Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (13 page)

Greenlake. Chadwickians say it as if they’re spitting. It’s just another tennis school, but for some reason the folks here get all worked up about it. As if there’s some honor to defend when a student from one plays a student from the other. Like, “Hey, man! My academy rules your academy!”

They’d announced at breakfast that the “big” singles contest between Chadwick’s number one boy and Greenlake’s number one would be held at two o’clock, and everyone was pumped. I’ll confess: I was dying to see David Ross play. To see if he approached all the hype about him.

I was blown away. So were all the Chadwick fans. And the Greenlake reps. And, particularly, the poor Greenlake guy who had to play him. He didn’t win a single game, and the few
points he earned were on David’s errors. But other than a couple of errors, he was amazing. He had power. He had soft hands for the drop shots and short angles. He could pound indefinitely from the baseline, but he could finish at net. He had topspin. He had slice. He had a bullet of a first serve, and a mean kick-spin on his second serve. Most importantly, he was fit. The guy was practically dancing out there, that’s how fast he moved and positioned himself to hit the ball.

When it was over, he and the Greenlake dude came up to the Overlook for this little postmatch party. Everybody was cheering, patting both of them on their backs. But basically treating David Ross like a celebrity. Even his opponent acted like he wanted to hang out near him and soak up some of his aura.

I was standing off to the side, near the drinks table, watching this all play out, when for some reason he looked my way and our eyes met. Normally, when I’m looking at somebody and they catch me looking, I do the usual thing and … look away. But not that time. Something about him just pulled me in, held me there, and I felt my lips twist into this really stupid shape which I hoped resembled a smile. Must have been, because next thing I knew he was smiling back and walking right toward me.

Frozen, I watched him approach.

“Hey,” he said easily when he reached the table. He pulled a bottle of Poland Spring from a big bowl packed with ice. He unscrewed the cap. “It’s Henry, right?” he said.

“How do you know?” I asked, surprised.

“T-shirt night.” He smiled. “You had the best. ‘What Exit?’ I loved it.” He tilted his head back and took a long drink.

“Thanks,” I said, wondering what he would have thought of the shirt I hadn’t worn. Instead of Eva’s tomatoes I had opted for a tee that simply read “What Exit?” As in the Garden State Parkway. As in, “Hi, I’m from Jersey,” and the reply almost inevitably is “What exit?”

He hadn’t really participated in T-shirt night. Just wore a plain blue shirt and hung out on the periphery, watching. Laughing with everyone else, but mostly just watching.

“Awesome match today,” I said. Like he hadn’t already heard it forty times. Yes, I’m
that
original. He glanced quickly behind him. The paparazzi were closing in.

“Useless, actually,” he muttered to me.

“Huh?” I said. He frowned.

“Greenlake is a school. A real school,” he said. “They train people who want to play in college. And that guy is a year younger than me. It wasn’t a fair match.” Before I could ask him what he meant, the adoring crowd pressed in. He smiled at me once more, made this “oh well” sort of shrug, and moved to another end of the room.

As I’m leaving the Overlook now, just fifteen minutes shy of lights-out, something rustles on the stairs. Footsteps. I figure it’s maintenance, here to vacuum the celebratory confetti strewn everywhere and pick up crushed plastic cups. I head for the opposite stairway exit when someone clears his throat.

“Hey, what’s your hurry?”

It’s Jonathan Dundas. Aka, the Perv.

It hadn’t taken Jonathan Dundas long to convince every girl in the camp that he is totally bad news. Not simply full of himself: Dundas is a pervert. He makes a point of staring at your boobs if he’s talking to you. He’s let the “secret” out that he brought porn with him to camp. And he thinks it’s really funny to twist everything someone says into some sort of sexual reference. Like, the other day Yoly and I were at breakfast and she was telling me that it’s hard for her to hit a lofty ball with topspin.

“I like to hit a flat ball, low over the net,” she was explaining. “That’s always the way I’ve played. But these coaches want me to totally change my strokes.”

Dundas just happened to be sauntering by with his tray as she said this. He could barely contain the smirk on his face when he stopped at our table.

“I’ll show you some new strokes, Yolanda,” he leered.

I think my jaw dropped when he said that. Yoly, however, didn’t flinch.

“Beat it, perv,” she snapped, loudly. “Nobody loves you.”

He laughed, like he thought it was all some big joke, but he did move on, and found a seat at a table at the farthest corner of the room from us. Yoly leaned across the table.

“That is one bad dude,” she said, wagging her finger. “And let me tell you: I know bad dudes. I can smell them a mile off. There’s only one way to deal with them. Let them know that if they mess with you, you’ll cut off their
cojones.
”

“Their
what
?” I asked.

“Sorry. I keep forgetting you don’t speak Spanish. Their
balls.” Yoly looked at me with this dead-serious expression on her face, and for a moment I absolutely believed she was capable of the proposed surgery.

“Figuratively speaking,” she hastily added. Which made us both crack up.

So here I am, mere moments before lights-out, in a dimly lit, deserted room with an oversexed jerk. Great. Where’s a good, sharp scalpel when you need it?

“Uh, no hurry,” I say to him. “But it is almost lights-out. Good night.” I keep walking, but Dundas quick-steps across the room and is at my side before I’ve reached the stairs. I imagine this is how he covers the court, sprinting swiftly to catch short drop shots just before the second bounce.

His hand closes around my elbow.

“C’mon, Henry! No one checks rooms for, what? Another half hour? Let’s get acquainted.”

He’s tall. Way taller than me, and broad. Something catches in my throat. A panicky feeling I’ve never experienced before. It occurs to me that even if Jonathan Dundas is a jerk, he’s also a top-level athlete. The guy is jacked.

Time to rely on brains.

I glance quickly around, in search of an idea. I see a small couch, not far from the stairs.

“Why don’t we sit over there?” I say, smiling at him. I step toward the couch, pulling him with me, since he still has ahold of my elbow. His face relaxes into this confident grin. The way I imagine a hyena looks as it closes in on its prey. I’m thinking if I can get him to release his hold on my arm, I’ll
make a dash for it down the stairs. I’m thinking I’m pretty fast myself.

This, of course, is not what he’s thinking. He presses up next to me as we lower ourselves onto the couch. I feel his breath on my face when he speaks.

“So, what’re you doing up here all alone?” he asks.

God, he had the tacos for dinner. I think I’m gonna yak
.

“I come up here to call home. More private than the dorms, you know?” He laughs softly.

“Man, I never call home,” he says. “You must be one of those good girls, calling Mommy and Daddy.” He leans forward, his face brushing the hair behind my ear. I instinctively jerk back, but there’s not much room on the couch.

“Actually, I call my boyfriend. We’ve been going out for almost a year now and … uh, I’m really committed to him, Jon. I hope you haven’t gotten the wrong idea.”

Like, who would have given him any idea? I’ve barely spoken to this guy. What a perv!

Dundas is undeterred.

“C’mon, Henry. You’re what? A thousand miles from your boyfriend? What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Besides, I’ll teach you some things he’ll appreciate later. Trust me: the guy will be so thankful.” He leans forward again, lips parted, and takes aim at my neck.

Not often, but at key moments in my life, I am reminded that I am, indeed, Mark Lloyd’s daughter. Sometimes those are low moments, and I see things in myself of which I’m not particularly proud. Other times, I’m grateful that my father
has taught me to take garbage from absolutely, positively no one.

I curl myself into a little ball, plant both feet directly on Jon’s chest and push-kick him as hard as I can. He flies against the opposite arm of the couch, his eyes round and wide.

Hah. Take that, jerk. Bet now you’ll think twice before you hit on a girl who spends time in the weight room
.

I jump up, balling my hands into two fists.

“Dundas, you touch me again and I’ll kick you so hard you’ll be singin’ soprano.”

To my utter amazement, the guy grins.

“You’re a bad girl, Henry,” he says softly. “I like bad girls.” He jumps up from the couch, grabs my fists and pulls both of my arms behind my back. He presses his mouth against mine, and I can feel him trying to force my lips open. I want to scream, but the sound is muffled against his face. I am so mad. Scared, too, but mostly mad. I’ve never had a boyfriend. Never kissed a guy before, and now this? This creep is going to be my first kiss? I take aim with my knee.

Cojones
. The word flashes through my brain at the same moment that Jonathan Dundas crumbles. My new favorite Spanish word—thank you, Yolanda—surpassing even
taco
and
empanada
. An important word, and surprising, especially given Jonathan’s dramatic fall and the fact that I didn’t think I kneed him all that hard. But hey, whatever works, and I’m about to turn tail and run, when I see him. Standing over Dundas. As if
he
just delivered a blow.

David Ross, aka Little Andre. Wearing a look of pure fury.

“I think she said no,” he says quietly.

Jonathan rolls over, grimacing. His combined expression of pain and surprise is sweet to see as he struggles to stand up. He’s a big guy, Dundas. Bigger than David. But I can tell: he’s afraid of him.

“Hey, no worries, bro,” he says nervously. “Just a little misunderstanding. Everything’s cool. Right, Henry?”

I suddenly feel like I might throw up. All I want at this moment is to get as far away from Jonathan Dundas as possible. So I nod silently, look away and swallow hard.

“Okay, then, we’re good. Okay,” Dundas says uneasily. “I’ll be going then. Almost lights-out, you know?” He limps away from us, quickly, across the Overlook and down the stairs. David and I listen to his retreating footsteps, until we hear the clubhouse door open and shut. That’s when I yield to the weakness in my legs, and plop down on the couch. I hear this sound, like bees buzzing, and I put my head between my knees to ward off the faint that’s coming on.

A few minutes pass before the queasy feeling fades. When it does, I realize David is sitting beside me on the couch, his hand resting gently on my back.

“You okay?” he says when I glance up. He looks at me intently, a little frown forming between his eyes. I nod. He takes his hand from my back, and shifts, slightly, away from me. As if he’s trying to put a respectful distance between us.

“That guy? He’s a creep,” David says.

“Tell me about it,” I sigh. “He’s a stalker. He followed me up here.”

“Well, you were next on the Hickey Hit List,” David says matter-of-factly.

“The
what?
”

“Hickey Hit List. Dundas has made it his personal goal this summer to plant a hickey on every girl at camp. You were next in line.”

“And you know this how?” I demand. Outrage rises in me.

“Common knowledge,” David says, shrugging. “It’s all he’s talked about since camp started. The guy’s a vampire wannabe. Frankly, I think he should spend less time leaving his mark on the ladies and more time on his backhand. It sucks.”

I’m speechless as I try to absorb this open secret that all the guys seem to know. In my head I do an inventory of necks, trying to recall telltale bites.

“Listen, Henry,” David continues. “Warn your friends, then let it go. Dundas is a joke, okay? Someday he’ll play for a second-rate college, then run Daddy’s company and hit on all the women at his country club. End of story.”

A thought occurs to me.

“What are
you
doing up here?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you know he was going to follow me tonight? Or is this a coincidence?” David shrugs again.

“Let’s just say I’ve got your back, okay?”

I shake my head, still disbelieving. I don’t know what’s weirder: Dundas coming on to me, or David Ross looking out for me.

“You’re not stalking me, too, are you?” I ask. Half joking. I
see the color rise in his face. I don’t know him well enough to identify this as annoyance or a blush.

“Just doing my duty,” he replies lightly. “Like I said, you were next in line. Pretty typical. Kinda like your game.”

I freeze. An insult. Out of nowhere. Or is it?

“Excuse me? Are you dissing my game?”

“God, no. Don’t take offense, Henry. Typical at Chadwick is fairly good everywhere else.” He yawns. An exaggerated, I-don’t-care yawn. And for the second time that night, I feel capable of surgical excision. David stands. “We’d better get back to the dorms,” he says.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You don’t just lay that on me and walk away. Define ‘typical.’ ”

He’s not much taller than me, and as he stands there, his hands buried in the big, loose pockets of his wrinkly cargo shorts, his mouth a bare suggestion of a grin, I feel this horrifying urge to … kiss him. To wipe the smirk off his face with my lips.

Is it possible to want to kill a guy and kiss him at the same time? Something is seriously wrong with me.

“You’re a grinder, Henry. You’ve got solid strokes and an overall good game. But basically, you win off other people’s errors. You grind ’em with consistency.” He says this coldly. Analytically, all teasing gone from his voice.

“You mean
force
other people’s errors,” I correct him.

“Force, wait around, get lucky,” he says impatiently. “Whatever. Fact is, it’ll only get you so far. If you want to dominate at this level, you have to hit put-away winners.”