Jersey Tomatoes are the Best

by Maria Padian

  “No!” she exclaims. “I mean … I’m really full. We ate breakfast late, and I never feel like eating right after I dance. But I’m so thirsty! Is there anything to drink?”

  She pivots and walks quickly down the length of the table toward a bowl filled with ice and bottles of sparkling water. I stare at her retreating back before she disappears in the crush of people. Her shoulder blades stick out like stunted wings. Beginning at her neck, you can see lumps along her spine, knobby vertebrae that disappear into her waist. The bones that frame her back fan out from the spine like long fingers just beneath her skin.

  As if some creature had her in its clutches.

  Chapter Eight

  EVA

  “I can’t wait to show you this. You are going to be so psyched.”

  “So why do I feel so nervous?”

  Henry and I sit in my bedroom, eyes glued to the laptop, where, amazingly enough, I am introducing her to Facebook. My latest obsession in particular: a page I’ve created for her. And a group I’ve joined for her: the Chadwick Tennis Academy Summer Camp group. It’s a crucial step in her education.

  Because Henry’s leaving for Chadwick. In a week.

  To her credit, she has at least heard of Facebook, but up until this point she hasn’t joined. I realize it’s not her fault that she is cyberculturally inept: Mark polices her computer access with secret police–like zeal. It’s not that he suspects she might post lewd pictures of herself, or knowingly join chat rooms with pedophiles. He just thinks everyone’s out to stalk his daughter, and the computer is one hole he is bound and determined to plug.

  Anyway, several days ago the gods of tennis and ballet got together … just like our parents, downstairs at this very moment, sipping gin and tonics and discussing their daughters’ brilliant careers over a smoking grill … and good fortune rained down on Henry and me. Within days of my hearing from Madame DuPres, Chadwick offered Hen a summer scholarship. Depending on how things go, that could become a full-year scholarship.

  How Mark agreed to this is beyond me. Henry says the price was right. Plus he thinks it’s just for the summer. Plus her mom went to the mat for her. Voices were raised to epic volumes, she says.

  I think they slipped something into his nightly cocktail to make him less controlling.

  I’ve opened Henry’s page, and a photo of her appears on the screen. It’s a picture I took in May, at our school’s spring formal. She’s wearing makeup and clip-on, gold hoop earrings.

  “Hey! That’s me!” she exclaims.

  “Glam, don’t you think?” I say.

  “Yeah, but I’m not glam, Eva,” Henry says. “This is false advertising.”

  “This is a smokescreen,” I explain. “Think: everyone is checking out everyone else. All the Chadwick girls are looking at your picture and thinking, ‘No comp! We’ll take pretty girl in straight sets.’ Meanwhile, the guys are thinking, ‘Hot babe!’ ” Henry looks confused.

  “Why would anyone at Chadwick read this?” she asks.

  “Because you’ve joined the Chadwick Tennis Academy Summer Camp group, and I’ve already garnered forty-eight friends for you,” I tell her. I glance at the screen. “Correction! Fifty-one friends. Three more requests were answered overnight. Oh, and look! You have a message.”

  “Message?” Henry asks, blankly.

  “People who have friended you, or whom you have friended, can leave messages,” I explain.

  “Cool,” Henry says. “Who messaged me?” I don’t bother to explain that while “friend” is a verb, “message” is not, so I just read it:

  “Hola, Henriette! My name is Yolanda Cruz, and I’m

  going to be your roommate! I’m 15, cubanita, from

  Miami. Write to me!

  Your roommate, Yoly

  P.S. Quinceaneras Rule!”

  “What rules?” Henry says.

  “We need to email her immediately and set her straight about this Henriette thing,” I say. “Didn’t she read your profile? I wrote very clearly, ‘Nickname: Henry.’ I will murder anyone who calls you anything else.”

  “Hold it. You wrote a profile of me?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “Eva!” Henry shrieks.

  “What?” I reply, innocently. “This is how you make friends! ‘I love you, you love me …’ ” I sing the theme song of Barney & Friends. We loved Barney when we were little. She grabs me around the shoulders.

  “Show me,” she says, faux-menacingly.

  I point to the profile box on the screen and read aloud:

  “Henriette Lloyd. Age: 16. Home: Ridgefield, New Jersey. Nickname: Henry. Status: Single. I love chocolate, great-looking guys who don’t know they’re great-looking, music, my backyard ball machine and tennis … but not necessarily in that order. I hate liverwurst, stuck-up guys who don’t know they’re stuck-up, my backyard ball machine and losing … not necessarily in that order. Jersey Tomatoes Are the Best!”

  Henry looks completely confused.

  “I’ve never eaten liverwurst in my life,” she says.

  “Trust me, you would hate it.”

  “Eva!” she shrieks again. This is becoming a pattern.

  “What?” I counter. “It’s cute. It’s funny. And it’s not controversial; everyone agrees about liverwurst, and there is not a single stuck-up guy on the planet who knows he is stuck-up.”

  She puts her head in her hands.

  “Let’s check out the other happy campers,” I say brightly.

  The Chadwick group appears on the screen as an array of thumbnail photos. Most are pretty traditional head shots. A few are these teeny action pictures you can barely make out of someone swinging a tennis racket. Everyone, in every picture, however, looks tan.

  “Promise me you will use sunblock,” I say, scrolling through the photos. “These kids are going to look like alligators before they’re thirty.”

  “Click on him,” Henry says, ignoring my upbeat observation. She points to a cute blond. She’s getting into the spirit of Facebook.

  I click and his photo enlarges. He is seriously hot, and he has great teeth. I’m a little OCD about teeth. I mean, they are the gateway to the French kiss, a phenomenon I’ve yet to experience but whose success I imagine is wholly dependent on fresh breath and sound oral care. Blond dude has awesome ones: very straight, highly polished white perfection gleaming from a broad smile in an unfortunately overly tan face. Hair is good, though. Kind of long, with these light streaks.

  “ ‘Jonathan Dundas,’ ” I read aloud from his profile. “ ‘Home: Salinas, California. Age: 17. Nickname: Jon.’ Hmm. That’s original. Okay, here’s what he has to say about himself: ‘I love the high you get after groovin’ on backhands for an hour in 80-degree heat, then jumpin’ into an icy pool. I love workin’ out, anything that gets my heart rate up, especially if I can do it outside. I like chillin’ with friends, playin’ guitar, especially around a fire, at night. Life is Good then.’ ” Henry snorts, and we look at each other.

  “Eeeeew!” we both squeal simultaneously, then dissolve into laughter. This is our signature reaction to guys who are totally full of themselves.

  “He has completely negated the allure of his excellent teeth,” I say.

  “No way are those streaks natural,” Henry adds.

  “Next,” I say.

  We go on like this for a good half hour, rating the guys from Hot But Pretentious (Jon Dundas), to Super Jock With Kissing Potential (very buff fellow from Florida, more great teeth), to Foreign and Hopelessly Incomprehensible (some Czech kid with no vowels in his name). There are plenty of girls, too, but they all blend together for me, like one giant Megan or Amber, with tight ponytails, freckled turned-up noses and muscle definition in their arms. Henry, however, seems fascinated by them. She leans forward, head close to the screen, reading their tennis “pedigrees”: what tournaments they’ve entered, and won; how long they’ve played; whether they work with private coaches or have attended other academies or camps.<
br />
  I watch as she stalks her prey. To her, the Chadwick guys are an interesting diversion. But the girls? They are already on the other side of the net.

  After we’ve read every friend profile, Henry sits back. She looks thoughtful.

  “I doubt anyone will get the tomatoes thing,” she says.

  “Ah,” I reply. “Funny you should mention that.” I go over to my closet, where I’ve hidden a box. It’s wrapped with this great paper I bought that has little tennis rackets all over it. That was a find.

  “What’s this?” she asks.

  “A very appropriate going-away gift. Let me ask you, although I’m sure I already know the answer. What are your plans for T-shirt night?”

  “What’s T-shirt night?” Henry’s brow furrows.

  “Hen, what are you going to do without me?” I sigh. “It’s on the Chadwick website, and I’ll bet it came in that orientation packet you got. Every camper is supposed to wear a T-shirt that describes where they’re from. As a fellow Jersey Girl, I thought it was appropriate that I gift you with the perfect T-shirt representing the Garden State.”

  Henry looks touched.

  “Eva, that’s so thoughtful. It almost makes up for the liverwurst.”

  “Open it,” I prompt.

  Henry rips the amazing paper. (I have to hold my breath. I always carefully pull off the tape and unfold the paper in a single, intact sheet.) From the gift box within, she pulls out a short-sleeved white T-shirt.

  “ ‘Jersey Tomatoes Are the Best,’ ” she reads aloud, then gasps. The words are emblazoned across the chest of the shirt, just beneath the neck. Beneath the words are two strategically positioned plump, ripe red tomatoes.

  “You will be the rage of the opening-night ceremonies,” I tell her.

  “I will be the slut of the opening-night ceremonies!” she exclaims. “No way can I wear this. It’d be like asking guys to stare at my … tomatoes!”

  “Only the perverted guys will stare, and that’s how you’ll sort them out from the nice guys,” I say.

  “Any guy over the age of ten with a pulse will stare!” Henry insists.

  “Put it on,” I suggest. Henry yanks the T-shirt over her head, and we move to my full-length mirror for a look. The tomatoes fall precisely where they should.

  “Let’s go downstairs and see what Mark thinks,” I suggest.

  “You are so nuts!” Henry is yelling and laughing at the same time. She begins prancing around in front of the mirror, sticking her tomatoes out as far as possible.

  “Look out,” she says to her reflection in a deep, sexy voice. “I’m going to kick your ass in straight sets.”

  Henry cavorts like this for a few minutes, and I stand back from the mirror. No girl wants to get a look at herself side by side with Henriette Lloyd. It’s like agreeing to pose for photographs with a Russian supermodel. Makes your own thighs expand.

  Henry finally flops on my bed. I flop beside her.

  “I’m gonna miss you,” she says quietly.

  “I know. You’ll be completely lost without me.” She reaches behind her, grabs a pillow and bats me over the head with it.

  “You’re welcome,” I say.

  “You do understand that I can’t possibly wear it?” I roll over and look Henry in the eyes.

  “No. Explain to me why you can’t do something wacky and funny for once.”

  “Gimme a break, Eva. Would you?”

  “Henry Lloyd, I have just one thing to say: Tinky Winky.” Her eyes widen.

  “Oh god. That’s right,” she says.

  Freshman year, October, Henry and I gathered our courage and went to our school’s Halloween dance. We both loathe and despise school dances: Henry, because despite her looks she is shy around guys, and me, because it kills me to watch my peers grinding and sweating to bad music and calling it dance. Anyway, dress code for the night was “costumes optional,” so most people wore jeans and a dumb hat, or some lame pirate thing. Paige came as a hula girl and wore a top that was nothing more than two coconut shells and some bungee cords.

  I got hold of a totally authentic Teletubbies suit and came as Tinky Winky.

  At first no one knew who I was, which is a remarkably liberating thing. I could go up to the cutest guys in our school and body-slam them with my enormous, plush purple bottom, and they’d start to dance with me. They thought it was way fun to grind with Tinky Winky, and they’d laugh. With me, for a change. Not at me.

  The fact is I’ve been getting laughed at since I started going to school with my hair in a ballet bun. Since I started getting excused from gym because my mother felt it might lead to a dance-career-ending injury. Started carrying umbrellas on sunny days, or wearing Capezio leggings and short, flowing dresses instead of jeans and T-shirts to school. I’ve been the object of other kids’ jokes from the moment they figured out I wasn’t like the rest of the pack.

  What Henry doesn’t get is that if you want to survive that sort of thing, you have to make it work for you. Play up the things they mock, like sliding into leg splits at inappropriate moments, or wearing eccentric styles of dress. Then they start to think you’re in on the joke. They think you like them, and they like you, and they never realize they’re mean little bastards who lacerate your feelings every day.

  Here’s the thing: Henry’s a competitor who never lets her game face slip. I’m a performer. A master performer.

  At some point that Halloween night I started to actually dance: a run of soutenus, a split. Kids went wild, applauded, and I heard, “Oh my god, that’s Eva!” The cute girls reclaimed their cute boyfriends at that point, but the dance was nearly over, so it was fine.

  Footsteps creak on the wooden stairs outside my bedroom. Henry sits up and pulls off the tomatoes T-shirt.

  “Girls? Burgers are ready,” I hear my dad say through the closed door.

  “Coming,” I answer. Henry is staring at the T-shirt in her lap.

  “I wish I were more like you,” she finally says. “But I’m only brave when I’m holding a racket and firing balls at someone.” I place my hand over hers.

  “Just bring it,” I say. “Deal?”

  “Deal,” she agrees.

  We head downstairs, and happy party sounds drift up to us. The sliding screen door opening and closing. The clink of ice in glasses. Smell of meat sizzling on the grill. My mother’s sharp, high-pitched laugh. I stifle the urge to turn tail and run back to Facebook. All lined up properly on my computer screen.

  If I’m so brave, why do I always feel like I might just … scream?

  Chapter Nine

  HENRY

  Boca is so not New Jersey.

  For one thing: palm trees. I’ve never seen one in real life, and now I see them everywhere. Lining the highway, dotting the gazillion golf courses we drive past and shading the entrances to these walled, gated developments that look like private clubs from the outside and have names like Bella Terra, or Golden Grand Harbor.

  Another thing: the birds. I’ve already fallen in love with this funny white bird that has a long, curved beak. Mom calls it an ibis and tells me it’s practically the symbol of South Florida. For a girl whose entire bird experience is limited to sparrows, blue jays, crows, robins and an occasional cardinal, watching an ibis step with its long, pencil-thin legs through marsh grass, and poke that unlikely nose in the water, is completely fascinating.

  Finally: the light. It’s so different from the light up north that you’ve got to wonder whether a whole other, way more intense sun hangs over Florida. It makes the colors different. Red in Jersey doesn’t burn the way red burns in Florida. Yellow, orange, green … they seem brighter and weightless down here. Plus everyone wears these colorful clothes that just go with the sun. You see all these grandmas in teal, lime and magenta. Dressed in fruit-yogurt-colored golf shorts, with leathery faces bronzed burnt umber.

  Eva would be horrified. I imagine her strolling the streets of Boca Raton dressed in a snow-white burka, carrying a parasol. And s
lathered with sunblock.

  I’m determined to get a picture of a really tan person and email it to her. I’ve got my camera out now, as Mom and Dad and I sit at this little outdoor café, looking over lunch menus. We’re a few miles away from Chadwick, near the ocean, and our table is shaded by a big awning. We’ve been on the road for three days, driving straight on through from Bergen County to Palm Beach County, stopping only for bathroom breaks, meals or sleeping in a motel off the highway. Check-in is one p.m.

  I’m trying to calm my nerves by looking through the viewfinder of my camera. I am absolutely surprised by myself. Henriette Lloyd, Tennis Terminator, is officially freaked out. My hands, attempting to hold the camera steady as I survey the other patrons through the tiny peephole, shake noticeably.

  “You know,” I say, scanning the patio, “I feel like L. L. Bean at Paris Hilton’s birthday party.”

  “Excuse me?” Mom asks.

  I gesture to our clothes. We each wear some shade of tan shorts, and primary-colored, short-sleeved shirts. My parents wear sneakers with ankle-high socks; I’ve got my favorite Teva flip-flops. The other diners are dressed like tropical parrots. Men wear shirts with dizzying patterns. Women wear bright sundresses and glittery jewelry. Their sandals are studded with colorful beads. Every female toenail and fingernail is painted.

  Dad chuckles. Nice to see some semblance of a smile on his face.

  Mom looks at her watch. She swivels in her chair and her eyes dart impatiently.

  “I’m going to find out whether anyone plans to take our order,” she announces, and walks briskly from the table. Mom’s usually pretty patient in restaurants, so this surprises me. Dad doesn’t seem to notice anything odd. He looks like he has something else on his mind.

  “Henry,” he begins. I recognize the tone. “You know I haven’t been too keen on sending you to this school.”

  Oh god, not this again. Can we please not have a scene in a restaurant right now?

  “Uh, yeah, you weren’t shy about how you felt,” I reply dryly.