Open Court (20 page)

“So let's go,” she said, opening the door.

It wasn't Polly and me against some big force. It was me. I was all alone.

Quieted, we walked to Luke's room.

“What, you guys fall in?” Bruce asked.

I sidled up to Luke. I rested my hand on his back for a moment and then dug my fingernails into his shoulder and watched him flinch, wondering how I was going to get Coach's baseball returned. Then I ran my knuckle down his backbone as hard as I could.

Luke shrieked like a girl. “I'd like to keep my spine if you don't mind.”

The Kimberlins’ garage door opened, rattling. Luke was stricken. “That's my parents, they're home early.”

Bruce bolted up, scrambling.

“We'll go out the back,” I said to Polly.

“You have to or I'll get grounded,” Luke said, waving for us to hustle.

Polly, Bruce, and I escaped, charging down the hall.

I
found Trent in his office, doing paperwork. He was abruptly excited, joy-filled, like a kid at a birthday party. Cheer swept his face, and as always, I had to restrain myself from touching my fingers to his temple. Damn, I wanted some of that cheer. Part of him probably wished
he
was the player and the academy had brought
him
to Florida. He loved the game that much.

“So, are you going to tell me about Bickford? How was the place?”

My mom hadn't told Trent the news of my Bickford scholarship—said it was my responsibility. It was hard enough to look at the merriment on his face; if I told him the news, he'd get ecstatic and I'd start crying or something.

“Hall? How was the place?”

I tried to be polite. “This one girl, Millicent, she could play for sure. Turning pro soon. Mopped up the court with me.”

“You could use a good beating on court. Keeps you motivated.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“They churn out some top players. Forget about your USTA ranking—you'll get some real experience playing foreign tournaments. Rack up an international ranking in no time.”

“I know.”

“It's a good program—good results.”

“So why don't you go there?” I spat.

He didn't catch it. “What were the grounds like?”

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and remained mute. Fate taunted me, ridiculed me. The back of my neck burned. I felt like Coach was trying to get rid of me or something.

“Hall? The grounds? I meant to have you take some pictures so that Annie and I could see—”

“Who cares about the grounds?” My shrill voice blindsided him. “Haven't you got anything better to do than worry about my tennis game?”

“Hall, what are—”

“Seriously, is that what you do all day? Figure out
how to make me a star in order to make yourself look good? Teach me the game so you can have a claim on me along with everyone else? I can't stand you.”

Coach studied the cap of his pen, dulled by my outburst. A long silence ensued.

“I've been your coach since you were nine.”

I said nothing.

“I want nothing but for you to have as much joy playing tennis as people have watching you play. The crowd
anticipates
you, Hall. You step on the court, and there is
respect.
You don't see it because you're focused on the task at hand, but I see it.”

“I'm not in the mood for one of your stupid pep talks.”

He placed his hand on his shaved scalp as if to comfort himself. By questioning his intentions, I'd damaged him somehow. And it felt good. Nobody understood me.

I looked at a framed picture on his desk. It was of the two of us at the Junior Orange Bowl last year. I'd just won. The smile on his face was bigger than the one on mine. I was a selfish, selfish girl—stomping on his cheer after all he'd done for me—and I didn't care.

I wanted to hurt him. Wanted to slug him or tip his chair over and watch him fall on his ass. I wanted to make him cry so he'd know how I'd felt all summer,
pounding balls over a net, unable to hear his voice, afraid.

Coach pushed aside his papers, mulling my expression. “Braxton?” he said, looking perplexed.

My heart crumbled; big hunks of it melted into the bottom of my shoes. I was the most awful girl in the whole world.

“I understand,” he said.

I shook my head. “You couldn't possibly.”

“This has nothing to do with tennis. You can be weak, or you can stand up and be the woman you know how to be. It's your choice. Do what you have to do.” His hand was glued to his head. Fingers as big as sausages. “No one wants to hear you complain about being gifted. I didn't give you wings so you could live in a cage.”

“So I'm a bird now?”

“You can fly, Hall. As sure as I'm sitting here, you can fly.”

I ran my hand over his thick mahogany desk. The wood was far smoother than my skin. My naked palm was the callused and rough hand of a workman or lumberjack. For weeks now, no matter what I was doing—eating a grapefruit, brushing my teeth, making my bed—it felt like I had my favorite stick in my grip. It
wasn't a racquet anymore; it was an extension of my arm. Tennis was so infused in me I had no clue where it stopped and I started.

Trent navigated us into safer waters. “The grounds?” he said for the third time. “What were they like?”

The man never let up. I was too exhausted to fight. “Uncle,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.” There was no reasoning with him. “Well, let's see, urn … the courts were spotless. Clay, hard court, grass too. They have an in-house rehabilitation center.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. Have they called since you've been back? I tried contacting them, but it seems everyone of importance is at a tournament in Boca Raton. Did they say they'd stay in touch?”

“I don't know,” I lied. “Haven't heard from them.” I got quiet. “Don't you want to be my coach anymore? Trent? Why can't you be my coach?”

Trent swallowed hard. His eyes got watery, though a tear didn't dare fall. “They can take you places I can't. We don't even have grass courts to practice on, much less clay. You'll flourish in their environment.”

“No, Coach, no—”

“I'll be your coach in here,” he said, thumping his heart. “Always.”

He looked as if he might hug me, but it wasn't in his nature to go around hugging people. Without thinking, I touched my fingers to his temple and felt that fine cheer beneath his skin. He didn't mind.

“You're a fantastic person, Hall. Don't let anyone tell you different.”

“They said I have a good coach,” I said weakly.

Trent folded his large arms and bellowed out a chuckle.
“Only
good? You set them straight, right? Told them I'm the
best,
didn't you?”

“Oh, Coach.”

A country club employee popped his head into the office, knocking on the door once to get Trent's attention. “I asked Nelson if he's seen it, but he swears he hasn't. Bet one of those thug lifeguards swiped it as a joke.”

“Probably. That's what I get for bragging about it all the time. It'll turn up. Thanks for asking Nelson, though,” Trent said.

“No problem,” the guy said, waving a quick goodbye.

“What's that about?”

“My baseball is missing—probably Finnegan from bookkeeping, now that I think about it. The guy's a prankster, thinks he's a comedian.”

His missing baseball. Ugh.

Trent shuffled papers. “Let's get on the court.”

I just couldn't. “Nah, I don't feel well. I'm gonna call my mom to pick me up.”

“There's work to be done. You can't run from tennis, Hall. Tennis isn't the enemy. You run
to
tennis, not away.”

“You can't tell me what to do,” I said.

He looked me in the eye. “You're right, I can't. But I'll see you on court in ten minutes anyway.”

In the deserted locker room, I sat on the sink counter and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I was an average girl: not pretty, not ugly. Hair the color of mud, limbs thin and lanky. A wisp of a girl, as my mom often says. Only my tennis racquet hinted at splendor.

Trent's voice was gone forever. Of this I was certain. It troubled me every second of the day.

I had to find a new way.

Nothing turned out like I planned. I doubted Eve would ever speak to me again. At the moment, Luke was a fraud. Polly wrongly claimed we were twins. But she was bullied into achieving something she never wanted—just like Janie—and it had nothing to do with me. No one forced me to play tennis. I played for myself. Always had. Sure, expectations were there, everywhere. But I chose this game.

I wanted this.

I arranged my zinc oxide containers in front of me like a paint set. Dipping my finger into the white, I covered my nose until no skin showed through. Like a football player, I made one line below each eye.

With purple zinc, I placed six perfect dots above my eyebrows and one on my chin. Yellow lines ran down my cheeks. My reflection transformed. I couldn't see my stick limbs or mud-colored hair. Couldn't tell if I was pretty. All I saw was a warrior. Not someone's daughter. Not someone's friend. An Amazon armed with a racquet. A girl who played to win.

As I exited the locker room something inside me broke. Joseph Bickford's words besieged my mind …
The battle is in you. True champions aren't afraid to lose. That's why they win …

I needed tennis. It was a lie to pretend I didn't.

People call me a champion, a warrior. They're wrong. I'd trusted Trent's voice would make me win instead of allowing myself to become a real champion.

True champions aren ‘t afraid to lose.

Tennis pushes: push back or accept defeat.

I wanted to love this game again.

The squeaking gate of court 3 announced my arrival. Trent squinted, not knowing what to make of the
warrior paint. He said nothing. I motioned for Skittish Helper Guy to start the ball machines. “Turn them both on. Put the levers on high.”

“With two it'll be too fast. Won't stand a chance,” Skittish Helper Guy said.

“Put the levers on high,” I said again.

He looked to Trent.

Trent stared at the battle paint on my face. “Do what she wants,” he said. Intrigued, he sat down, his bellowing voice silenced.

Penn balls launched from the mouths of the machines. Rhythmically. One after the other. Hard. With wicked minds. Evil intentions. Intimidating me. Taunting, spitting. Screaming,
You can't hit me…

But I can. I can. I will. I missed one, then two. A third cleared the fence.

…
you can't hit me
…

But I will. Can. I closed my eyes for a second, focusing. Four, five, six balls passed. Looking around hungrily, I defied anyone to say a word.

Objects and people around me blurred, sounds ceased. Heartbeats thundered in my chest. The zone was near. I had the choice. I could give into the pressure and have a breakdown, right here on the court like Janie Alessandro. Insanity would be the easy way out. Or I
could hit the hell out of this next ball, go to Bickford, and give myself to tennis.

“I am Holloway Braxton, and I play to win.”

“What?” Skittish Helper Guy hollered.

I snapped myself further into a deep focus. My guts burned, gurgled. A great rumble of water, a river, sprang forth in my belly, waking me, shaking me, scalding my insides.

The machine released a ball from its mouth. Spinning, spinning, it sailed over the net, spinning, spinning. I ran across court, brought my racquet back …

Slam the ball,
a voice said.
You know how to do this. This is easy.

It wasn't Trent's voice inside my head, it was
mine.

Slam the ball,
my voice demanded.
Push, try… slam the ball
…

The court opened.

My
world
opened.

I swung with all my might. The blur of yellow, smacked senseless by my racquet, flew over the net, deep to the left corner, for a winner.

It was beautiful. My God, the beauty.

“Yes!” I screamed. “Perfection.”

I hit another ball. And another. On the line. In the corner. Backhand. Forehand. Slice. Crosscourt. Down
the line. Overhead. Volley. Chip and charge. Attack the net. Again. Again. Zen. Win!

I turned to Trent. Speechless, he clapped ferociously as he laughed and laughed.

I put my hands to my knees, catching my breath. I couldn't put it off any longer. I'd avoided it all summer. It was time. “Hey, Coach. Want to go on a field trip?”

He got confused, glanced at his watch. “We're not done yet.”

“I'm not asking, Coach. I'm telling.”

He stared at me from across court, alerted to the moment, alerted to my freedom,
alerted.
He nodded. “OK, Braxton, let's go.”