Open Court (14 page)

My knee. Almost broken.

Death is preferable to a busted knee. A broken knee would sideline me for six months. Coach would go nuts. Berserk. Damaged flesh. Useless talent. Coach betrayed. Berserk Coach. Delirious Coach. Wouldn't be pretty. It'd be a rampage. Nostrils would flare.
Hit by a car? A sitting duck. Unbelievable! Trying to give a man a heart attack or what?

Have to be careful. My body is not my own. I shouldn't even leave the house. Go nowhere. Go to the court. Then home. Play tennis and stay home. Knees are safe at home. Do not have a life. Do not live. Play tennis and go home. Tennis for a life. Breathe it, eat it, sleep it. No life. To the court and home. Need nothing. Be nothing. Want nothing. Love nothing.
Stay home.

“An inch more and you'd be toast.”

He put his hand on my back. I thought about the blank head of Luke Kimberlin. It pacified me.

Other people had needs they guarded as best they could to protect themselves. I
needed
to not be sent to Bickford, to not have everyone find out I suddenly sucked at tennis. Melissa
needed
our friendship enough to suffer occasional disrespect. My brothers
needed
to pick on me so they wouldn't feel bad about not being tennis champions. Where need filled the souls of others, Luke was hollow. His so-called chess dilemma, which was no dilemma at all, proved it. He needed nothing, his guts
ached
for nothing. He couldn't be hurt. He was free to flip someone off and not care about the consequences.

More than anything else, more than his good looks or his confidence, it was this lack of need, lack of anguish that I suddenly wished was mine. His head was perfectly blank. Perfection rested in blank heads. Oh, the tennis I could play with the empty head of Luke Kimberlin!

I grabbed his hand, hoping his empty head was contagious so I could be mean, strong, and free. If only I could switch our brains, I could forget about Janie going crazy on that court, forget that maybe I was going crazy, too, forget that Coach's voice wasn't in my head and play tennis,
freely.

Air-conditioning turned my sweat to ice as the door
to the 7-Eleven shut, enclosing us inside. I stood at the front counter, making sure my knee was able to bend, and watched Luke in the candy aisle. He chose a Kit Kat and ever so quickly shoved it in his pocket, stealing it as if he was entitled. As always, anything could happen when with Luke. And something was happening. It just wasn't good.

My heart sparked at the danger. Cringed at the deceit. And I knew right then that I'd never possess the blank head of Luke Kimberlin. Suddenly my own head felt too full to even ask him why, why, why he would do such a thing.

I
babysit for my next-door neighbors, the Jordans, when the sitter they trust isn't available. I'm not their first choice; they call me out of desperation. My mom says it will make me responsible. So far it's only made me annoyed.

The Jordans have one child. He's got pale eyes and a crew cut. He can't say
h,
so he calls me Wall instead of Hall. Mrs. Jordan is anal about teeth brushing; she reminds me a zillion times to have the kid brush his teeth. I never do. Ever. I figure they need a break. It's a wonder he has any teeth left with all that brushing.

The Jordans’ house smells like Ajax. And it's
clean:
never any dust, dirt, or dirty dishes in the sink. Mr. Jordan escapes the smell of Ajax by spending time in the
garage. Wearing grubby clothes, he pounds nails into wood for some mystery project that's never completed. I'd pound nails into wood, too, if I had to live with Mrs. Jordan. She has that effect on people.

Regardless of the circumstances, being at the Jordans’ gave me a quiet place to do my “homework assignment.” As punishment for my botched win at the Cherry Creek Invitational (I still can't believe he thought I was trying to humiliate that girl), Coach “suggested” I write a report on sportsmanship. For inspiration, he gave me a DVD of his favorite match, the 2001 U.S. Open quarterfinal match between Pete Sampras and Andre Agassi.

Neither player breaks serve. They go four hard sets and every set ends in a tiebreaker. The crowd is manic with joy. Andre and Pete are so focused they're not human anymore. They are tennis gods. They both defy pain
and
inhabit it. I can barely sit still watching.

Pain like this is what Trent calls sportsmanship. Suffering
justifies
the victory. Watching them play to win, no matter the cost, is supposed to make me ashamed of myself or something.

Once when pro player Kim Clijsters delivered an acceptance speech for a Grand Slam runner-up trophy,
she gave it in Flemish, French, and English. I wondered suddenly if she had a voice inside her head that made her win. And if so, which language did it speak?

I thought briefly about Roger Fédérer, wondering how long he'd had to lose before he started to win. A week? A month? A year? Thinking about it made my head hurt.

Sportsmanship is about trying your best. Pure shots are the goal. Arrogance has no place in competitive sports,
I wrote.

The doorbell went ballistic.
Ding-dong, ding-dong.

Polly and Melissa stood on the Jordans’ front step, their faces mashed into the screen.

“Hall, answer the door already,” Polly said.

“Let us in,” Melissa said.

“Hey! What are you doing?” I was suddenly flattered I had such great friends.

“Your brother said you were here,” Polly said.

I unlocked the screen door. “Be quiet. The kid's asleep.”

Melissa entered wearing a yellow shirt and green shorts—a fashion nightmare.

“What's that smell?” she asked.

“Ajax. What are you guys doing?”

“Hanging out. How late will you be here?”

“Nine-thirty.”

“Too bad/’ Polly said. “Who are those people at your house?”

“It really reeks in here,” Melissa said.

“I know. What people?”

Polly noted the cleanliness and rested her gaze on the Agassi match. “Don't know. That's why I'm asking.”

Melissa continued to complain. “Can't you open a window or something?”

“Was it Coach? You'd recognize him—big man with a shaved head?”

“I didn't see anyone, just heard the noise. Your mom was laughing. Anyway, Bruce said he can get us passes to the country club on Friday. You and me and Luke can go together.” She looked at Melissa. “Sorry, Meiissa.”

Melissa shrugged. “I don't mind.”

“Oh, you and Bruce are quite the item now,” I said.

“We kissed,” Polly declared, waiting for me to explode in approval.

“And how was that?” I asked.

“Slobbery,” she said, cracking up. “Like kissing a dog.”

I laughed, wondering if she had worn her orange lip gloss for that kiss. If she had, Bruce was probably still wiping it off his face. “Spend a lot of time kissing your dog, do you?”

“Gross!” Polly said.

“Bruce might be mad if he thinks a dog kisses better than him.”

Polly shrugged, gleeful. “At least Bruce doesn't have doggy breath.”

“Can we go outside?” Melissa said. “The smell is making me dizzy.”

“It's not that bad,” Polly said.

We stepped outside and sat in the grass to cleanse our noses from Ajax. Mrs. Jordan would have a coronary if she knew Polly and Melissa were over. I'd been told many times that I wasn't allowed to consort with friends while on duty. Friends and dirty teeth were major causes for alarm with Mrs. Jordan.

“Ahh,” said Melissa. “Much better.”

“What's wrong with Eve, anyway?” Polly asked. “I called her to see if she wanted to walk up here with us and she hung up on me.”

I didn't want to explain Eve's mood swings. “I don't know what's up with Eve,” I lied.

Polly glanced at the dimming skies. “It's getting late. Gotta be home before dark. Don't forget about the country club. Ill give you the details later,” she said, as they walked backward across the Jordans’ lawn.

*   *   *

Indeed, Coach was at my house, along with Annie, when I got home. The sound of forks scraping on plates filled the dining room. All eyes were on me as I entered. Identical smiles plastered on their faces. It couldn't be good news.

“Hall, have some cake?” my mom asked.

“What kind is it?”

“The congratulations kind. Annie brought it over.”

“Hi, Chickadee,” Annie said.

“Congratulations for what?”

“Bickford Tennis Academy sent you two plane tickets, round-trip, first-class, to come and view their operation,” Coach bellowed, beating my dad to the punch.

I said something profound, like, “Huh?”

“Poor girl,” my dad said, “she's in shock. Look at that face.”

The four of them burst into a fit of laughter so loud that their jolly, gut-busting chuckles of glee echoed in my head, shaking my very brains.

“How?” I asked.

“Thomas Fountain helped me arrange it,” Trent said. “They're anxious to meet you. I faxed them a list of the tournaments you've won. You're quite a catch, you know.”

“But it's so much money. Why would they send for
me if they know I can't afford it? What, did you lie to them?”

“Of course not,” my mom scoffed. “We're not going to worry about the money right now. We're going to look around, see if it's a nice place.”

I didn't want to be anywhere
near
the academy. “A nice place?” I said. “Look around?”

Again, they burst into torrid laughter. Trent's low bleats bellowed forth and were absorbed into the walls and carpet equally. Hee-hees saturated the room. I felt queasy and grabbed hold of the counter to keep my balance.

Annie shook my shoulder. “It's so exciting, Hall!”

Annie, my beloved Annie, who normally had zero interest in my chosen game of tennis, had been sucked over to the other side, to the ruin-Hall's-life side. Suddenly Annie's present of the Swiss flag seemed more like a diversion tactic than an actual gift.

While I stared at my Swiss flag every night, smitten with the beauty of Roger Fédérer, they'd contacted Bick-ford Academy—spoken
about
me in
regard
to tennis. Stupid flag. Annie had bribed me further into doom by appealing to my lust for Roger Federer's gliding passing shots. I can't believe I fell for it.

“When?” I asked. “When are we going?”

“In three days. Saturday morning. First of August,” my mom said as she handed me a piece of betrayal cake.

“A good sign, first of August,” Trent said.

“Great,” I said. “First of August. Terrific.”

Hope filled my mom's face. “We're so proud, Hall.”

The hope on my mother's face, ugh, the hope. The expectation she doesn't dare voice. Wants to protect me from the expectation, not be the cause of it. But it's there. Expectation. The hope that all this is for something bigger than me, her, this family, this city, this country, and this world. My God, the hope on my mother's face. The hope that I will succeed. It covers her like maple syrup. My game, so unrefined: it is unworthy of that hope.

L
ively jabber filled Stacey's car. “I'm freaking out … Driving around … We're already an hour late … The car runs out of gas … My cell phone's battery is dead … Have to walk …”

BMWs really are driving machines, just like the ad claims. They corner well. Travel at top speed. I wouldn't have known we were doing fifty in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone had I not been looking at the speedometer. Stacey Kimberlin, goddess, sister of Luke, was the worst driver ever. She would need that pretty face of hers to thwart many traffic tickets. Already she'd cut off two drivers and didn't even say whoops.

Stacey was chirpy. Spastic. All sorts of cutesy tales
were flying out of her mouth. The girl was a Rolodex of unimportant stories. Occasionally I've wished I was as dumb as a chirpy girl like Stacey, but I'm not. I rarely rattle off cute stories to people I don't know.

“… I go to the gas station for help, and there's
Bran-don!”
she said, as if we cared.

Luke glanced at me, rolling his eyes at Stacey's tirade. Bruce sighed heavily, looking out the window. Polly and I got the giggles.