Jersey Tomatoes are the Best

by Maria Padian

  “It’s called a Turkey Buster,” she finally says. “I got it from the deli across the street.” She takes another huge mouthful. We watch in fascination as she works her cheeks around the meat and vegetables. You can actually see a lump travel down her throat when she swallows. She holds the oozing mass out to Marguerite.

  “Wanna bite?”

  Marguerite doesn’t hesitate. She leans forward and with both hands cradles the torpedo. She inspects every corner, carefully deciding where to attack this behemoth. She goes for the drippy dressing end and unleashes a torrent of something resembling ranch.

  “Ah! Help!” she cries, mouth full, laughing. Anna reaches across the table, holding out a safety net of napkins. Marguerite passes the wrap off to her, and now Anna looks it over. After carefully considering her choice, she bites from the fat end.

  “Umm,” she says, nodding approvingly. She looks at me. I feel this tight constriction in my throat. No one warned me that membership in this club would involve exchanging saliva and eating deli meats.

  Don’t even think about it, you pig! Do you know how many pliés are in one bite?

  “No thanks, I’m good,” I say, holding up my carrots and willing myself to smile. Breathe, Eva, I think. Anna passes the wrap back to Caitlin.

  “So where are you all from that you have to board?” I say, nonchalantly. I am determined to not watch Caitlin demolish the rest of her lunch. I pluck carrot one from its bag. I nip one end, then the other. Chew. Swallow. Nip one end, then the other. Chew. Swallow. Repeat until the carrot is so small there is no end. Just this little bit I pop into my mouth. Perfect.

  “Bedford,” Marguerite says. She’s back to the yogurt now, carefully scooping bites with a small plastic spoon. “You know, Westchester. Not much further than you, Eva.”

  “Caitlin’s from Philly. I’m from Newton, Massachusetts,” Anna continues.

  “Why don’t you board?” asks Marguerite.

  “I signed up for the program too late,” I reply easily. “The dorms were full.” Nip. Nip. Chew. Swallow.

  “Madame knows your name.”

  Anna. Her statement sounds flat, and somehow accusing.

  “I met her at the audition,” I reply. I don’t know why I think this is a helpful thing to say.

  Marguerite scrapes the last of her yogurt from its plastic container.

  “I don’t think she knows my name,” she says. “At least, I’ve never heard her say it. What about you guys? Has Madame DuPres ever said your names?” The others shake their heads.

  “Yeah, well, I guess that does it for me,” I say, laughing nervously. “Tell me something: does that woman ever smile?”

  “She smiles when the principals visit class,” says Caitlin. “You know, the famous ballerinas.” The Turkey Buster is gone, and she reaches into her brown paper bag again. She pulls out a giant, shrink-wrapped cookie.

  “She doesn’t criticize you unless she thinks it’s worth it.” Anna again. Sounding thoughtful. “I know it’s perverse, but the more she seems to hate you, the better she thinks you are.”

  “Oh, puh-leeeeze!” Caitlin exclaims. “How would anyone know what Madame thinks? The woman’s a … what’s that big Egyptian thing called?”

  “Sphinx,” says Marguerite.

  “Yes, thank you,” says Caitlin. “She’s a mystery. Her only expression is annoyance. You just have to get over it and not care. It’ll make you crazy otherwise.”

  Crazy. I’ll tell you what’s making me crazy. Watching Caitlin devour that cookie. The thing is huge. Two thousand calories, at least.

  Marguerite has rolled her bag into a tight ball; Anna has moved on to an apple and munches contentedly. I’m on carrot seven.

  “Well, it’s too bad you’re not in the dorms,” Marguerite concludes. “It’s a lot of fun. We’re all in a suite together. Two bedrooms, with an adjoining lounge. Television.”

  Caitlin stands up. She’s still chewing, and has scrunched all her garbage together. Her eyes dart.

  “Anybody see the trash can?” she says. Before we answer, she’s up. She strides to the exit. Still clutching her bag, she leaves the canteen.

  I can’t hide my surprise. There’s a trash can not three feet from us.

  “She went to the restroom,” Anna says.

  “Huh?” I reply. “I thought she said …”

  “Don’t worry about it, Eva,” Marguerite says shortly. She winds up and tosses her bag ball into the trash. I look at Anna.

  When our eyes meet she takes two fingers and pretends to stick them down her throat.

  It doesn’t take a genius to know where the Turkey Buster ended up.

  Chapter Eleven

  HENRY

  It begins with forehands. It always begins with forehands.

  I don’t know why, since backhand is supposedly the more natural stroke. With a backhand you start with your arm across your body and open up, like a gate swinging out. With a forehand you start open, but cross your body. Block it, actually. Block the natural, forward movement toward the net. So, go figure.

  A dozen of us girls have gathered at the hard courts with Missy Thompson, the Chadwick coach we met last night. She reminds me of an otter. She’s sleek and brown, and moves with these efficient, fluid steps. I’m no good at figuring out how old adults are, but Missy has these little lines at the corners of her eyes. They could be from smiling. Or squinting at the sun. Or age.

  I’m surprisingly energetic, given that I kept waking up in the middle of the night. It is so weird to share a bedroom with a complete stranger, and somewhere around two a.m. I became obsessed with the sound of Yolanda’s breathing. Like she had her mouth open. I predict she’s going to turn into one of those old ladies who snore.

  The other thing that kept me up was the smell of the empanadas Mrs. Cruz left us. The closed air in the dorm room was heavy with the smell of seasoned meat. Earlier that day, when we were all sitting around, the Lloyds and the Cruzes, eating these deep-fried pastries stuffed with ground pork and mystery spices, I thought they were the best things I’d ever tasted. But at two a.m., in a strange place with a raspy girl I barely know, and Mom and Dad somewhere on the highway between the Alligator State and the Garden State, that pork was doing a dance in my intestines.

  “Good morning, everyone!” Missy chirps brightly. “The forecast is for bright sun and mid-nineties by afternoon, so I’d like to make the most of the morning and the cooler temps.

  “Let’s start with drills. First forehands, then backhands: crosscourt, down the line, then inside out. One hundred consecutive of each shot, ball landing beyond the service line every time. If you hit it out, you start the count over.”

  Someone lets out a low whistle. Sounds like a falling rocket. Missy laughs. “I’m looking for consistency and placement. Power is not part of this drill. Grab a can of balls and head out.” She reads from a clipboard: “On court one: Adams and Burke. Court two: Cruz and Delmonico. Court three: Lloyd and Maney. Court four …”

  New balls. Dad and I beat balls until they’re practically hairless. On my high school team we only break out the new balls for matches.

  Allyson Maney introduces herself as we walk to court three. She wears this hot little red and white Fila outfit. I’ve got on my Ridgefield High cotton shorts and a gray tee.

  “Henry Lloyd,” I reply.

  “Henny?” she asks.

  “Henry. It’s how I survive ‘Henriette,’ ” I explain. Maney smiles.

  “Where are you from?” she asks.

  “Jersey. You?”

  “My mom and I live in a condo off campus so I can train here year-round. But my dad and little brother still live in Philly. Dad’s job is there. No way he could move to Florida.” We’ve reached court three, and she drops the oversized tennis bag she’s carrying. She could carry a baby elephant in a bag that size. As I pop the tab on the can … I love that whoosh and new-ball smell … she glances at the girls on the next court.

  “See the tall, really t
an girl in the blue shorts?” she murmurs. I follow her gaze. A lanky kid with a long braid down her back is opening a can of balls. Even from where we stand I can see the muscle definition in her arms.

  “She’s twelve,” Maney says. I gape.

  “No way,” I declare. The girl is just too tall. Nobody can grow that much in twelve years. But Maney nods.

  “She’s a six-footer,” she says, reading my mind. “Usually hits with the boys. The older boys.” I stare as this miracle of athletic DNA walks to the baseline and begins smacking warm-up balls to her partner. Maney pivots, directing her gaze down the long length of courts. When she finds what she’s looking for, she takes hold of my arm and turns me in the right direction.

  “Last court. The blonde.” I see a little girl hitting with a man in a Chadwick T-shirt. He’s feeding her forehands and the kid wails on them. Her feet leave the ground with every shot.

  “She’s nine,” Maney says. “Parents just moved here with her from California.”

  Okay. Thanks, Allyson Maney. I am officially freaked out and intimidated.

  The two of us take up our positions on the baseline and begin. On the first ball we get to twelve before she hits one wide, into the alley. She looks at me accusingly.

  “Hey, could you lighten up? Missy said no power.”

  “Uh, sorry,” I say. But I’m surprised. I wasn’t hitting hard. We start over and I add a little loft to the ball. Slow it down with topspin. Maney makes it to twenty-five before sending it out.

  “Damn!” I hear her exclaim. She glances down the line of courts. Missy is working with the girls next to us. “Start over.”

  We make it to twenty-five. Fifty. Seventy-five. Then Maney hits it into the tape. Sounds like a whip cracking. She stands there, stupidly, for a second, then half tosses her racket on the ground and puts her hands on her hips.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she demands.

  “What?” I ask, mystified.

  “How do you expect us to reach a hundred if you’re gonna pound it?” she continues.

  “I’m not pounding,” I reply. I can’t believe she is blaming me for her errors.

  “Yeah, well, try a little less aggression and a little more consistency,” she snaps. “This is a drill. Henriette.”

  I feel my face flush red. It occurs to me that I didn’t drag my butt all the way to Florida to get attitude from some girl who can’t complete a forehand drill. As she bends over to retrieve her racket, I pull a ball from my pocket. I smack a forehand at her. It whizzes past her head and bounces off the fence.

  “One,” I say, loudly.

  “Nice shot,” I hear.

  Missy stands behind me. I don’t know how much she’s seen, but from the expression on her face I can tell: enough.

  “Maney, take five,” she calls out. “Lloyd, you’ll hit with me.”

  This sick feeling settles into the pit of my stomach as I watch Missy walk over to the other side of the net. Maney stands to one side, sucking on a Powerade. Big grin on her face as she lowers it.

  Ten points, Henry. Bet you’ll think twice before you try to peg another camper. Less than an hour into your first lesson and you’re already making friends.

  “Let’s start at half power,” Missy says when she reaches the baseline. “Deep to the corners. One hundred forehands.” I nod and hit one over. She returns it harder and closer to the line than anything Maney hit.

  Missy’s about to give me a public spanking.

  Take your medicine, Henry. You deserve it.

  I return her shot. Her next. The next. So at twenty-five, she picks up the pace.

  “Three-quarters power, Lloyd,” she calls out. Her next ball zings over the net.

  I shorten my backswing, train my eyes hard on the logo, the Wilson, and increase the racket-head speed as I connect. My balls zing back to her. They kick high as I exaggerate the topspin. At seventy-five, Missy calls out again.

  “Give it everything you got, Lloyd!”

  I explode. My feet leave the ground with each stroke. The strings connecting with the ball make a pock! like gunfire. At some point, other players lay off their drills to watch, and begin counting out loud as Missy and I approach one hundred. I try not to let it distract me. Try not to notice how hard I’m breathing.

  At ninety-seven, Missy hits it wide. The counting stops. Players stare at her, stunned.

  She wipes her forehead on the sleeves of her shirt. She walks toward the net and motions me to join her. As I approach, I see that sweat soaks the front of her shirt.

  “The question is, Lloyd,” she says, when I get close, “can you hit soft?” She grins. Relief washes over me when I realize she’s not mad.

  “To be honest with you, Missy, when I was hitting with Maney? I thought that was soft.”

  She looks at me quizzically, as if she’s trying to decide whether I’m serious or not. When I don’t say anything else, she nods. Like she’s made up her mind about something.

  “Let’s do a little switch here. Yochenko!” she calls out to the next court. The twelve-year-old wonder child halts her drill. “Swap with Maney,” Missy tells her. As the kid walks over, I head to my bag for some water. Maney is gathering her things. She moves in close to me.

  “Forgot to mention: she’s Russian.” I look Maney right in the eye.

  “Bring it on,” I whisper.

  My water is already warm, so before the six-foot Russian and I head out, I trot to the big coolers for a refill. They’re set up one court over, shaded by green umbrellas, and the water within is icy. The staff has also stacked soft white towels on a bench, just in case any of us needs a fresh one.

  As I fill up, someone presses against me.

  “Ay, Dios mío, I am so hot!” It’s Yoly. She holds an empty water bottle. She looks at me and grins. “But I think you might be hotter. Or burned. Henry, your face is so red!”

  I release the tap and move out of her way. As she fills her bottle, I take a swig from mine and glance around.

  Someone stands outside the fence, staring at us. A guy. Not much taller than me. Front of his shirt stained dark with sweat, long hair pulled back with a sweaty headband. Federer-like.

  Right. The guy from the line.

  When he realizes I’ve caught him staring, he turns and walks quickly away.

  “I guess Little Andre’s already wrapped it up for the morning.” Maney has come up behind us.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Chadwick’s brightest star. David Ross, but everyone calls him Little Andre. He’s crazy good, but rebellious, you know? Refuses to wear tennis whites, even at the all-white clubs … keeps his hair long. Kind of like Andre Agassi before he started doin’ bald, doin’ meth and hating on tennis. Ross lives for tennis. The coaches work pretty much one on one with him because the other guys can’t hang with his shots. We reckon he’s gonna go pro soon.”

  Yoly joins us as we watch the guy’s retreating back.

  “He’s not very big,” she says. Maney shrugs. She steps toward the cooler.

  “News flash, girls,” she says. “Size doesn’t matter.”

  I watch him with a bit more interest now. That’s a pro stride, I think. Sweaty, pro hair curling at the base of his neck. I have to agree with Yoly: I wouldn’t have picked him out of a crowd. David Ross is a wiry, average-sized guy who looks like he plays an average game. On appearances alone, Jonathan Dundas looks a lot more athletic. Still, he’s cute. Okay, hot, in that not-jacked-but-fit way. I wonder why he was staring.

  Wonder how much of my drill session he’d seen.

  Chapter Twelve

  EVA

  Someone taps on my door. I think. Hard to tell, because I’ve got the covers pulled over my head, and through the walls of my insulating bed-cocoon, sounds seem muffled and distant.

  “Eva? Honey, are you asleep already?”

  It’s Rhonda. The door swings into the bedroom with a familiar, faraway groan, and a pie-shaped wedge of light falls on the floor. My room is
dark, the hallway bright. I’ve pulled the shades against the setting summer sun, and wrapped myself in flannel pajamas to ward off the air-conditioning. My parents live like Eskimos. It’s late June in Jersey, but you’d think this house was an Inuit igloo in January.

  I try faking sleep, but Rhonda’s on a mission. I hear her place something on my desk, hear the clink of glasses. The slide of a tray. My bedside table lamp clicks on and illuminates the inside of my cocoon to daylight bright. The mattress yields to Rhonda’s weight as she sits beside me; the covers rustle as she pulls them down. I blink in the lamplight.

  “Hey, sleepyhead! How’re you doing?” She smiles, but it’s a real question.

  “Great,” I say, pretending to yawn. “What time is it?”

  “Only seven. You slept right through dinner.”

  “Wow. I must’ve been pretty tired.” I sit up. A smell fills my room. Grilled chicken. She’s carried grilled chicken in here, on the tray.

  I used to love grilled chicken. I imagine tasting it, and my stomach roars in response.

  Are you kidding me?? Are you f-ing kidding me?!

  She presses the back of her hand against my forehead, the way she used to when I was a little girl and she thought I had a fever.

  “They must be working you pretty hard,” she comments softly. “This is the third night in a row you’ve slept through dinner.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But it’s okay.” Rhonda sighs.

  “It’s not okay to miss dinner, Eva. You can’t be your best if your body is depleted.” I flash her my most reassuring smile.

  “Mom. Give me some credit for not being a total idiot.” Tell her to go. And take that crap out of here.

  She gets up and carries the tray to my bed. An entire chicken breast, with its crosshatched grill lines across the flesh, rests on a nest of salad greens, which are flecked with white cheese. Goat. Rhonda puts goat cheese in practically everything. There’s a tall glass of milk, and a bud vase with a single flower from her garden. Nice touch.

  “Would Your Highness like to eat sitting up in bed, or at the desk? Or, better yet, we could carry it downstairs so you could actually visit with your father.”