Authors: Callie Wright
“We’re just friends,” I said finally.
“Do you like him?” asked Katie.
“Do you guys hook up?” asked Em.
I held the Frisbee in front of me like it was a plate I was afraid to break. In the last few months, Sam had found at least as many reasons to brush up against me as Carl had, and he’d called at night without even the pretense of homework, and in the dark on the path down to the tennis courts the night before, I had to believe that he’d been trying to tell me that he liked me, too, Sam did, it had to be.
“Do you?” asked Em again.
“No,” I said.
“Then you’re not going out,” she said.
Miss Horchow blew her whistle and Em staked our cone near a rickety goalpost still used for youth soccer games. It was the same field we’d played on when we were little, Em and Katie and me in the backfield, goals scoring one after another while Katie’s dad screamed his head off from the sideline and we made daisy-chain crowns for our heads. The field had stayed the same size but we’d grown up, gone coed.
Back in the locker room, Em did an impression of our elementary school gym teacher pulling us up by our ponytails to correct our postures. I laughed, wondering if maybe I’d missed them after all, and then the bell rang for third period and I asked if I could eat lunch with them later that day.
“I have rehearsal,” said Em apologetically. “We eat in Mr. Drury’s room. And Kaaaay-teeeee—”
“Shut! Up!” said Katie.
“Katie has lunch in Luke’s big, huge—”
Katie clamped a hand over Em’s mouth and then their hands and arms were intertwined, their long hair masking each other’s faces, their voices lashing at each other’s unfinished sentences. I tried to follow, I wanted to get the joke, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying, and after a while I got bored and wandered away.
The rest of the day passed quickly—no one spoke to me, and I spoke to no one. At lunch I sat by myself in the corner of the cafeteria and worked on the
Daily Star
crossword puzzle. Halfway through the period, our lunch monitor asked me where my friends were, and I looked over my shoulder and saw that they weren’t at our table. “Did something happen?” she asked. I stared at her blankly, then shook my head no.
After school I went to the gym to wait for Claw to bring the Womb around—without a ride to Bassett Hall, I’d have to take the team bus. It was strange to be spending so much time by myself. I tested my voice on Claw, told him I hadn’t brought my tennis clothes, and when we got to the courts, he sent me home to change.
Back at Bassett, I joined the drill line behind Alan, who was six foot four, our center forward, and an excellent barrier to Sam and Carl.
“What are you doing?” asked Alan.
“Practicing,” I said.
Doug snorted. “This should be interesting,” he said.
At three thirty, Claw dragged the hopper of tennis balls to the middle of Court 1 and called for everyone’s attention. “Evan,” he said, pointing to the baseline. “Ground stroke, approach shot, volley.” Nothing about my unexpected participation. “Ready?”
He fed Evan three balls and we watched our captain pound three straight into the back fence.
“Evan,” Claw groaned.
“Sorry,” he said, scuffing his toes on the dark-green surface.
“End of the line,” said Claw, and practice was under way.
Next up was Sam, who advanced on the ball, kissed the sideline with a topspin forehand, then picked up Claw’s short ball at the T and hooked it into the deep ad court. At net, he finished with a slice volley to Claw’s feet, impossible to return, and jogged away, satisfied.
This was what practice would’ve been like if I’d tried out, if I’d made the team—someone behind me said, “Your turn,” and I stepped to the baseline and crouched low. Claw fed me a forehand and I looped the ball down the line, sailing it just long. Eventually I would’ve gotten better, started making my shots, reducing my unforced errors. I approached the net and punched a volley crosscourt.
“Back of the line,” said Claw.
I went to the back of the line. Sam and Carl were right in front of me but it was also like we’d never met and I didn’t watch to see how they played; I didn’t want to know.
“Points,” said Claw, when he introduced the next drill. “Play them out. We’ve got our first match tomorrow. Settle in, think about your footwork, think about your placement. Hit high-percentage shots and control the play.”
I listened to the sounds of the points, and as the rallies went on I found that I could identify the shots by the pitch they made coming off the strings. I’d hear a solid
thunk
and feel my feet backing me up to the baseline. An uncertain
thwink
brought me up to the T. But when my turn came, I fluffed the first feed into the net.
“Concentrate,” said Claw.
I stepped in and took the second feed on the rise, moving it deep into the forehand court nearly beyond Claw’s reach. He scrambled over in carioca step and uncoiled a one-handed backhand lob, a bit of a desperation shot that fell short of the T. The point was mine to win, and I moved in to crush it, plowing it instead into the net.
“Dammit!” I yelled.
“Language,” said Claw. He pointed to the gate and I trolled out for five penalty laps. It was the kind of thing Sam and Carl and I would’ve laughed about, but we didn’t even look at one another.
At five fifteen, Claw called for suicides. Sideline to center line and back, sideline to opposite sideline and back. Repeat five times.
I ran as if I were being chased. My lungs heaved and my legs were jelly, but I willed myself in—third after Phillip and Evan—collapsing at the baseline on Court 1.
“Nice,” said Claw, clapping. He stood with his fingers laced through the chain-link fence. His cheeks and nose were sunburned, his millions of freckles colored in. “Get a water break if you need one.”
No one moved. The sun danced on the court, breaking through the pine trees in wobbly yellow lines. I looked up, cupping my hands around my eyes like blinders until all I could see was sky.
“Okay,” said Claw, “listen up.”
We spun to face him. Sam sat cross-legged at the front of the group, his arms locked at his sides, his shoulder blades jutting out like wings under his T-shirt. Far to the right, Carl hunched with his elbows on his knees.
“We have our first match tomorrow,” said Claw. “For those of you who don’t remember or weren’t here, Sauquoit beat us last year, and all their players are back.”
“Great,” said Evan. “I get the paddy-baller again.”
“What do you do with junk balls?” asked Claw. “You attack. Hit the ball out in front of you; use heavy topspin. And come to net.”
“Except I can’t volley,” said Evan.
“You were swinging up there today. Punch it. Shorten your backswing on your approach shot.”
Evan nodded.
“Sam,” said Claw. He scanned the group until he found him. “What’s the plan?”
“Hit a massive serve.”
“Right,” said Claw. “Then concentrate on holding.”
Sam nodded, and Claw pointed to Danke Schoen.
“Friedrich,” he said. “You feel good?”
“Yes
,
” said Danke Schoen, nodding.
“Doubles,” said Claw. “Phillip and T.J.?”
“Locked up,” they said in unison.
Alan and Doug high-fived and agreed they were ready to go.
“Okay. Announcement,” said Claw. “There’s going to be an exhibition match tomorrow, so everyone plan to stay. Julia and Carl.” My stomach dropped, then rose, as I calculated, computed. Sam turned to face me, asking me with his eyes if I’d known about this, and I shook my head no.
“Carl,” Claw continued, “you’re trying out Julia for the team. If she wins, she’s on.”
“What if she loses?” asked Carl.
“If she loses, she’s off.”
It was a fair deal. I tried to catch Claw’s eye but he was already collecting the equipment, his hand on the hopper. “Anyone coming with me,” he said, “get on the bus. The rest of you, see you tomorrow at three o’clock.” Soon the Womb was motoring off toward Beaver Street and Sam and Carl and I were alone.
Carl said, “I’m not going to let you win.”
“I know.”
He walked over to the bench to collect his sweatshirt while Sam scooted closer to me.
“Hey,” he said.
“You’re speaking to me again?”
“That was more Carl,” said Sam.
“It was you, too.”
Sam ran a hand over his buzzed hair. “An exhibition match between you and Carl,” he said, considering it. “You could win, you know? You played really well today.” I felt a thaw pass into my stomach and legs. Sam stood and dusted off his shorts. “Want a ride?” he asked, and I started to say yes but then I remembered that he’d have to drop me off first.
“I’ll walk,” I said. Sam took a ball from his pocket and threw it at me, and I caught it and kept it, bouncing it on the sidewalk on the way home.
* * *
At 59 Susquehanna, both my parents’ cars were in the driveway and I steeled myself for their iciness but instead found Mom and Dad huddled with Poppy around the kitchen island, Mom gripping the cordless phone, her face ash gray.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Have you seen your brother?” she asked.
“No.”
“He cut school,” said Dad. “He didn’t show up for practice.”
I studied Dad’s face. He looked tired, dark shadows circling his eyes. His cowlick was sticking up like he hadn’t combed his hair in days.
“How do you know he cut school?” I crossed the kitchen to the cabinet and got out a glass.
Mom nodded toward Poppy. “Your grandfather told us.”
“The school called this afternoon,” said Poppy officiously. “I said, ‘Mrs. Hoeke, I’m going to hang up this phone right now and I’m going to call his mother.’”
Mom turned to me. “Did you know anything about this?”
I shook my head, filling my glass at the tap. If Poppy was answering the phone, our fail-safe plan to erase the answering machine before our parents heard the school’s message was shot. Even so, Teddy should’ve been home by now.
Mom studied my face. “What?” she said.
“Nothing.”
Dad stood, scraping the legs of the stool against the polished wood floor, then started toward the back stairs.
“Where are you going?” asked Mom.
“To shower. I can’t think straight.”
We listened to Dad’s footsteps on the stairs, over the kitchen, over the hallway.
Mom said, “Did you see your brother at school?”
“We walked in together.”
“And he didn’t say anything about cutting?”
I shook my head again, a weight settling in my stomach. Even if I told them where he’d gone, that didn’t explain where he was now. Teddy and Dave should’ve been back hours ago.
Mom scooted past me, pulling a bottle of wine out of the fridge and uncorking it with a pop. I watched the buttery liquid flood her glass, sloshing up the sides and settling near the rim.
Before taking a sip, Mom pushed her hair back with both hands, giving herself a mini face-lift. Suddenly her brow was smooth and the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes disappeared, and she looked young. It was weird to think she’d been my age once, that she’d grown up here, gone to school here, had some friends but not a boyfriend, same as me.
“Are you really worried?” I asked.
“What do you think?”
I shrugged. “He’ll come home soon.”
“He’s never done anything like this,” said Mom, and it was true. The very fact that he’d skipped baseball practice was enough to make you think he was pinned under the wheels of a bus somewhere.
I took the long way to my bedroom, pausing in Mom’s office to grab the phone book, then hightailed it upstairs. On my bed, I flipped to the Bs and used my Swatch phone to dial Dave’s number. When his mother answered, I told her who I was and asked to speak to Dave.
“Is he home?” asked Dave as soon as he came on the line.
“I thought he was with you.”
“He was,” said Dave. “We went to Albany, and then on the way home he jumped out of the car. I’m not kidding. Outside Cherry Valley. That was, like, one thirty.”
I held my breath. It was past six now. In an hour, it would be dark.
“Julia?”
“Did you try looking for him?”
“He took off.”
“Why would he do that?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” said Dave. “I thought maybe he was upset about selling his baseball cards. Or just sick of me.”
I said nothing and Dave said nothing. We’d known each other for ages but we’d never spoken on the phone and I was eager for it to be over.
“We could go look for him,” Dave suggested.
I pictured Dave’s blue Saab and the two of us inside it.
“I don’t think I can,” I said. “My parents are really worried.”
“Do they know he was with me?” asked Dave.
“No.”
Dave paused, then said, “You should probably tell them.” Before I could hang up, he said, “Julia, would you want to do something this weekend?” He cleared his throat. “Like, go to dinner? Or there’s kind of a cool art museum in Utica.”
I tried to picture Dave opening the car door for me, buying my museum ticket, then kissing me on my front porch at the end of the night, but I couldn’t see it, not the way I could see Sam. “I have a boyfriend,” I said, willing it to be true.
“Oh,” said Dave. “Right. Well, tell Teddy to call me.”
“I will.” I hung up the phone and counted to ten, then went downstairs to confess.
“Wait,” said Mom. She went to get Dad, leaving me in the kitchen with Poppy. He licked his lips with saliva so thick that I could hear it on his tongue, and when he shifted on his stool, his arm skin flaked onto the island.
“Okay,” said Mom, returning with Dad in tow. “Let’s hear it.”
I told them everything: Rick Delaney, the Wrangler, Dave, the baseball cards, the trip to Albany, Teddy running off into the woods, my promise not to tell.
“He just jumped out of the car?” asked Mom.
“I guess.”
“Where?” asked Dad.
“Dave said Cherry Valley.”
“Cherry Valley?” Dad repeated, alarmed.
Mom looked up.
“Maybe I should go after him,” he said, already moving toward the door. “He can’t be far.”