“Sure,” I say. “Maybe Monday after I get home from the juice stand?”
“Works for me.”
It’s easy, hanging out with her like this. Our relationship is like a coin, and these are what I call “heads-side” moments. Both our schedules are nuts and we don’t always spend as much time together as we’d like, but we do make sure to set aside time for our traditions. Puzzles together on the front porch when the weather is nice, Netflix on lazy nights, going out to restaurants for special occasions and ordering the spiciest things on the menu, occasional homemade dinners with Sam and his family. I know if I’m ever in trouble, Mom will be there for me. We’re a team. Not quite a doubles team, where everything one of us does depends on the other, but more like singles players representing the same country in the Olympics. A team in which the members operate independently, but with a shared goal.
But I know the second I broach the topic of the passport and Toronto, the coin is going to flip. And the tails side is a completely different story. A wall goes up between me and Mom, and we might both still be competing in the Olympics, but we’re bitter rivals. Sometimes this happens when the subject of the past comes up—she doesn’t like talking about her family or where she came from, and she always shuts down in those moments. But the main thing that sends the wall up is tennis.
Mom has absolutely no faith that my tennis career is going to happen. For a long time, she humored me, and drove me to practice as if it were just another mom job like doctor’s office visits and parent-teacher conferences. But lately, any time the subject of my going pro comes up, she goes on the offensive, saying it’s too expensive or unrealistic. I actually think she’s hoping I’ll fail so she’ll be able to insist I go to college in a year. She had to go to work right after high school, and she wants me to have the education, the opportunities, she never had. And yes, in lots of ways, it makes sense to play tennis at the collegiate level. Mom would be happy I was “continuing my academic career,” and I’d be happy to have regular sessions on the court. The school could finance a lot of my tennis expenses. Plenty of pros played in college. It’s a viable path to the majors for sure.
Except for the tiny fact that it doesn’t feel right. I’ve never been a very dedicated student—I don’t think I ever got higher than a B– in anything except phys ed. The court was always my classroom; training was my brand of studying. Commencement never meant a beginning—it meant the end of my biggest distraction. While Sam and most of the other kids in our year were obsessing over transcripts and portfolios and letters of recommendation this past fall, I didn’t apply to a single college. I’m done with school and can finally focus on the important stuff. So why on earth would I go back?
I grab an apple from the basket on the windowsill, spin it around to remove the stem, and watch Mom as she drops a handful of baby carrots into a baggie. I don’t want to flip the coin; I don’t want this good moment to come to an end. But I have to. It’s too important. I take a deep breath and segue into the line I’d practiced in the car with Sam: “I’m going to apply for a passport next week. Would you mind digging up my birth certificate when you get a chance? I’ll need it for the application.”
Like a sponge being zapped of its moisture, Mom’s entire body goes rigid. The baggie of baby carrots slips from her fingers to the counter. One of the little orange nubs rolls into the sink.
Really? Already? I didn’t even mention the word tennis. “What’s wrong?” I ask, the lingering hot sauce on my tongue turning sour.
“Nothing.” She turns to face me. Her expression is hard to read—unlined, but oddly tense. If I didn’t have so much practice spotting and analyzing abrupt actions in short bursts of time, I’d miss the swift lick of her lips, the extra beat she takes to make sure there’s no emotion in her voice. “What do you need a passport for?”
“Well …” I take a realigning moment of my own. Forget the ease-her-into-it strategy. Just say it. “Now that school’s over, Bob and I agree it’s time to start entering pro tournaments. I know we’ve talked about how it’s not possible, but I think I need to make it possible. The only way I’m ever going to reach the majors is if I start earning ranking points now. I can’t stay in Francis forever.”
“Most eighteen-year-olds go off to college when they want to get away from their hometown,” Mom says under her breath. I ignore it.
“I know money is tight. But I’ll take more shifts at work, and then use that money for travel. I’ll subsidize it with credit cards if I have to. The most important thing is playing, getting the experience, getting my name out there, and getting ranked.”
The corners of her mouth have turned down.
I keep going. “There are some tournaments in the States coming up, but Bob said it would be smart to begin with the one in Toronto in August.” I pause briefly. “That’s where the passport comes in.”
She takes the apple from where I abandoned it on the table and carefully puts it back in its basket. Everything in its place.
“What do you think?” I ask finally.
She looks at me. A flash of sadness floods her eyes, but then it quickly subsides, like the changes of a tide sped up on a time-lapse video. “I don’t see how it can work, Dara.”
My heart drops. This is so unfair. Why can’t she even try to see it from my point of view? “Why not?” I ask flatly.
“First of all, how are you going to both take on more shifts at the juice stand and travel so much? There are only so many hours in the day. Believe me, I know.”
“Well, I won’t be traveling all the time. Each tournament is only six days. I could—”
“Secondly, please don’t put any of this on your credit card. Those bills accumulate faster than you can imagine. And the interest rates are outrageous. I’ve worked very hard to keep us out of debt. Credit cards are for—”
“Emergencies only,” I mumble. “Yeah, I know.” This is not the first time I’ve heard this speech. But doesn’t she understand that this feels like an emergency to me?
She checks the clock on the microwave. “I have to go.” She grabs her lunch bag, but stops before leaving the kitchen and pulls me into a hug. I don’t back away, but I don’t relax into it, either. “I’m proud of you, Dara. We just need to be more … realistic.” She ruffles my hair and leaves the room.
No. She doesn’t get to just shut me down like this. She doesn’t get to pretend like she cares and then walk out the door, leaving me stuck and alone. Not again.
I run after her. “Can I at least have my birth certificate so I can get my passport? Maybe I do have to come up with a better plan, but when I do, I want to be ready to go.”
Her hand is on the screen door latch, and she only turns halfway back. She doesn’t look me in the eye. “I’m sorry, I don’t know where it is.” With that, she leaves.
This book has more bits of me, Jess, sprinkled into the narrative than anything I’ve published before, and that feels right, considering it’s a story about influencers—people who put themselves out there for the world to see every day. This stuff isn’t easy, and I am in awe of all of you!
Thank you to every single person at Scholastic—in particular Aimee Friedman, David Levithan, and Olivia Valcarce, but also many, many others!—for believing I could do justice to this story and for your invaluable help along the way. Lots of gratitude as well to Jessica Reyman for your super-smart insights. And a huge thank-you to my agent, Kate McKean, for, you know, everything.
As always, hugs and thanks to my mom, Susan Miller; my friend/extra set of eyes Amy Ewing; everyone in my life who’s lent an ear during the ebbs and flows of my publishing journey; and each bookseller, educator, and librarian who has ever recommended one of my books.
This is the first novel I wrote since becoming a parent, and it would have been literally impossible without the help and support of my partner, Paul Bausch, and our daughter’s daycare providers. I also have to give a shout-out to the baristas of Brooklyn—especially the ones at Muse Ca
fe, Edie Jo’s, and Brooklyn Perk—for your endless supply of oat-milk lattes.
And to my kiddo, Markéta, to whom this book is dedicated—keep shouting, girl. The world is listening.
JESSICA VERDI is the author of And She Was, What You Left Behind, The Summer I Wasn’t Me, and My Life After Now, and co-author of I’m Not a Girl. She is a graduate of the New School’s MFA in Writing for Children program and lives in New York with her family. Follow Jess on Twitter and Instagram at @jessverdi.
ALSO BY JESSICA VERDI
And She Was
What You Left Behind
The Summer I Wasn’t Me
My Life After Now
I’m Not a Girl
(co-written with Maddox Lyons; illustrated by Dana Simpson)
Copyright © 2021 by Jessica Verdi
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
First edition, March 2021
Jacket art © 2021 by Ana Hard
Jacket design by Maeve Norton
Author photo by Paul Bausch
e-ISBN 978-1-338-64047-2
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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