Open Court

by Carol Clippinger

  “I'll be your coach in here,” he said, thumping his heart. “Always.”

  He looked as if he might hug me, but it wasn't in his nature to go around hugging people. Without thinking, I touched my fingers to his temple and felt that fine cheer beneath his skin. He didn't mind.

  “You're a fantastic person, Hall. Don't let anyone tell you different.”

  “They said I have a good coach,” I said weakly.

  Trent folded his large arms and bellowed out a chuckle. “Only good? You set them straight, right? Told them I'm the best, didn't you?”

  “Oh, Coach.”

  A country club employee popped his head into the office, knocking on the door once to get Trent's attention. “I asked Nelson if he's seen it, but he swears he hasn't. Bet one of those thug lifeguards swiped it as a joke.”

  “Probably. That's what I get for bragging about it all the time. It'll turn up. Thanks for asking Nelson, though,” Trent said.

  “No problem,” the guy said, waving a quick goodbye.

  “What's that about?”

  “My baseball is missing—probably Finnegan from bookkeeping, now that I think about it. The guy's a prankster, thinks he's a comedian.”

  His missing baseball. Ugh.

  Trent shuffled papers. “Let's get on the court.”

  I just couldn't. “Nah, I don't feel well. I'm gonna call my mom to pick me up.”

  “There's work to be done. You can't run from tennis, Hall. Tennis isn't the enemy. You run to tennis, not away.”

  “You can't tell me what to do,” I said.

  He looked me in the eye. “You're right, I can't. But I'll see you on court in ten minutes anyway.”

  In the deserted locker room, I sat on the sink counter and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I was an average girl: not pretty, not ugly. Hair the color of mud, limbs thin and lanky. A wisp of a girl, as my mom often says. Only my tennis racquet hinted at splendor.

  Trent's voice was gone forever. Of this I was certain. It troubled me every second of the day.

  I had to find a new way.

  Nothing turned out like I planned. I doubted Eve would ever speak to me again. At the moment, Luke was a fraud. Polly wrongly claimed we were twins. But she was bullied into achieving something she never wanted—just like Janie—and it had nothing to do with me. No one forced me to play tennis. I played for myself. Always had. Sure, expectations were there, everywhere. But I chose this game.

  I wanted this.

  I arranged my zinc oxide containers in front of me like a paint set. Dipping my finger into the white, I covered my nose until no skin showed through. Like a football player, I made one line below each eye.

  With purple zinc, I placed six perfect dots above my eyebrows and one on my chin. Yellow lines ran down my cheeks. My reflection transformed. I couldn't see my stick limbs or mud-colored hair. Couldn't tell if I was pretty. All I saw was a warrior. Not someone's daughter. Not someone's friend. An Amazon armed with a racquet. A girl who played to win.

  As I exited the locker room something inside me broke. Joseph Bickford's words besieged my mind … The battle is in you. True champions aren't afraid to lose. That's why they win …

  I needed tennis. It was a lie to pretend I didn't.

  People call me a champion, a warrior. They're wrong. I'd trusted Trent's voice would make me win instead of allowing myself to become a real champion.

  True champions aren ‘t afraid to lose.

  Tennis pushes: push back or accept defeat.

  I wanted to love this game again.

  The squeaking gate of court 3 announced my arrival. Trent squinted, not knowing what to make of the warrior paint. He said nothing. I motioned for Skittish Helper Guy to start the ball machines. “Turn them both on. Put the levers on high.”

  “With two it'll be too fast. Won't stand a chance,” Skittish Helper Guy said.

  “Put the levers on high,” I said again.

  He looked to Trent.

  Trent stared at the battle paint on my face. “Do what she wants,” he said. Intrigued, he sat down, his bellowing voice silenced.

  Penn balls launched from the mouths of the machines. Rhythmically. One after the other. Hard. With wicked minds. Evil intentions. Intimidating me. Taunting, spitting. Screaming, You can't hit me…

  But I can. I can. I will. I missed one, then two. A third cleared the fence.

  … you can't hit me…

  But I will. Can. I closed my eyes for a second, focusing. Four, five, six balls passed. Looking around hungrily, I defied anyone to say a word.

  Objects and people around me blurred, sounds ceased. Heartbeats thundered in my chest. The zone was near. I had the choice. I could give into the pressure and have a breakdown, right here on the court like Janie Alessandro. Insanity would be the easy way out. Or I could hit the hell out of this next ball, go to Bickford, and give myself to tennis.

  “I am Holloway Braxton, and I play to win.”

  “What?” Skittish Helper Guy hollered.

  I snapped myself further into a deep focus. My guts burned, gurgled. A great rumble of water, a river, sprang forth in my belly, waking me, shaking me, scalding my insides.

  The machine released a ball from its mouth. Spinning, spinning, it sailed over the net, spinning, spinning. I ran across court, brought my racquet back …

  Slam the ball, a voice said. You know how to do this. This is easy.

  It wasn't Trent's voice inside my head, it was mine.

  Slam the ball, my voice demanded. Push, try… slam the ball…

  The court opened.

  My world opened.

  I swung with all my might. The blur of yellow, smacked senseless by my racquet, flew over the net, deep to the left corner, for a winner.

  It was beautiful. My God, the beauty.

  “Yes!” I screamed. “Perfection.”

  I hit another ball. And another. On the line. In the corner. Backhand. Forehand. Slice. Crosscourt. Down the line. Overhead. Volley. Chip and charge. Attack the net. Again. Again. Zen. Win!

  I turned to Trent. Speechless, he clapped ferociously as he laughed and laughed.

  I put my hands to my knees, catching my breath. I couldn't put it off any longer. I'd avoided it all summer. It was time. “Hey, Coach. Want to go on a field trip?”

  He got confused, glanced at his watch. “We're not done yet.”

  “I'm not asking, Coach. I'm telling.”

  He stared at me from across court, alerted to the moment, alerted to my freedom, alerted. He nodded. “OK, Braxton, let's go.”

  It felt strange being in Coach's SUV without Annie in the passenger seat.

  “All right. Where to?” Coach said.

  “To get your baseball back.”

  He stopped fumbling with his keys and looked me square in the eyes. I was ashamed it had taken me this long; I didn't need his disappointed gaze, too. “Coach, this will be easier if you just don't ask.”

  Bewilderment slid across his face. “You, Braxton?”

  “I didn't do it! What would I want with your baseball? But I know who has it.” I shuddered. Nothing about getting that baseball back was going to be easy. But I couldn't let Luke do that to Coach. I just couldn't. “Do you know how to get to Naples Drive?”

  * * *

  Miraculously, Coach promised to wait in the SUV. He didn't have a choice; the iron gate was locked. He helped ease me over the wall while lecturing me on the dangers. Then he stood, facing me, fists wrapped around the iron bars, stuck in his own helpless prison. “Hall, if they don't want to give it back to you, you come get me. I'll make them give it back.”

  “Don't worry, Coach, I'm getting that ball!” I declared.

  I took off, running up the driveway, looking back once. Coach paced like a bull on the other side of the gate. I'd have to do this quick. He looked three seconds away from reneging on the deal, ramming his SUV through the gate, and charging up the Kimberlin driveway.

  Luke answered the door, surprise
d. “What are you doing here, Holloway?” He stared at my face, not my eyes.

  “I need that baseball, Luke,” I said. I didn't accuse him, I wasn't condescending. It almost didn't matter why he took it. Maybe he did it because he couldn't stand up to his friends and be on the chess team. Maybe he was impulsive. Or maybe he really was a thief. I didn't know. And I didn't have time to care.

  I looked back. No sign of Trent yet, but he wasn't going to wait long.

  “You scaled the gate by yourself?”

  “My coach helped.”

  “Do you want to come in? Urn, we can't swim or anything today. Stacey's over there with her boyfriend. What's wrong with your face?”

  “Luke, I need that baseball back.”

  “Yeah, but, your face is …”

  “I'm mad. That's what's wrong with my face.”

  I caught his eyes. He looked down for a second. Ashamed? Embarrassed? I wasn't sure.

  “I know you took it. It's my coach's ball, Luke. He's going to come up here, and if he does, I don't even want to know what's going to happen.”

  “Who cares? It's a baseball. He can't prove it was his. He can get another one.”

  “Luke, you don't understand. I'm doing you a favor. If Coach knows your name, he'll have your membership to the club revoked.”

  “I can't believe you, Holloway!” he spat, eyes wild, chest heaving. “Did you tell him I took it?”

  He moved, blocking the doorway. From me. Like I was the enemy. That was his choice, making me the enemy, not mine. Blood sped through my veins.

  “This isn't like the candy bar at 7-Eleven, Luke—I saw you steal that, too. Coach paid a lot of money for that ball, but it wouldn't matter if he'd paid only a dollar for it, it's his! Give it back.”

  He snapped his head up, angry. “Make me.”

  What? Make me? Where was my apology? I wanted a confession, a promise it'd never happen again, some remorse! Make me? Something inside my head went click.

  Did I need, want, crave someone who said, Make me?

  I salivated like a hungry mutt of a dog. I couldn't have stopped myself if I wanted to—I thrust my hands out and shoved him, hard. His back slammed into the door. His footing went awry. Thud. His ass hit the floor. “Hey!” he hollered.

  I ran up the back stairway—the only way I knew how to get to Luke's room—passed two doors, and flung myself into his room, looking, hunting, searching. I slapped my pulsating paws on the plastic case and just as quickly sprinted back down the stairs.

  Face sour, body reeling, forehead perfect, he stood where I'd left him. He didn't try to stop me this time.

  “Made you,” I said, and barreled past. It seemed like four steps, maybe fifty-four, pounding down his driveway.

  “Holloway!” Luke yelled.

  I didn't answer. Didn't even turn my head.

  “What's the matter with you? Give it back!” Luke hollered.

  Trent came into focus. His SUV door opened and he popped out, his features gaining cheer. A mixture of sun and tree shadows spilled across his stout body. His relieved sigh hit the air, piercing it, piercing me, and I knew I'd done the right thing.

  He steered with one hand and held on to the plastic case with his other, protecting it as if it was a child.

  “Hall …”

  “Don't ask, Coach. Please, don't ask.”

  He scoffed. Then laughed.

  “Should've seen yourself fly down that driveway. Never seen you run that fast voluntarily. Remember that feeling and do it on court, would you?”

  For some reason that struck me. “Will do, Coach.”

  “Where to now?” he said, suddenly sounding up for anything.

  I looked out the window. The afternoon was still young. “To Wellsprings,” I said. “To see Janie.”

  Coach's eyes stayed on the road. His nostrils flared the slightest bit. He nodded and said nothing.

  Trent walked me in. Wellsprings Mental Health Facility wasn't as scary as I imagined. A huge grassy lawn spread off its side, with large windows for a full view of it. The receptionist considered me carefully, like I might be a resident, not a visitor. But when she heard who we were there to see, she smiled. “Janie,” the woman said. “We love Janie. She's over there, waiting for her mom to pick her up; they're going out for dinner.” She pointed to the furniture groupings in front of the windows.

  “She can leave?” I asked.

  “She's out for good next week,” Trent said. “They just had to get her medication dosage right.”

  Coach and I walked past a row of ferns. He stopped. “Alessandro!” he called.

  Janie looked up from the magazine she was reading and turned. Recognizing me, she shook her head wryly. She wasn't in a straitjacket or anything. She wore normal clothes.

  Coach nudged me. “I'm going to get some air.”

  I nodded. That was good of him. He used to hang back sometimes when Janie and I practiced together— take himself out of the equation and leave us to our ambitions. It was right of him to do that, and this.

  My heart ticked, askew. A lump of regret choked my throat. I hoped I wasn't going to cry and make a blubbering fool of myself. Janie took a step toward me. That was all I needed. That killed me. I took two for every one of hers, and we met in front of a potted ficus tree. I grabbed her and hugged her hard. “I should've come before now,” I whispered in her ear. “I'm so sorry.”

  Her thick mane of dark brown hair smelled like strawberries from her brand of shampoo. It always had. I'd forgotten that.

  She peeled me off her and backed up so I could witness her mug fill with pretend disgust. “You should be,” she said. “Took you long enough.”

  I kept hold of her shoulder. I didn't want her to slip from my grasp. I had to know something, anything, everything she could tell me. Her coloring was a little off—paler—and she was quieter. Yes, quieter, but she was Janie again. Not the least bit deranged, not like that day on the court. She was Janie.

  We chose a leather couch that faced the sprawling grass beyond the windows. Odd ugly purple and green pillows covered the brown leather.

  “I'm loving the decor. No wonder these people are crazy,” I said. Then I winced. I shouldn't have said that—”crazy.” Was she crazy? Still? The word “crazy” was dismissive. It was more complicated than that. It was expectation, pressure, winning.

  Janie held me in her sights, then motioned to the pillows. “These are Wimbledon colors, girl, bite your tongue.”

  Yes, it was Janie. She was back. I did bite my tongue—to keep myself from crying with joy.

  “So they are.”

  We had a view of Trent outside. He walked around aimlessly on the endless lawn. It didn't look like he could see us, because of the glare on the windows, but we could see him fine.

  “Speaking of tennis,” Janie said, “Coach told me you won the Cherry Creek Invitational.”

  “He did?”

  “That's two years in a row, Hall.”

  Hmmm. She didn't seem to mind talking about it. “Yeah, but you don't know how bad I sucked. You wouldn't have believed it. Coach went through five pens taking notes. He ran out of ink before I ran out of mistakes. Then he made me write a sportsmanship essay, that's how bad I sucked.”

  “Ouch. Topic?”

  I grinned stupidly at that—Ouch. Topic? She leaned forward as she spoke. Face paler. Voice a notch quieter. But her eagerness, the summary of her whole persona, was intact. “U.S. Open quarterfinal match between Agassi and Sampras,” I said.

  “Oh, excellent choice!”

  “It is an awesome match,” I acknowledged.

  Using the tip of her pinkie finger, she touched my chin and displayed the resulting purple smudge on her finger. “You just come from practice?”

  Zinc oxide still covered my face. Ugh! No wonder Luke had kept asking about my face and the receptionist had stared. Nothing unusual to Janie, though.

  I missed her right then, even though she sat within arm's length. I missed her for wh
at a god-awful desperate summer it had been—everyone asking me questions about tennis but never truly understanding my answers. Janie understood. But was she really OK? How could she be without tennis? Didn't she ache without it?

  “Check him out,” she said, pointing to Coach.

  Pigeons swarmed him for some reason—literally, from every direction. Trent appeared to panic at this. He looked around to see if anyone was watching. No one else was on the grounds, and it was clear he didn't know we could see him. He shuffled his feet, kicking at a couple of them. Soft at first, then harder. It was a sitcom, fierce Coach trying to shoo those plump birds. They weren't going.

  Janie busted up laughing. Hard. Out of the corner of my eye I made a mental outline of the shape of her cheeks—Polly's cheeks, the cheeks that haunted my summer.

  “Think we should help him?” she asked. And busted up again. That laugh. That laugh was a hundred percent Janie. A cackle, really. A bottomless, throaty cackle. Classic Janie. Her pain was deep, and the laugh matched it, balanced it.

  “I met your twin,” I said. “They say everyone has one.”

  “Is she a tennis star?”

  “No, math whiz.”

  Janie made a face. “Ew, ick.”

  “No kidding.”

  She placed a green pillow on her lap. We couldn't keep our eyes off Coach. He was pretty much getting dive-bombed by pigeons. They were coming at his head. He was sort of running from them, that big man.

  I felt Janie's gaze on me. “I think he's afraid of them,” I said.

  “I don't,” she said, voice low.

  I turned to her. “Hmmm?”

  “I don't miss it—tennis,” she said. “Isn't that why you're here? Why you didn't come before? I don't miss it, Hall. Miss Coach sometimes. You. But not the game. I didn't have the head for it. I had the skills. It's not the same thing. You know it's not,” she said quietly.

  I wasn't about to lie to her. “I know it's not,” I said.

  “I was just so terrified of losing, not just choking during a match, but losing … myself, I guess … my mind shut down, that's all.”

  I nodded. Whatever I'd suffered this summer, she'd suffered worse. So much worse. I felt selfish.

  “My parents are getting divorced,” she announced.