Authors: Callie Wright
“Nice going,” said Alan Forrest, rotating his racket by slow half turns with a rhythmic flick of his wrist.
I jogged the perimeter of the fence in my jeans and moccasins, keeping one eye trained on Claw. During the preseason practices before spring break, he’d grudgingly tolerated my presence on the hill overlooking the courts and even let me squeegee the baselines before practice began, but with the official season under way, Claw seemed to have pegged me for a nuisance. Nonz would’ve told me to talk to him. Certainly that’s what Dad had advised. But the lineup was set. The best I could hope for now was co–team manager, helping Carl fill empty ball cans with water for the real players to drink from, and I didn’t want to be Sam’s water girl.
Technically CHS tennis was a boys’ team, but because there was no corresponding girls’ team, Title IX mandated that girls be allowed to try out for it, though hardly any did. All the tennis teams in our athletic conference worked this way, with anywhere from zero to two girls playing with and against boys whose skill levels ranged from “possible college competitor,” like our captain, Evan, to “backyard player,” like Alan Forrest, whose unorthodox ground strokes produced such dramatic sidespins that his returns occasionally bounced back over to his side of the net.
This year in our singles slots were Evan, Sam, and the German exchange student, Friedrich, whom we called Danke Schoen. In the doubles slots were Phillip and T.J., cousins who had been playing together since they were kids; and Alan and Doug, starters on the varsity football and basketball teams, who’d had convenient openings for spring sports. Alan and Doug were new to tennis, and with thick necks hammered into their shoulders, they looked wrong for the part, but they were athletic and quick and they’d beaten out Carl for a spot in the doubles lineup, and they might’ve beaten me, too.
After my penalty laps, I starfished on a patch of dry grass in the sun at Carl’s feet and we watched Sam hit approach shots on Court 1. Seven out of his first ten went long. “Adjust your backswing,” I called, and Sam shortened it up, and the next ten were perfect.
“What are we doing this weekend?” asked Carl.
“Who knows? We have four more days of school before then and I have detention tomorrow.”
“We could try to get the goods.”
Four wine coolers between us—that’s what it took Carl and me to get drunk.
“Okay,” I said.
“Policy,” said Carl. Then, “Want to come over tonight? We can study for the math quiz.”
“Is Sam going?” I asked.
“Doubt it,” said Carl. “He’s at his mom’s.”
Sam’s mom lived in Index, twenty minutes outside town; his dad’s house was just down the block from Carl’s. They’d bought him double sets of everything—two pairs of sneakers, two tennis rackets, two Nintendos—but still Sam forgot stuff when he switched houses, so there was at least a chance he’d be by Carl’s.
On the court, Sam practiced volleys with Danke Schoen. He stood with his knees bent, his right arm extended like a sword. Two weeks earlier there’d been snow on these courts and Claw had hauled everyone up here with shovels from his family’s hardware store to clear off months of crusty slush. Doug had taken a chunk out of the baseline on Court 2, leaving a black divot that now glinted in the sun.
I thought back to last summer, to the strip-poker tennis game that Sam and Carl and I had invented: whatever logos and labels we were wearing became our sponsors, and each time we lost a round-robin match we had to remove two items of clothing. Carl and I had arrived in track pants and sweatshirts, extra socks and wristbands, wilting in the August humidity, while Sam had made no special effort at all. In his Nike shorts and Nick Bollettieri T-shirt
,
he’d stripped us down until I was wearing only a sports bra and shorts while Carl wore his boxers and one sock and Sam stood on the other side of the net, fully clothed.
“OP,” I announced, shaking off the memory, and Carl and I skirted around behind the Womb, the miniature yellow school bus that Claw used to transport the team between school and practice. Carl lit us up and I inhaled deeply. Above us the sky was cartoonishly blue and I thought about summer, no school or practice, just Sam and Carl and me.
“Claw’s coming,” said Carl suddenly. I took a mind-numbing drag and mashed my OP on the Womb’s tire. Carl did the same and we hopped out from behind the bus in time to catch Claw peering around the bumper.
“What’re you two doing back here?” he said, smoothing his running pants. He was tall with orange hair and green eyes that went squinty when he was annoyed. “Were you smoking?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” said Claw. “Carl, go get your racket.”
Carl took off for the courts and I started to speak but Claw touched my shoulder and said, “What’s the plan here?”
I said nothing. The two things I wanted most in the world were here at Bassett Hall, and I was afraid I could have only half of either of them: not Sam’s girlfriend but his water girl; not a team member but a team manager.
“You can’t just hang out with the team all season,” said Claw.
On the courts at the bottom of the hill, Sam hit backhands: crosscourt, crosscourt, down the line. I was terrified of the things he wanted—the things I wanted, too. Girlfriend or random girl? Hanging out or just a kiss? Sam was a train zooming by and I couldn’t see my way on.
“So?” said Claw.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Claw shook his head, thinking I was being sarcastic, and it occurred to me that there are very few people who can hear us the way we want to be heard.
* * *
After practice, Sam and Carl came back to my house to pick up the Badass Scirocco Scirocco. It was still light out and we squeezed onto my porch swing, kicking off with our right feet, catching the ground on the way back with our left. Carl brought up the idea of getting the goods, and we agreed to take the BASS out Friday night and drive up Route 28 until Sam found a clerk willing to sell him our Seagram’s Wild Berries and his Natty Light. When the sun started to set, we swung without talking, the only noise a creak from the chain on Carl’s side that fired up when we pushed off. The last light cast our shadows across the painted porch floor, stretching Sam’s head to the opposite railing, and when we saw my mom’s car turn onto Susquehanna, we pushed harder, nearly tipping at the apex.
Mom waved as she shut off the engine, and all three of us waved back.
“Kids,” she said, hauling out her briefcase. “Time to say your goodbyes.”
We let the swing glide to a stop.
“See you tomorrow,” said Sam, pushing off my thigh and the armrest as he rose, and a shock bolted up my spine.
I followed Mom into the house, narrow and long with two staircases. Walking front to back we passed the living room, my mother’s study, and finally the kitchen, which fed into the den where Poppy was asleep, TV blaring, a blue light flickering over his skin.
“There’s Poppy,” I said.
Mom said nothing, only drifted back to the kitchen.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t had a second all day.” She glanced through the pantry. “Sloppy Joes?”
“Here,” I said, returning the seasoning mix to the pantry. “Let me.”
Mom drank white wine while I made a green salad with Nonz’s mustard vinaigrette and spinach quesadillas. The quesadillas were frying when Teddy and my father walked in.
“Hey, old girl,” said Dad, kissing my head. He wore khakis that were frayed at the hem along with his old running sneakers—clearly not a workday. An unidentifiable orange splotch had stained the pocket of his button-down shirt: Play-Doh or Gak. It had probably been there for ages.
“What’s the occasion?” asked Dad, pointing to the quesadillas.
“Poppy’s here.”
We all peered into the dark den, where Poppy was snoring.
“How’s he doing?” Dad whispered to my mother.
Mom shrugged.
“He watched
Jenny Jones
with us today,” I said.
“Nice, Julia,” said Teddy, but what was his problem? At least I’d been here.
“He liked it, okay?”
“That show’s total trash.”
“Kind of like Kim Twining?”
“Hey!” said Dad. “No fighting.”
Which was our cue:
Teddy said, “Crisscross, applesauce.”
I said, “One, two, three, eyes on me.”
Dad said, “Okay, okay.” He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose, the portrait of a school principal. It just so happened his was a preschool. “Now it’s time to play the quiet game.”
At the dinner table, we fell into our places—Dad at the head, Teddy against the wall across from me, and Mom to my right. Our table was the sanded and polished nine-foot barn door from Poppy’s childhood farm, which he’d saved and gifted to my parents when they moved back to Cooperstown. We tended to cluster at one end of the table but Poppy plunked himself down at the other head of the table—the foot, I guess—far from the action and the food.
“Poppy,” I said, waving him over.
“I can’t squeeze back there,” he said. “This’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, but Poppy.” We had a way of doing things—we had an end of the table where we sat—and everyone who came to dinner, which was mostly Carl and sometimes Sam, sat in the seat across from Mom.
“Why don’t you switch with me?” said Mom. “I’ll go next to Teddy.”
“I’m fine, Anne.”
Mom put up her palms as though she’d run into an invisible wall. If it weren’t for my father, we would’ve spread like roaches to eat alone in our favorite holes. Mom preferred the kitchen island, stooped over a legal brief. Teddy and I liked to split the purple couch, careful not to touch. Who knew what Poppy liked—he seemed miserable at our dinner table and given the chance probably would have scurried off to the TV in his room.
“So,” Dad began, “any second thoughts about the tennis team?”
“No,” I lied.
Teddy launched into a detailed description of his knuckleball, offering his sock for a demonstration, but Mom said no.
Suddenly Poppy cleared his throat and said, “I had no lunch today.”
“You did, Poppy. PB&J, remember?” But he wasn’t talking to me.
Mom apologized for not leaving him a sandwich and said she’d go to the grocery store tomorrow, but Poppy only shrugged.
“I don’t want to put you out,” he said.
“You’re not putting me out, Dad. I’ll get some of those soups Mom buys and whatever else you like.”
“I don’t know how to fix all that,” said Poppy.
Mom took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and I wondered if she was wishing Nonz were here as much as I was. The last time Nonz and Poppy had come over for dinner, he hadn’t had any problem sitting near us and when he’d needed something from the kitchen he’d walked right in and found it.
“Dad,” said Mom gently. “Hugh and I both work.”
Poppy pushed his plate away.
“Now you’re not eating,” Mom observed. “You just said you were hungry.”
“Never mind,” said Poppy. “I’ll be fine without.”
“Jesus, Dad—”
“Anne,” my father warned, and Mom shifted her gaze to him.
“What, Hugh?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Let’s try to be calm.”
God, did he never learn?
“‘Let’s?’” Mom repeated. “This isn’t preschool, Hugh. My father is an adult and if he can dish it out he can very well take it.”
Dad wiped his mouth and made a show of putting his napkin in his lap, carefully smoothing it so that he didn’t have to actually look at my mother when he said, “No, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. I just thought it’s his first day—”
Mom threw up her hands, frustrated. “Why is this my fault?”
I glanced at Teddy, who was picking a cuticle on his thumb.
“Anne,” said Dad.
“I’m exhausted!”
Her blue eyes, normally clear, were bloodshot, small pouches bagging under the lower lids. Suddenly Mom covered her face with her napkin, sour cream brushing into her hair; I’d never seen her cry and quickly looked away.
Dad jumped up from his chair while I scooted mine back. “Come on,” he said, helping Mom up. She was only a few inches shorter than he was but just then she looked like a child.
When they were gone, Teddy tossed his napkin on the table and in five long strides he was at the back stairs, climbing them two at a time.
Minutes passed. Poppy and I didn’t speak. Outside, it was nearly dark.
Poppy picked up his quesadilla and bit. His teeth chomped through the thin tortillas, wood knocking wood. My parents still hadn’t come back to the table and neither had Teddy, who flung himself out the front door soon after leaving me with Poppy.
“Why don’t you and Mom get along?” I asked.
Knock knock knock.
“Poppy?”
“Huh?”
“Why don’t—”
“We get along fine.”
I cleared the table—though technically it was Teddy’s turn—using my knife to scrape my mother and brother’s food onto my father’s plate, then stacking them all on mine. I reached for Poppy’s plate but he said he wasn’t finished.
I carried the dishes to the kitchen, where it was so dark I had to feel for the counter. I started to turn on the lights, then changed my mind. Teddy had the right idea. I left the dirty plates in the sink and headed for the front door.
Outside a cloud had swaddled the moon and the streetlamps barely lit the sidewalk. I walked down Susquehanna to Chestnut and over to Leatherstocking Street, where I entered Carl’s house through the backyard.
“Hey,” said Carl. “I thought you weren’t coming over.”
I eyed his plate. His mom went to a widows’ support group three nights a week and tonight she’d left him a feast to go with his TV.
“What is all that?” I asked.
“Steak, fries, Dr Pepper. We’re celebrating my return from Myrtle Beach. There’s more of everything in the kitchen. Bring the ketchup,” he called after me.
I served myself two steak strips and a handful of fries, but I wasn’t hungry.
“Where’s the ketchup?” I called, pawing through the refrigerator.
“Cabinet,” said Carl.
“Right.” In my house, ketchup was in the refrigerator but maybe it was like peanut butter and could go either way. I shut the fridge and opened the first cabinet next to the stove: spices, a pepper grinder, and a large orange pill bottle.