Jersey Tomatoes are the Best

by Maria Padian

  Mr. Cruz, from the end of the table, says something in Spanish to Yoly. She lowers her eyes as a blush spreads across her cheeks. “Sí, sí, Papi,” she says, a little dismissively, and waves her hand at him. Enrique stares at her, his eyebrows raised.

  “Why not? I think it’s a great idea,” he tells her. Yoly sighs.

  “Let’s not push this,” she says to him. Undertones of “drop it” in her voice.

  “What?” I press.

  “Nothing,” Yoly says at the same time Enrique replies, “The quinces.” They glance at each other, then Yoly sighs in resignation.

  “My dad would like to invite you to my quinceañera in a few weeks,” she explains. “Please. You are under no obligation to attend.”

  “Even though you would miss one of Miami’s best parties of the summer,” Enrique adds.

  “I like parties,” David says agreeably.

  “You would love this,” Enrique tells him.

  As Enrique tantalizes us with descriptions of the extravagances planned for Yoly’s quinces, I try to ignore the growing distress on her face. She trusts me with all this Cuban-tradition stuff; David is unknown to her. Enrique’s unabashed enthusiasm for the family’s celebration stands in sharp contrast to her demand that I tell no one about her very “not Chadwick” quinces photo.

  “Wait,” I hear David interrupt. “You go to church?”

  “Before the party,” Enrique explains. “There’s a big mass, and everyone comes. The girl walks to the altar, led by both parents. She looks like a bride, you know? All dressed up in this very fancy gown? Her mother places a tiara on her head; her father gives her a ring. In turn, she hands them a plastic doll, which is usually dressed just like her. It’s meant to symbolize her growing up and giving away the things of her childhood. Then the parents hand her flowers.”

  “Red roses,” Yoly prompts him. She seems resigned to the narrative.

  “It doesn’t have to be red roses,” Enrique argues.

  “I’m getting red roses,” she says, a tinge of irritation in her voice.

  “Fine,” Enrique says. “Then everybody sits for the mass, and the girl makes a speech.”

  “Speech?” I say. Yoly is resting her chin in her fist. She rolls her eyes at me and nods.

  “A big, formal thank-you to everyone in my whole life,” she says. “I haven’t started it yet.”

  “Better get going,” Enrique says, poking her in the shoulder. She glares at him, just as three waitresses armed with platters of food flank our table. There’s barely enough space for all of it. It smells incredible, and my stomach roars in appreciation again.

  As we shovel superhuman portions onto our plates, Yoly speaks.

  “If you guys would like to come all the way back here for my quinces, we would be honored to have you,” she says graciously. “But I also know you two are way busier than I am with the tennis schedule, so please, no pressure.” Before I can reply, David jumps in.

  “We’ll check to see if there’s tournament play that weekend, and if not, we’ll try to come,” he says easily. He takes his first bite of pork. He chews, and his eyes widen with an expression just this side of amazed.

  “That was the best thing I have ever put in my mouth,” he says sincerely.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  EVA

  For the first time in our long, unblemished friendship, Henry and I are fighting.

  Basically, she wants the Obnoxious Parent of the Year trophy mailed to her in Florida, pronto. I refuse, insisting Rhonda’s recent behavior makes me the uncontested recipient. And dammit, I tell her, I deserve to win something right now. She’s got enough real trophies.

  “Let me set this scene for you,” Henry persists. “Sunday night, way past curfew because we left Miami really late. Note: Yoly and I are not crammed into the stupid Chad-bus, but cruising in David’s totally sweet ride. A Porsche Cayenne SUV, which … get this … Porsche has lent him. I know, control your amazement. They can’t give it to him, because that would be considered payment, and he’s still an amateur, but he can borrow it.”

  “And why would a major, high-end car manufacturer do something so ridiculous?” I ask. It’s not like Henry to embellish to the point of lies. She must really want the trophy.

  “Free publicity,” she answers. “They want David to be conspicuous about the car when he plays tournaments. When we were leaving for the Cruzes’ party, and this random reporter was tailing us in the parking lot? David told me to stand alongside the Cayenne and smile at the guy.”

  “That’s not about the car. That’s about having a hot girlfriend,” I counter. Henry ignores me, and continues to make her case.

  “So, we’re pulling in to the school after this totally perfect day? We’ve got kick-ass trophies in the trunk, we’ve been listening to this awesome mix Yoly’s cousin gave us for the ride back … remind me to tell you about Enrique, you would love this guy … the temps have finally dropped to a civilized eighty degrees, these amazing flowers are blooming all around the entrance to the school, so when we get out the air smells like perfume, and I have just closed the door to the Cayenne when I hear, ‘Henry? Is that you?’ And there, sitting alone in the dark parking lot, is my father.”

  Despite my resolve to not budge, I feel a shiver down my spine as I picture Mark skulking in the shadows.

  “Eva, it was beyond awful. He started out all quiet, comes up to me and just says, ‘Pack your things. We’re leaving.’ I’m, like, in total shock.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you that. Mark wins the shock-value and fear-factor points,” I say.

  “No, wait. It gets better. David, who doesn’t know my father, comes racing around from his side of the car. He thinks Dad is some nut job who’s wandered onto the campus. So he yells, ‘Yoly, run to security! Get help!’ then sticks himself between me and Dad. ‘Buddy,’ David says, ‘if you know what’s good for you, you’ll turn around and leave quietly.’ ”

  “Oh,” I reply, deflated. This is indeed trophy-winning drama. Hard to imagine how Mark and the new boyfriend will bond after this. “That’s pretty bad, Hen.”

  “Ha!” she exclaims. “It gets worse! He starts yelling at David. Who-the-hell-are-you-step-away-from-my-daughter sort of stuff, then I’m yelling, ‘Daddy! Stop it! Just stop it!’ Then David turns to me and says, ‘This dude is your dad?’ ”

  “Ugh,” I say. “Proper introductions were a bit awkward after that?”

  “Yoly, I thought for sure Mark was going to hit him. It was so scary.”

  “Excuse me. What did you just call me?” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “You just called me Yoly.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Henry replies.

  “Henry. I may be listening to you from a cell phone a thousand miles away, but the reception is perfectly clear, and you called me Yoly.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. It’s probably because she’s part of the story. See, she’s taken off, and we can hear her yelling, and people are coming out of the building. One is this guy I’ve never seen before, and he goes right up to Dad, saying, ‘Mr. Lloyd, we asked you to please not do this.’ So now I realize he’s already been at the school, stirring up trouble.”

  “What was Little Andre doing?” I ask. I’ve finally figured out that “David” is not “Little.”

  “At first he was stunned, like me. But finally he realized we had to get out of there. So he begins to lead me into the main building, which makes Mark go totally wild. He tries to come after us, and these burly Chadwick guys … I guess security got there by this point … sort of circle around him, and I hear someone say, ‘Mr. Lloyd! Are we going to have to call the police?’ and Eva, I just started bawling.”

  “Henry, this sounds over the top, even for Mark,” I say. “What set him off?”

  “The tournament,” she says. “When he realized Mom had already signed papers giving me permission to travel off campus to play, he decided to drive down by himself and pull me out. He was so angry.”
/>
  I sigh. It’s the first time I’ve heard the complete, unedited version of the story, gory details included. And I’ll admit: Mark’s a madman.

  But the trophy is mine, nonetheless.

  “Granted, your father has some serious anger-management issues. But let’s be honest: you’ve worked things out. Your dad and the Chadwick people sat down the next morning, and not only are you still at the school, but he’s agreed to the tournaments.”

  “Yeah, and how long is that gonna last?” she grumbles.

  “You also have an adorable, doting new boyfriend with a cool car and a new best friend who can supply you with endless amounts of greasy ethnic food. And also a growing fan base,” I continue.

  “Eva. I do not have a new best friend. Stop that.”

  But I’m on a roll. A downhill roll, actually.

  “I, on the other hand, have an injury that, while probably not career-ending, has certainly reshaped the landscape of my future. My scholarship has been rescinded, although I can try out and reapply once I’m better. Plus, I’m facing a long, lonely, boring summer with nothing to do but hang out with my foot elevated.”

  “I know things really suck for you right now—” Henry starts to say. But I cut her off.

  “Before you think I’m whining, let me assure you: I’m not. These are the facts, and depressing as they are, I can live with them. What I don’t think I can tolerate for another stinking second is the insufferable pity party my mother has decided to wallow in. You’d think I died, the way she’s carrying on! Do you know, after someone from the school called and said if we didn’t move my things out of the annex they’d be deposited on the sidewalk, she got on such a crying jag that her doctor has prescribed meds for her!”

  “Why would the school dump your stuff?”

  “Because they’ve called three times! Rhonda just can’t let go of it. Can’t accept that I’m out, and she has nothing to brag about all summer.”

  I can tell how harsh this sounds. I can tell Henry is taken aback. But I’m not worried about what she thinks.

  “So you want to know why I deserve the trophy?” I continue. “Because as far as my mother is concerned, I am dead. She doesn’t know who or what I am without pointe shoes. If I’m not her perfect performing Eva, I’m nothing. If that doesn’t deserve an OPY, then I don’t know what does.”

  There’s a long silence as Henry and I listen to each other breathe from a thousand miles away. Finally, Henry speaks.

  “Do you miss it?” she asks.

  “What?” I ask. She sighs.

  “You know,” she says quietly. I flinch. I’ve been trying so hard not to go there. “Because if it were me,” she continues, “I know how much I’d miss tennis.”

  Something wells up inside me. Miss it? I want to scream. There’s a hole the size of the Grand Canyon in my chest. There’s this big, black void where my heart used to beat. There is nothing inside me. I am … nothing. Empty, without dance.

  I feel so awful. I’m so angry. Even at Henry. And she doesn’t deserve it, which makes me mad at myself, too. I am a horrible person, and it’s no wonder she’s moved on. She’s better off without such a loser for a friend.

  “Keep the trophy, Eva,” Henry finally says when I don’t reply. “Rhonda is definitely more obnoxious.” Pause, then we both burst out laughing. Although in my ears my laugh sounds more like choking as I try to contain the screams behind my words. Lurking there. Always threatening to break out.

  “And listen to me,” she continues. “I am not … repeat not … looking for a new best friend. I really like Yoly. I wish you could meet her. But Eva, you are the sister I’ll never have. No friend could replace you. You know that, right?” I take a deep breath.

  “Yes. Of course. Same here, Hen. I’m sorry. I’m just … sad. You know?” I feel them now. Tears, running down my face. I need to get off the phone.

  “You’re entitled to be,” Henry says sympathetically. “Wanna know what I do when I’m in the pits? I run myself a soothing bath with nice, smelly salts, and soak in it while I read a cheesy romance novel and eat Dove dark-chocolate bites.” She laughs. “Come to think of it, it’s a fun thing to do even if you’re not in the pits.”

  Chocolate bites. Once upon a time Henry and I ate an entire bag at one sitting.…

  Yeah, now there’s an idea for you, blub butt. An entire bag of Dove chocolates. You’d be waddling for sure after that.

  “Hen, I’ve gotta go.”

  “Sure, Eva. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Hang in there, tomato. I love ya.”

  “Love you, too,” I reply. Then the line goes quiet, and Henry is gone.

  No clue. She has no earthly idea how lucky she is. Lucky to have a metabolism like a power plant. A game like Sharapova and a bod like Kournikova. A thousand miles’ worth of highway between her and her toxic father, who promised to return to Jersey tomorrow. A hot boyfriend and a new girlfriend. Most of all, she’s lucky to be far away from me, the most worthless friend anyone could ask for.

  Or maybe I’m the one who’s lucky. That she doesn’t know what a loser I am.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  HENRY

  If I can focus now, I’ll be able to focus anywhere, anytime. Catcalls from spectators, bad line calls from opponents, a little sun in the eyes … those will be nothing compared to the nuclear-holocaust level of distraction generated by Mark, seated on the sidelines, as I drill with Missy and two other Chadwick coaches.

  This is what they worked out with Mr. Congeniality: a day in which they will prove to him that his precious daughter is not being mistreated, poorly coached or exploited. Likewise, he gets to prove that he’s not a certifiable lunatic who presents a threat to himself and others.

  I so love being in the middle of this.

  Sunday night had ended with security escorting Dad off the grounds and David pulling me into the quiet of our dorm lobby. I couldn’t stop crying. When I finally calmed down, he placed his hands on both sides of my head and lifted my face toward him. His brown eyes seemed darker than usual, the easy smile they always seemed to contain replaced by a question.

  “Tell me,” he said gently.

  So I did. To the extent that I could. How do you explain hating your father and wanting desperately to please him at the same time? How do you explain his volcanic emotional eruptions followed by genuine affection and praise?

  Harder still: how do you explain your growing fear that being around him is turning you into some sort of monster yourself? Yeah, right. You don’t say that to the hot new boyfriend. You say things like “my dad’s a control freak” and “he has anger-management issues” and “I’m lucky my mom’s really nice.” And you let him listen with those patient, gorgeous eyes and kiss the tears off your face, and you pretend his hugs make you feel better. And you eventually head up to your dorm room to sleep, but you don’t.

  “Things” were worked out. There was a prebreakfast meeting, including Mom on conference call (she’d had no idea where Dad had gone), and he seemed way calmer. The Chadwick people were also calm, but in an unsmiling, watchful way. Made you wonder if they’d posted a SWAT team in the foliage, ready to pounce if Mark so much as hiccuped. I’d come down to breakfast early: still red-eyed, hesitant. The place is such a rumor mill that I knew everyone had probably heard about Henry Lloyd’s crazy father.

  I was stunned to find him standing at the entrance to the dining room, alongside a grim-faced member of the coaching staff.

  “Your dad’s going to be joining you for breakfast today,” the coach said as I approached. “You can eat in the private dining room next door if you’d like.” I stared uneasily at them.

  “It’s okay, Hen,” Mark said, trying to smile. He put up both hands, like he was surrendering. “They shot me with the tranquilizer gun and I’m as tame as a kitten this morning.” He laughed, although the coach and I didn’t join him. I shrugged and walked into the dining hall. I loaded a tray with scrambled eggs, oatmeal and fruit and slippe
d into the room off the main cafeteria. Dad trailed me and we sat.

  As I squirted ketchup onto my eggs, he began.

  “I’m sorry about that little scene last night,” he said. I snorted.

  “That’s a first,” I said sarcastically.

  “What?” he asked.

  “You. Apologizing. You probably shouldn’t get started, Dad. We’ll be here all summer.” He frowned but contained himself.

  “Yeah, I probably had that coming,” he said quietly. “But I do mean it, Hen. I’m sorry.”

  “And one more thing,” I continued. “Last night? That was not a ‘little scene.’ It was huge. It was awful.”

  To my amazement, he nodded. He cleared his throat.

  “Honey, one of these days you’re going to be a parent, and you’ll understand …”

  “No, Dad. I’ll never understand how you get so crazy. This is a good place. I’m learning tons and playing great tennis.” Real tennis, Mark. Mind-game-free, trash-talk-free tennis.

  “Why can’t you just be happy for me?” He didn’t answer. He took a bite of his toast. A swig of coffee. The tears started welling again. Damn, dammity damn damn …

  “When are you leaving?” I said.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “I’m invited to sit in on your lessons and join you at meals today. As long as I behave,” he added, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. Something between a sneer and a smile. I stared at him.

  “What if I don’t want you hanging around?” I continued.

  “That’s not up to you,” he said shortly. He picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth carefully. He’d run out of patience. “Let’s not forget that you are a minor and you are here with my permission. If I don’t like what I see, you go home.”

  His words felt like a light blow to my brain, and I finally got it. He was behaving so the Chadwick people wouldn’t have him forcibly removed from the property. They were appeasing him so he wouldn’t pull me from the school. It was an elaborate game of give-and-take, over me.