by Paula Stokes
“Ride in a car with someone.”
“Do you feel ready?”
I shake my head. “Not sure I ever will, though.”
“Just remember that your first challenge is going okay, and you even made some friends. And trust your gut. You’ll know when it’s time.”
I think back to what it was like to ride with my mom after the accident. “Can you medicate me or something to make it easier?”
Dr. Leed studies me for a moment. “Do you think you need medication?”
“Well, I just mean to get past that initial fear of getting in someone else’s car.” My chest gets a little tight just thinking about it.
“I can discuss medication options with your pediatrician if you want me to, but I’d prefer not to use it as a first-line treatment in your case unless you’re unable to even attempt your challenges.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll try.”
As usual, Jordy is reading a magazine in the waiting room. He straightens up when he sees me. “You kept the same appointment time.”
“Yeah. I can make it if I come directly here after practice, but if I make the team I’ll probably have to reschedule on match days.”
He rolls the magazine into a cylinder with his hands. “Cool. I enjoy our little meetings.”
“But you see me almost every day at practice.” A terrible thought hits me. “Wait, am I getting cut?”
His eyes widen. “No, no. Like I said, we’ll get your serve fixed.” He tightens the magazine even further between his hands.
“Well, I should go.”
“Yeah, me too,” he says. “I mean, not go, but you know.”
“You ready, Stanford?” The receptionist smiles brightly at Jordy from behind her desk.
I cough. “Stanford?”
“Yes, my parents named me Stanford. Jordan is actually my middle name.” He sighs. “Soon you’ll know all my secrets.”
“Do you moonlight as a stockbroker or something?”
“Yeah, an elderly stockbroker. Make way for Stanford, everyone. He’s coming through with his walker.” Jordy makes a gagging sound. “And the nickname possibilities are epic. Stan? Ford? Either one would be irresistible to the ladies, am I right?” He continues without giving me a chance to respond. “Thank God my coach recommended I compete under my nickname. Otherwise all I’d have to look forward to would be denture cream endorsements.”
“It’s not that bad,” I say.
“Yeah, well. Thanks for lying.” Jordy gives me a gentle punch in the arm as he heads for Dr. Leed’s office. “See you tomorrow, Maguire.”
CHAPTER 11
The next day I wake up thinking about Jordy, about how he seemed hurt when I told the guys from the basketball team that I wasn’t his girlfriend, about the way he seemed a little awkward and unsure of himself at Dr. Leed’s.
Shaking my head, I start my morning good luck rituals. First, I lift a hand to my throat to make sure my mystic knot amulet is still in place. I slide the clasp to the back of my neck and wish for a safe, uneventful day. I knock three times on my wooden nightstand and then dab a bit of jasmine perfume from a tiny heart-shaped vial on each of my wrists. The manufacturers of the perfume claim it’s made with water from a special Himalayan stream and has been blessed by Nepali monks.
Just one more ritual to complete before I slide out of bed—my daily positive affirmation. I know it sounds cheesy, but a lot of people swear that starting your day with a positive thought makes a difference, and I’m in no position to ignore stuff that works just because I feel lame doing it. Most people say something like, “Today is going to be a great day.” I try to keep things a little more realistic, like, “Today isn’t going to be as bad as the day of Celia Bittendorf’s sleepover party when everyone but me started throwing up and Celia told her parents I poisoned the cake and then her mom called my mom and I got picked up at midnight and everyone at school avoided me for the rest of the year.”
Okay, maybe that’s a little long.
“Today is not going to suck,” I mutter.
Standing in front of my dresser mirror, I recite a Chinese good luck prayer eight times. (Eight is a lucky number in Chinese.) I twist my hair into a bun and then cruise into the kitchen to look for food.
After managing only a few bites of fruit for breakfast, I return to my room, get dressed, and then try to read. I end up staring at the same couple of pages for about ten minutes. I trade my novel for my trig homework and do a little better with that, completing a handful of problems.
Hopping up from my bed, I tug at the hem of my new wraparound tennis skirt and stare at myself in the mirror. “Stop fidgeting,” I tell my reflection. “You’re going to be fine.” I mean, pretty much the worst thing that could possibly happen on a tennis court already has, right?
Well, except for that one death at Wimbledon.
Which I don’t want to think about.
I grab my phone and send Jade a text.
Me: Guess what I’m doing today?
Her: Studying?
Me: Ha. It’s like you know me so well. That’s what I was doing five minutes ago. Now I’m getting ready to go practice serving with Jordy.
Her: Where are you guys playing?
Me: Not sure. I’m meeting him at his house.
Her: Uh-huh;) Try not to let him get you naked until at least the second “practice session.”
Me: I take it back—it’s like you don’t know me at all! I’m not some sheep who would just sleep with a guy who snapped his fingers.
Her: Yeah, but. He’s cute. He’s famous. He’s just goofy enough to seem harmless . . .
Me: Well I’ve never even kissed a guy before, so . . .
Her: OMG. You neither? I thought I was the world’s last unkissed 16-year-old. That makes it even more dangerous. You’re like fresh meat and he’s a tiger!
Me: LOL. He is not a tiger. More like a baby giraffe.
Her: Just keep your guard up. That’s all I’m saying.
Me: Okay, Mom. Talk to you later.
My actual mom knocks gently on my doorframe and then peeks her head through the open doorway. She’s got my baby brother, Jacob, balanced on one hip. He makes a sort of burping-giggling noise when he sees me.
“This boy must like you if he’s willing to help you out like this,” she says.
I debate explaining to my mom how Jordy is singularly focused, but I decide that might encourage a conversation I don’t want to have about how I should be dating. “I have to get going,” I say.
“Do you need the car?”
As scared as I am of riding with strangers, maybe it seems weird that I can drive myself places, but it’s all about feeling in control. If I’m behind the wheel, I can go slow. I can establish safe space cushions and pull off crowded freeways. I can force myself to stay focused. Riding with someone else means trusting them not just with my life, but with theirs too, and with the lives of everyone else out on the road. And I’ve never found anyone who drives as carefully as I do.
I grab my racquet bag from the floor in front of my bed. “Yeah. If you don’t mind.”
“Okay.” My mom leans in and gives me a kiss on the forehead. “Have fun.”
“I’ll try.” I give Jake a little tickle under the chin and then squeeze past Mom and head for the door.
Erin is parked on the living room floor watching a TV show about dinosaurs. She’s drinking pink milk from a cereal bowl one spoonful at a time. “Mack Wire!” she says. “Where you going?”
“To play tennis.”
“Can I play too?” The spoon wobbles in her little hand, and a bit of milk dribbles onto the carpet.
“Maybe next time,” I tell her. “Be careful with your spoon.”
She glances at the damp spot on the carpet and then back up at me. She rubs at the spot with her foot, and her sock soaks up the milk. “All better,” she says.
I smile. “All better.” I wish I could fix things as easily as she can.
A twinge of n
erves radiates through my body as I park the car across the street from a two-story house made of pale pink stucco.
I stroll up the driveway and knock gently on the door. Once. Twice. Three times. I check out the yard while I’m waiting. A row of palm trees casts spiny shadows over the front of the house. A marble birdbath sits between a pair of flower beds, bits of scattered leaves and debris floating on the surface of the water.
The front door opens with a soft creak. Jordy looks down at me through the screen door. He’s wearing black mesh shorts, a T-shirt, and a visor. “You came,” he says.
I wipe my hands nervously on my tennis skirt. “Were you expecting me not to?”
“I don’t know.” His lips curl upward, and from this close I can see the way his eyes change, the way his whole body seems to relax in tandem with his grin. I can’t believe I ever found his smile manufactured. “I haven’t really figured you out yet.” He opens the screen door and I step inside.
I follow Jordy through a foyer with a vaulted ceiling into a living room with a white leather L-shaped sofa and glass coffee tables. There’s not a speck of dust anywhere.
“Your house is really pretty.” I stand frozen in place, like I’m afraid to touch anything for fear of getting it dirty.
“Thanks. But it’s my parents’ house. I just live here.”
“Are they around?” I shift my weight from one foot to the other.
“I think they said something about a wine tasting. I didn’t press for information. They feel more like jailers than parents sometimes, so any day I get to myself is a major bonus.”
“Well, at least it’s a nice place to be imprisoned. Do you have a tennis court here? Or are we going somewhere?”
Jordy pulls the silver cord on a set of vertical blinds and they swish to the side, revealing a sliding glass door that leads out into a backyard with a bright orange tennis court. A hopper of balls is already set up behind the baseline, waiting for me.
“Excellent,” I say. “Now I can mess up as much as I want without a whole club full of people staring at me.”
He lifts a fist to his mouth to stifle a yawn. “Well, chances are they’d be staring at me, but yeah, okay, if it makes you feel better.”
I crack a smile. “Your arrogance is kind of refreshing.”
“Thanks,” he says. “Honed by years of practice. Now let’s get going. I want twenty serves over the net to start. Remember, good toss. Use your shoulder.”
It takes me about fifteen minutes and forty-five tries to get the twenty good serves Jordy wants from me. He stands patiently on the other side of the net and returns each ball I manage to put in play. By the time I hit the last ball over the net I’m sweating like crazy, but my new toss is starting to feel less awkward.
He jogs around to my side of the net. “Better.”
“You’re a good teacher.” I blot sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.
“You’re a good student.” Without warning, he leans in close to me, so close I can see the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose and smell the sharp woodsy scent of his deodorant. His fingertips land on the clasp of my necklace, which has worked its way around to the front so it’s next to my mystic knot. “Make a wish.” He twists the chain so the clasp is in the back again.
“I wish I knew how to serve.”
“Shh.” His pupils dilate. “You’re not supposed to tell it to me. Now we’re going to have to practice twice as hard.”
“How do you know about wishing on necklaces, anyway?” I spin my racquet between my palms.
“My sister likes to wish on everything.” Jordy pulls a water bottle out of his tennis bag and takes a long drink. “What about you? Do you have sisters or brothers?”
Connor’s face flashes before me. Green eyes. Dark hair. Another replica of my mom. Maybe it’s weird, but when I think of my brother, I think of the eighteen-year-old he would have been, not the thirteen-year-old who died. I think of the way his voice would sound now, of how we’d fight over my mom’s car, of how he’d be overprotective of me and threaten to mess up any guy who broke my heart.
“I have a half sister and a half brother,” I say finally. “Erin is two and a half and Jake is a month old.” I fumble in my bag for my own water bottle and take a long drink.
“Cool,” Jordy says. He leaves me on the side with the hopper of balls and jogs around to the far side of the court. “Start putting back in your power and angles, but don’t lose your new toss. Let’s try for forty more good serves. Twenty down the center and twenty out wide.”
“You’re a slave driver,” I joke. But I do a quick five-second check and then get to work. I go from left to right and serve balls at Jordy. Slowly but surely I find the body position and toss I need in order to aim my serve in different spots. Jordy returns most of the balls softly, just over the net, so they’ll be easy for me to retrieve. Occasionally, though, he cranks one cross-court or down the line, painting the outside stripe of the singles court.
“Showoff,” I say after a ball blazes past me almost too fast to even see.
He cracks his neck from side to side and rolls his shoulders back. “Might as well have a little fun, right?”
After I land my fortieth serve over the net, Jordy and I hit around for about an hour, and then we call it quits. I help him collect all of the loose tennis balls and place them back in the metal hopper.
“You’re doing a lot better,” he says.
“Thanks. I’m feeling a lot better.”
“Awesome. We should celebrate.” He pauses. “What are you doing later?”
“What?” I say, even though I’m pretty sure I heard him just fine.
“I was going to invite you to a barbecue,” he says. “My parents almost never let me go out, but Kimber is throwing it and she’s a friend of the family. Plus she lives right down the street.”
“Kimber from the team?”
“The one and only. You should come. Lots of tennis people will be there.”
“Is that supposed to be a plus?” I grin.
Jordy laughs. My insides go a little wobbly. For a second I imagine a life where I could say yes, where I could go to a party again and not worry about anyone getting hurt. That reality feels even further away than the one where I get on a plane to Ireland in three months.
“We’re not all bad,” he says.
I snort. “I don’t think Kimber likes me. She implied I was out of shape and then offered me some free passes to her gym.”
Jordy snickers. “Sorry, that’s not funny, but don’t take it personally. She’s just intense like that. To Kimber, if you don’t eat, sleep, and breathe tennis, you’re not committed enough. She’s probably in better shape than I am.”
“Yeah. Well, thanks for the invite, but I’ve got some stuff to do.” Looking down, I tug on the hem of my shirt, suddenly aware of how clingy my clothes are now that I’m all sweaty.
Jordy’s grin fades for a second, but he recovers quickly. “If you have a boyfriend or whatever, you can invite him too.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend. I just . . . can’t go.”
“You really don’t like me at all, do you?” His smile falters again. He’s clearly not used to being rejected.
“It’s not that. It’s—”
Jordy cuts me off before I can come up with a specific excuse. “I find that kind of . . . what was the word you used? Refreshing.”
“What?”
“Most of the girls around here hang all over me, but it’s only because they see me on TV and stuff. It’s just nice to know there are people out there who don’t care about any of that.” He heads across the impeccably manicured back lawn, the ball hopper in one hand, his racquet bag in the other.
I follow him back into the living room and slide the door closed behind me. “I’ve never known anyone famous,” I say, making air quotes around the “famous” part. “So you’re just a regular guy to me.”
“I’m just a regular guy, period. I wish m
ore people would get with that program.” He sets the hopper down just inside the door. “How about we have our own barbecue instead? Or better yet, do you like California burritos?”
“Are they different from Mexican burritos?”
Jordy gasps. “You’ve never had a California burrito? With the best carne asada and guacamole north of the border, wrapped in a tortilla and stuffed with French fries?”
“You sound like a commercial.” I raise an eyebrow. “French fries in a burrito? Is that part of your athlete diet?”
“Only when my mother isn’t looking. Hang out for an hour; you have to try one.”
Before I can reply, he grabs a cell phone from the glass coffee table. “You have to,” he mouths. I listen as he orders multiple burritos and a variety of sauces to go with them. Then he tosses his phone back onto the table and looks at me. “Thirty minutes,” he says. “Thirty minutes until your life changes forever.”
“Must be some burrito.” I tug at the hem of my shirt again.
“You have no idea.”
“Okay.” I fumble in the zippered pocket of my racquet bag. “I’ve got about ten dollars—”
“My treat,” Jordy says. “And by that I mean my parents’ treat.”
“But I shouldn’t—”
“Yes you should.” He rests his hand on top of mine and zips my bag closed. His fingers are really warm. “Like I said, helping you with your serve is helping me with my shrink homework. And trust me, my parents are paying a lot more than the price of a burrito for therapy.”
I set my bag on the carpet next to the tennis ball hopper. “You just seem so together . . .”
He flops down on the sofa. “Ha. Glad I’ve got one of us fooled.”
I lean against the wall that separates the living room from the dining room. “No, seriously. You seem like the least likely person ever to need a therapist.”
He makes a face. “I hated it at first. I swear I thought my mom picked Daniel on purpose just as one more subtle reminder that Real Jordy isn’t very impressive without Tennis Player Jordy to go along with him.”
“What do you mean?”
He snorts. “Oh, come on. Daniel’s young. He’s smart. He’s successful. He’s probably rich. All the girls think he’s hot. And then there’s me. I’m . . . young.”