to discern if I was a fraud. “A game? What if someone's really kicking your butt? What then?”

“That's different. It's war. I'm a nation by myself and
the person on the other side of the net is a nation, too. One nation will be brought to their knees, without mercy.”

“War?” he said.

“In tennis there's no second place, no ties. There are no halftimes. Coaches aren't allowed on court. Nobody's going to give you a pep talk. You're all alone. And if you aren't the winner, you're the loser. Battle to the death,” I added for effect. It was true. It was
so
true in my own tennis that, again, I was briefly sad.

If you aren't the winner, you're the loser

My answer didn't make Pete sad. It seemed to delight the heck out of him. He was like all spectators. They want suffering, agony, and distress in their athletes’ victories. It's more exciting watching someone
suffer to win
than win effortlessly. If huge quantities of blood and possibly even some guts or bits of broken bones are involved, then it's
really
a quality match.

Sugar howled and ran to the door. The Cassinis were home. Polly bounced into the living room carrying a pizza. Her little brother, Teddy, dug out a piece and disappeared. Polly quickly introduced me to her mom, and before I knew it Maren and Pete Graham slipped out on their date, leaving us.

Polly's table manners were impeccable. Meticulously
cutting small pieces, she chewed each mouthful a hundred times before swallowing.