Open Court

by Carol Clippinger

  “That's OK. I figured as much,” he said. “I was on my way to Polly's. Thought you'd be there.”

  “She's around here somewhere with Bruce,” I said.

  “Want to go to 7-Eleven?”

  I nodded. We pushed our bikes side by side up the street. I figured I'd talk about Luke's problems instead of my own. I needed to get away from them. “So what did you decide to do about the chess team?”

  “Huh?”

  “The chess team. You know, are you going to join it again? Tell Bruce to mind his business?”

  “Well, probably not. The trips to other schools for the meets weren't fun, anyway.”

  I was confused. “But you weren't just on the team. You were the captain. You liked it. If you explained to Bruce why you like it, he'd understand. I know he would.”

  Luke shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair. “Some of those trophies were cheap, anyway.”

  “But it's not about the trophies, “I said, exasperated. “It's about the hard work you put into it—you know, accomplishing something.”

  He looked at me sort of funny. “It wasn't that hard, Holloway, I was just good at it.”

  My guts churned for some reason. “So that's it? You're done?”

  He stopped walking altogether and thought about it. “I'm not trying to be an ass or anything, but why do you care?”

  “But in the pool it sounded like you—”

  “I guess I was thinking out loud in the pool. You're the only person I know who has trophies, so you know about things like that.”

  His reasoning shook me. This was glorious reasoning if ever there was. Why didn't my brain work this way? One small conversation in a pool and that was the extent of his torment? It was solved now? How? Nothing was actually resolved. He won trophies. Succumbed to peer pressure. Quit the chess team. And so now it was all better? Where was the dilemma? The anguish? The agony? I expected bitterness and confusion and pain!

  What a glorious, stupendous, guiltless brain Luke possessed.

  “Hey, Holloway?”

  “Huh?”

  “This is your house. We're here,” Luke said.

  “Oh,” I said in a haze, “so we are.”

  A neighbor's dog barked through a fence, welcoming me back to reality.

  “Let me run inside, grab some cash,” I said. “Take me three seconds.”

  “I'll park my bike,” he said. “Let's walk.”

  “Sure. Be back in a sec.”

  The news of Luke Kimberlin spread like wildfire among my brothers and the Choirboys. I was interrogated earlier by the Choirboy panel and found them half impressed and half hostile. Apparently, Luke's older sister wasn't just a pretty face, she was a goddess. And she had something that my brothers and the Choirboys did not— a driver's license and a cherry-red BMW with a license plate that read STAYSEE.

  I maintained a slice of sympathy for them. A license was a big deal; none of them could drive. A few had permits but no one owned a car. Still, I had no real interest in Michael's quest for Stacey. I had enough of my own problems.

  I crept inside to gather some money. The Choirboys looked me over like it was their house and I was the intruder. Dressed in tae kwon do outfits, they resembled the Pillsbury Doughboy. They loitered in our kitchen, waiting for my mom to drive them to some stupid martial arts exhibition or something.

  Michael said, “Who's outside?”

  “No one.”

  “Is that Luke Kimberlin?”

  “No.”

  “Yes it is. Find out if Stacey has a boyfriend.”

  “She does. He's a freshman in college. Luke told me.”

  “But Stacey is only seventeen!”

  Michael cornered me at the dining room table. I was about to crush his summer romance plans. As if Stacey Kimberlin would even consider dating a Pillsbury Doughboy.

  “I'm only telling you what Luke told me,” I said, freeing myself from all responsibility.

  “If she has a boyfriend, why is she always at the movies with her girlfriends?”

  “What am I, a mind reader?”

  “Can you find it in your heart to get off your princess ass and get some information?”

  “No, I cannot get off my princess ass and do anything, not when you ask like that.”

  Luke called, “Holloway!” through the screen door.

  The Choirboys slipped further into disarray. They continued observing me as if I was under glass. “I don't believe,” Michael said, “that Hall is hanging out with a Kimberlin and I'm stuck here with you farts.”

  That short, sweet conversation gave me something that for all of my thirteen years I was unable to get for myself: a look of respect from Michael and the surge of power I felt as a result. I shoved a few meager dollar bills into my pocket and smiled. Once I walked out the door, my brothers’ opinions had no claim on me. I was a free woman.

  “Cut through the park?” Luke asked.

  “Sure.”

  We trampled through park grasses and then fragrant weeds, stunned by pollen, 7-Eleven in our sights. I felt kind of happy for a moment, still contemplating the workings of Luke Kimberlin's brain.

  In the 7-Eleven parking lot vehicles sped and weaved. We dodged two cars but didn't see the third. The car lunged.

  “Holloway!”

  “Agg!”

  “Look out!” Luke pulled me back, hard.

  I let out a yelp.

  Brakes slammed. Tires screeched.

  My legs quivered at the notion of sudden, painful death. I couldn't catch my breath. “Crap.”

  “Are you OK, Holloway?”

  The car was a centimeter from my left knee. Would Ve broken it for sure. Blood pounded through my veins, making me light-headed.

  “Holloway?”

  Unable to move, we stood shocked and motionless in front of the car. A large man occupied the driver's seat. Next to him sat a striking redhead, all teeth and big lips. “You damn kids. Running out in front of cars. Get on the sidewalk!”

  Luke grabbed my shoulder firmly. “Are you OK?”

  I could barely speak. I looked down, making sure my kneecap was still attached to my leg. “I don't know Resting his hand on the hood of the car, Luke bent down toward my knee. “It's nicked.”

  The man punched the horn. “Get out of the way! Damn idiot kids!”

  Luke raised his hand, stone-faced, and flipped him off. Just like that. Courting danger. It was amazing. Beautiful, even. The guy struggled to unbuckle his seat belt to come after us, I guess. The woman yelled at her companion, shoving him in disapproval. Luke stood serene, waiting to see what would happen. I wasn't sure whether to cry, run, or—in the spirit of Eve—pee in my pants.

  “Come on, Luke.” I pulled at his sleeve.

  “Wait a minute.”

  “Come on. “

  Luke obliged and we slid out of harm's way. The car sped off. He looked at me. “Do you need to sit down?”

  “I can't believe you gave that guy the finger,” I said.

  “He wasn't going to do anything. It was his fault. We had the right of way. He nearly killed you.”

  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.