Open Court (19 page)

“Well, bye, then,” I said, sort of standing there like a fool.

Eve said nothing.

“Later,” Melissa said.

I overheard Eve as I left. She wanted me to, I think.
“Hall's a loser. Thinks she's so great. Ooh, I'm a tennis player, yay for me,’ “she mocked.

Not one to be mean, Melissa said nothing.

I slammed the Jensens’ screen door against the frame as hard as I could, so it bounced several times before shutting. I walked up Wynkoop Drive alone, stray strands of sunshine melting fire into my skin.

My mom and dad were watching TV in the living room when I came home early from practicing serves. Actually, I didn't practice; I sat my butt on the court, thinking about Bickford, Polly and Westland, Eve …

“What's for dinner?”

“We're going out. To Fargo's,” my mom said.

“Cool. Did Polly call?”

“No.”

I grabbed my racquet and headed upstairs to call her.

“Hall, wait. We have great news,” my mom said.

“What?”

“Great news,” my dad said.

My heart sank. For the last three months “great news” seemed to be a code word for catastrophe.

My dad cleared his throat. “Joseph Bickford called from the academy. He was so pleased with your visit. He's offered you a full scholarship.”

“Full scholarship,” my mom sang. “Including room and board, coaching, admission to the private school, equipment, tournament fees, the whole deal.”

“Full scholarship!” my dad repeated.

“As it turns out, they like girls that get upset and say four-letter words when they don't win,” my mom said, in jest.

“Joseph Bickford thought you had a lot of spunk,” my dad said.

“I didn't even know you spoke to Joseph Bickford,” my mom said to me. “When was all this going on?”

“She probably had the place scouted out before you got out of the car, Vivian,” my dad said. “Give the girl some credit. Heck, with those tennis shots she'll be having them pay
her
before long. She's better than those girls, and the coaches there know it—”

“Exactly.” My mom beamed. “All her hard work has paid off.”

“Stop it,” I said.

My mom cocked her head, waiting.

“No!” I screamed.

They looked confused. “No what?” my mom said.

“I'm not going.”

“What?” my dad said.

“Why on earth wouldn't you want to go?” my mom said.

“I'm not moving to Florida.
Fm not going to Bickford!
I'm not living at the academy, and you can't make me.
No!”
I screamed, and bolted out the door.

I ran and ran until my legs were numb and my lungs refused to hold air. Everything in me ached. I thought I might explode into tiny pieces and die right in the street.

They call tennis an individual sport, which is a total lie. How can it be a solitary sport when scores of people I've never met are disappointed, slighted, aggravated when I don't win? Win, win, win! For God's sake, girl, win!

They only like you if you win.

If tennis created me, then it could just as easily destroy me.

Later on, I reluctantly shoved my face into the heating vent. The conversation at the kitchen table was, as usual, about me.

Dad: “It's Bickford or it's nothing. Exactly what is the problem? Too easy for her, that's the problem. Got so much talent she doesn't appreciate it.”

Mom: “Don't say that.”

Dad: “Vivian, we're spending twenty thousand a year for what? For this to be a hobby? Nonsense. She can start a doll collection if that's all this is to her. Two years at the academy and we can turn pro.”

Mom:
“We?
You mean
she.
I was twenty-five when I realized I held my future in my hands. Hall is thirteen. You need to back off.”

Silence. Spoons stirred in coffee cups. I looked up from the vent. Michael and Brad leaned against the wall. Their quiet faces assessed the situation—they'd have to pick on me over the phone or something since I wouldn't be around anymore. Again, voices echoed up the vent.

Mom: “Give her a few days to sort it out, Frank. Admission day is August twenty-seventh. It's her decision.”

Dad: “She better make the
right
decision.”

Mom: “Her decision, Frank. This is her life.”

Polly never called, but Luke did, asking me to meet him at his neighbors’ house. I had to go.

I
t was eight o'clock that night when I reached the iron-gated driveway. I crawled up, struggling to get my knees over the connecting stucco wall. I felt someone's hands on my butt.

“No, don't … Ouch!” I was pushed over, hard, and fell to the grass with a thud. “Hey!”

A giggle came from the other side of the wall.

“Luke?”

Grunts and groans peppered the air as the person attempted to scale the wall.

“Luke?”

“Ouch. Damn.” Polly slithered across the top of the stucco ledge, her slender hands gripping it soundly so as
not to fall. Tree leaves left her faceless for a moment. “No, it's not Luke. What, are you blind?” She leapt into the grass. “You're not the only one that can break into a house and swim. I've been
invited.
“

She looked crisp and lively, like she hadn't just sold her soul to endless math equations. Maybe Melissa was wrong.

I grabbed her arm. “It's still light out. Luke says to walk by the trees so no one will see. Polly … Melissa said that—”

“Shush,” she said. “We're wasting time.”

We made our way into the garden, where Luke and Bruce waited. “Here,” Bruce said, handing the key to Polly, “you do the honors.” She pushed her bangs from her eyes and wiggled the key into the slot. We entered slowly, Polly first.

Low voices fluttered from the far corner. Luke froze, eyes full of terror. Polly grinned, reveling in this.

“Is someone here?” Luke whispered to me.

I planted my feet, ready to run.

“Brandon,” a high-pitched voice said, “someone's in here!”

Our eyes shot over to the furniture at the far end of the room. A guy's head peeked over the wicker love seat. Polly dug her nails into my flesh, pleased.

“Brandon,” Luke whispered. “It's just me.”

Stacey Kimberlin's perfect forehead popped up next to Brandon's. She groaned at the sight of us. No cutesy stories tonight, apparently. “Luke,” she said, five decibels too loud, “you aren't supposed to bring people here! You are so busted! Get out!”

“Everybody calm down,” Brandon said, standing.

“Luke, tell your stupid friends to go home! I'm not getting in trouble because of you again.” She turned to Brandon. “Make his friends leave,” she ordered.

Brandon laughed. He was good-looking and easygoing, his personality the opposite of Stacey's frenzied demeanor.

“Brandon! Make his friends leave!” Stacey said again.

“I think her head is going to start spinning,” Polly whispered.

Brandon nodded to Luke. “Why don't you guys go to your house instead? Your parents went to dinner. They won't be back for a while.”

“Sure, Brandon,” Luke said.

The Greek God led us through the Kimberlin kitchen and up a back stairway to his room. To Polly's chagrin, he didn't provide us with a tour.

We piled onto his big unmade bed. Luke settled at
the head of his bed, me at the foot. Polly and Bruce sat close, between us.

I nudged Polly. “Melissa said you had an interview for Westland,” I finally spat out.

Polly squealed. “I'll know in two days if I'm accepted. The dean of students loved me, says I'm West-land material.”

“Sweet,” Bruce said.

So it was true.

“I recited part of Shakespeare's
Romeo and Juliet.
The woman almost fell out of her chair.”

“Yeah, they're fond of brownnosers at Westland,” Luke said. “Just stay away from the whipped cream.”

Bruce laughed. Polly ignored him.

“Maren found out they offer automatic financial aid to single-parent families. With the aid it ends up costing less than the academic camps I go to all year,” she explained.

“Don't do it,” Luke said. “Run fast, run far. That's all I need at Westland, one more ass kisser making me look bad.”

“She plans on running for class president,” Bruce said.

“Oh great,” Luke said.

“They let you take fencing in gym class,” Polly said, speaking only to me, fed up with their lack of sincerity.

“They
let
you go to detention if you fail to report to study hall. Did the dean of students tell you about that?” Luke inquired.

“Bruce, will you please tell your friend to shut up? He's making me sick,” Polly said.

“Luke, shut up or she's gonna puke all over your bed.”

“It won't be pretty,” I said, joining in, biding my time until I could squire Polly away and ask what was going on.

The Greek God rolled his eyes.

Polly continued torturing Bruce with her concerns. She fired questions with calculated rhythm. I was afraid to interrupt for fear she'd slug me.

“Do you always have to wear uniforms? … What are the teachers like? … What time do morning classes start? … How long are holiday breaks? …”

I tuned out Bruce's answers and gazed at the Greek God's belongings. His room was a mess: clothes and sports equipment covered the floor. And then I zeroed in on something. Trent's Roger Maris baseball, in its plastic case, sat on Luke's bookshelf! My belly turned over and over again as I stared at it in disbelief.

What had he done?
I weighed my relationships with Trent and the Greek God mentally. Which one deserved my loyalty? Luke was good for kissing, but Coach was good for my game.

I would rather eat dirt than tell Coach of the
thievery—Coach was always on my side. When he drove me to tournaments he didn't complain about the traffic. If my cherry Slurpee happened to spill in his car, he never sighed or rolled his eyes or anything. When he threatened to make me run sprints it was because he
liked
me. He appreciated the way I hit a Penn ball over a three-foot-high net. He took pride in his stupid baseball. Why shouldn't he? It was his.

Yet I knew Luke hadn't taken it to hurt me. To Luke it was probably just another exciting event, like sneaking into the pool house, flipping off that guy at the 7-Eleven, or putting whipped cream on a car.

But still, it was
Coach's
ball. I had to get away and clear my head. “Luke, where's the bathroom?”

“Across from the study,” he said.

“I'll go with you.” Polly jumped up.

I knew she would. After mistakenly opening a linen closet, we managed to find it.

She squealed. “Look at the toilet!”

It was old-fashioned-looking. The tank was five feet above the seat and a pull chain caused it to flush. The air freshener smelled like oranges. She sat on the marble floor while I peed.

“Brandon is cute, huh?” she said.

“Did you see the baseball? Trent's baseball was on Luke's bookshelf. He stole it.”

“From the club? Wow!”

“I'm an accessory to a crime!” I said, and groaned. “Luke doesn't deserve such a great forehead.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

I flushed the toilet and joined Polly on the marble floor. My heart was heavy: partly about the baseball, and partly about her.

“Hall, you told me Luke swiped that candy bar, didn't you? You shouldn't be that stunned.”

“But this is my coach, Janie.”

“First you call me Luke, now I'm Janie? Who the heck is Janie?”

“She was—she is—a friend of mine, from tennis. I guess you remind me of her.”

“I could wear a name tag, if you want.”

“That won't be necessary.”

“You sure? Maybe you need glasses. Then I can call you Four Eyes. Or Four, for short.” She giggled.

“Polly?”

“Yes, Four?”

“I'm being serious.”

She saluted me as if I was her captain. “Yes, Four. We must be serious. Go ahead.”

Just when I thought I'd pinpointed who she was, she again wiggled free of my theories and became something
else entirely. First she was a math genius who claimed we were twins, then a parade director at my practice court, a boa-wearing chorus girl, an angel sent by Janie to save me, and finally a ghost sent by Janie to taunt me. And right now I felt I didn't know her at all.

“Polly,” I said quietly, “why are you applying to Westland? You'll be in math up to your eyeballs. You know that, right?”

Energy drained from her face.

“You're going to Westland on
purposed
I accused.

Her fingers tapped on the marble floor. One, two, three … one, two, three …

“Polly?”

She didn't turn from my eyes. “Because I like Bruce,” she finally said. “That's why. Come on, they're waiting. Let's have fun.”

I lay on the floor, pressing my cheek to the cool marble. It was silky smooth and surprisingly dirt-free. “There is no fun. I hate fun.”

Polly rested her hand on my head. “What's wrong?”

I wanted to tell her about Bickford, about how my life was over, about how I couldn't manage to hit a damn yellow ball over a net. I wanted to smack her for pretending her academic pressure equaled my tennis stress. It was such a betrayal. Her agony was clearly not that
overwhelming, not if it could be brushed aside so easily for the likes of Bruce Weissman. “Nothing's wrong,” I said.