Jersey Tomatoes are the Best (16 page)

Watch it, Henry
.

“Thanks, David,” I manage to say. “See you tomorrow.”

He treats me to one more smile before turning, and then … his eyes drop. To my chest. During our conversation, I’ve inadvertently lowered the covers.

“Nice shirt,” he says, then walks out, quickly.

Forget what I just said. I hate him.

Chapter Sixteen

T
he annex hums, like a hive. I’ve never lived anywhere besides our colonial on four-fifths of a wooded acre, so signs of life from other floors seem strange to me. I want to concentrate on my book (Henry’s mom gifted me with a stack of new paperbacks; she knows I love to read), but I’m distracted by strains of music. Canned sitcom laughter. Doors slamming.

While most of the other students, like Marguerite and Co., live in the dorms adjacent to NYSD, the annex is home to the “overflows.” The building screams sixties, and what might have seemed “mod” back then just looks tacky and cheap now. But it’s clean, and you have to buzz to get in, and there’s a doorman who keeps vigil all night. Dad spent about an hour talking to him about crime in the neighborhood.

He didn’t want me to board. Was dead set against it, in fact, he and Rhonda having their first-ever “ballet fight” over this move to the annex. Unlike the Lloyds, who seem to squabble constantly over what’s best for Henry, my parents are usually on the same page. The Rhonda page, that is.

After we unpacked all my stuff, he and I had a rare minute alone.

“House is going to be quiet without you,” he said. He looked grim.

“Hey, you’ve still got Rhonda,” I said. Trying to tease a smile out of him. But he wasn’t having any of it. He cleared his throat.

“Eva, promise me you’ll eat properly.” I stiffened.

“Of course,” I replied quickly. He shook his head.

“No, don’t just say ‘of course.’ Promise me. You know what I’m talking about. I don’t want you dieting while you’re here.”

God, why can’t everyone just get off my back? GET OFF MY BACK!

“Daddy, don’t worry about me, okay? I’m not stupid.” I willed my face into a relaxed smile. I stifled the scream building inside me. He sighed. He didn’t look convinced.

“Honey, if you need anything … anything, don’t hesitate to call. Even if you just want to talk. I’m here for you.”

Something inside me threatened to break. I could. I could tell him. Anything, really. He’s always been that sort of dad. The big-bear-hug type. The listening, smiling type. I just don’t have the words. If only I could start, with one word.…

God, you are SUCH a baby! Grow up, you homesick little loser, and let the poor man go home. Get them out of here and stop being such a wimp
.

“I know, Daddy. I love you.”

Go. Go now, please
.

After they left, I curled up in my bed and fell instantly
asleep. At some point I heard the door open and close, and my roommate, a dancer named Hannah, came in. Whispering voices, rustling, as she searched for her ID card. You need to bring your ID to the canteen. When she came back, about an hour later, I was sitting up in bed, reading, and she invited me to go down to the common room to watch TV. She and a little clutch of friends have some show they all watch together on Saturday nights.

That’s okay. I’m waiting to hear from Henry.

Today was the day she played that Jon guy, the full-of-himself hottie who turned out to be a stalker. And the day she spent the morning hitting with the school star, David Something-or-Other, who they all call Little Andre. But apparently not to his face. Henry says she doesn’t think he has a clue that he’s known as Little Andre. I wonder if she’ll tell him.

’Cause she’s crushin’. Big-time. I’ve never heard her sound like this. Almost … girly. Giggly. Henry is no giggler, let me tell you, so something’s up.

She’s also no early riser, so when my cell went off at seven this morning, I knew it had to be immense.

“Eva, it’s Hen. Did I wake you?”

“No, I’ve been up for hours. I mean, it’s Saturday morning. I wouldn’t dream of sleeping in.”

“I’m sorry! I kept trying you last night, but your cell was off and the home number was busy! I think your phone was off the hook.”

“Might as well have been. Rhonda was dialing the entire
New York metro area with the latest news. But let’s not go there. What’s up?”

Then the blizzard. A blizzard of words from my usually not-so-forthcoming-when-it-comes-to-guys friend. True, it was all mixed up with the usual tennis talk, but what came through loud and clear to me was that Henriette Lloyd, Most Lethal Teen Girl Athlete in the Garden State, was seriously smitten.

“Is he cute?” I interrupted. She was describing, for the umpteenth time, how embarrassed she was when this guy picked up a bra she’d left on the floor.

“What?” she said.

“This Little David guy. Is he cute?” She giggled.

“It’s Little Andre, and his real name is David,” she says. “And yes. Very.”

“How cute? Mike Adams cute?” I decided to run through our list of high school hotties.

“Cuter, but shorter.”

“Jon Dundas cute?”

“Yuk. I can’t think of Dundas as cute anymore. Too pervy.”

“Joey Wilson cute?”

“No, more like Troy Blaine cute.”

“Hen, they’re the same kind of cute.”

“No. Joey is like a good boy who dresses up as if he’s taking a walk on the wild side, but he’s not really. Troy is truly, deeply rebellious. Joey is a match that just went out. Troy is hot coals.”

“My god, Hen. Poetry! What’s gotten into you?”

“Eva … I like this guy.”

“I can tell.”

“No, I mean, I
like
this guy.”

“Be careful, Henry.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you like him.”

Then off she went, to meet him for breakfast and a little carbo loading. I imagine the two of them tucking into bucket-sized bowls of hot cereal, then jet-propelling themselves to the tennis courts, where they slam balls at each other for hours. Sweat pouring off their bodies. Calories burning. It doesn’t matter what Henry eats. She burns it right up.

I told her to call me on my cell, tonight, after her match. She was so busy gushing about the Little David guy that I didn’t have a chance to tell her about my big move to the annex. But I’ll tell her when she calls tonight. Which should be pretty soon. Her match started at seven; it’s already eight-thirty.

I reread the paragraph I’ve already reread. I am amazed at how my eyes can scan, and in some compartmentalized way comprehend, words, while another part of my brain races off in a completely different direction. I see the words on the printed page, but I’m thinking:
Someone is making microwave popcorn
. The fake, super-buttery smell oozes beneath my door. My stomach roars in response, and I have this urge to hurl the book against the door. I can’t read with all this noise.

I jump off the bed, lie on the floor and begin crunching. Fingers laced behind my head, knees bent, I curl and touch one elbow to the opposite knee. Uncurl, lie flat, breathe. One.
Then crunch up again, this time touching the other elbow to the other knee. Uncurl. Two.

Your stomach is so flabby. What did you do today? Anything? Oh, yeah, right: you carried a couple of duffel bags from the car and heaved them into the elevator. Some exercise, you slug
.

Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. My abs begin to burn. Just a little.

Did you know that every time you walk, you jiggle? All that loose flesh hanging off you, pouches of fat, jiggling with each step
.

I keep counting. The television sounds far away now. The elevator down the hall dings. Doors slide open. The girdle of muscle that wraps around my lower back, connects with my abs, is on fire. Forty-five. Forty-six. Forty-seven.

You are so out of shape. Push through this, you wimp. You fat wimp
.

Sixty. Sixty-one. Sixty-two.

Someone bangs on my door. I hear girls’ voices.

“Eva? Hey, knock knock!”

Marguerite. I hold my breath, hold my bent knees, mid-crunch, suspended. Word travels fast. I’ve been in the annex, what? Five hours? And already she’s tracked me down.

“She must be out,” I hear. Anna. Are they all there? The three of them must be handcuffed together. Another knock.

“Eva?” Then the sickening sound of a hand rattling the doorknob, and I realize, too late, that it never occurred to me to lock my door. I jump up from the floor, and when the fluorescent light from the hallway pours inside, I’m standing. I wipe beads of perspiration off my upper lip.

“Oh, hey! There you are! Were you asleep or something?” Two of them: Marguerite and Anna. They walk in.

“Sort of,” I say. “I was reading, and drifted off. What’s up?”

They both settle, uninvited, on my bed. Which I had just made, the blankets stretched tight and perfectly flat across the mattress.

“Welcome to the neighborhood is what’s up!” Marguerite exclaims. “We heard about you at dinner. Why didn’t you tell us you were moving in?”

“We only got the call last night that space opened in the annex.” I sit. On the floor. I spread my legs in a V and stretch, gripping one heel with both hands and pressing my forehead against my knee.

“So that must have been what Madame wanted to talk to you about on Friday afternoon,” she says. Half question, half statement. Of course she wants to know. That’s why she’s here. Screw the welcome-committee thing: Marguerite needs info.

“Yup,” I say into my leg. This would be so weird for anyone who is not a dancer. But if you have muscles like overused rubber bands, it’s perfectly acceptable. This girl I knew at Sonia Fleisch’s would interrupt herself, midsentence, face the wall, place one heel against it at about shoulder height, then slide, slide, slide forward until both legs were splayed flat. A perfect split from a standing position.

Anna joins me on the floor. She opens her legs wide, until they form a straight line with her torso smack dab in the middle. She leans forward and touches her forehead to the ground. Meanwhile, Marguerite checks out my room. Her eyes light on
the framed photos I’ve arranged in a neat row on the little shelf above my bed. One in particular catches her attention, and she takes it down.

“Who’s this in the picture with you?” she asks. She holds the photo out toward me.

“That’s my friend Henry,” I reply.

“What is she, like, a model?” Marguerite says. Anna, curious, gets off the floor and joins Marguerite on the bed. She peers over her shoulder at the photo.

“That girl is really, really pretty,” Anna says.

“I know,” I say. I stand up. I hold my hand out for the photo. It’s of Henry and me, taken last summer on Long Beach Island. Paige’s mom had driven a bunch of us down, after we’d finished our final exams. It was a cloudless, hot day, and they’d all cooked themselves lobster-red, moaning in the van the whole way back. Everyone except Henry and me. She was already tan; I’d stayed under my big beach umbrella most of the day. I can’t remember who took the picture. We have our arms over each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera.

“She could be a model,” I tell them. “But she is the most un-model-like person you’d ever meet. She’s a total jock. Guys follow her around, panting, and she doesn’t notice. She’s too busy playing tennis.” I hold the picture in both hands as I say this. I like bragging about Henry to them.

“Tennis?” Anna asks.

“With a capital
T
,” I say. “Believe me, someday we’ll be watching Henry in the Wimbledon finals. She’s amazing. She’s
at this camp right now, in Florida? One of those places where …”

Marguerite bursts out laughing. She’s sprawled across my bed now, staring at the ceiling and laughing.

“Oh my god,” she exclaims. “I know this is so random, but do you know that girl from Wisconsin who wears her bun practically on the top of her head, like she’s balancing an apple? And, you know, her hair is brown? Well …”

This girl has the attention span of a flea. Or a Rhonda. Maybe if you had some juicy ballet gossip for her, she’d actually listen
.

My cell phone rings. It’s on the shelf above my bed, just over Marguerite’s head. It rings three times before I can get my hands on it and snap it open.

“Hello?” I say eagerly.

At first I think it’s a wrong number. It sounds like lots of yelling on the other end. Chanting even, like “Wump! Wump! Wump!” Male voices
wump
ing. I’m about to press “end” when I hear Henry.

“Eva! Eva, are you there? Hey, everyone, pipe
down
! I can’t hear a thing!”

“Hen?” I shout into the phone, as if that would help. “Is that you?”

The
wump
ing subsides and I hear Henry, her voice slightly softer, as if she’s turned away from the phone.

“Hey, guys! Eva wants to know what’s going on!” Henry says. Screams follow. Shouting, cheering, thumping. Then a voice I recognize, clearly excited.

“Hello, Eva? It’s Yolanda. She won! Henry won! Woo-hoo!” A pause. I imagine Henry snatching the phone back, because it’s her voice I hear next.

“Eva! I’m sorry, this is so crazy. But I
had
to call you!”