The phone feels heavier when I pick it up again. I keep reading.
Here’s how tennis started for me:
Kristen introduced me to it, actually. She took tennis lessons every Saturday morning. I didn’t know what she loved more—playing tennis or talking about playing tennis. She was always telling me about the techniques she was learning and how many matches she’d won, her voice taking on a special kind of excitement reserved only for tennis talk.
It made her so happy, and I began to wonder if maybe it could do the same for me. At that point I was willing to try anything.
My parents kept pushing me to do sports, but it had never gone well. One year my father forced me to join the Pee Wee Football team, but not only wasn’t I any good, I was terrified of getting tackled by the boys. The coach and I came to an agreement: I’d show up for practices and suit up for the games, but he wouldn’t put me in to play. Dad had words with him for not playing me, but in the end even Dad couldn’t argue that I wasn’t doing the team any favors when I was out on the field.
After the failed football experiment, Dad tried to get me to play basketball and baseball. I tried so hard to get just one basket or hit one ball—do something right, be the kid my parents wanted—but it was clear I didn’t fit in there, either.
But tennis could be the perfect thing. My parents would be happy that I was taking up a sport, and I wouldn’t have to suffer through being on a boys’ team. Men and women were allowed to play tennis. It was good enough for Kristen, and she was the litmus test by how I measured pretty much everything. And, best of all, it actually looked fun.
“Can you teach me how to play tennis? The rules of the game and stuff?” I asked her one day during eighth grade gym class. It was easier to broach the subject with her rather than my mom and dad. I was so used to being a wantless, needless half person around them that I didn’t know how to express things like this. I was more myself with Kristen, braver.
She beamed. “Yes! I bet you’ll be so good at it!” I didn’t know about that, but it felt good to know that she had faith in me.
The following Saturday, I went to the tennis club with her family and watched her lesson. After, she took me onto one of the practice courts and showed me the basics. On my third try, I managed to serve the ball correctly.
I’d never felt anything like watching that ball soar through the air, knowing it was going to go over the net and land exactly where I wanted it to. This, I thought, was what confidence felt like. Pride. It was entirely new.
The ball bounced to the ground, and Kristen shrieked in celebration and threw her arms around me. “You did it, Marcus!”
“I did,” I echoed, still staring at the other side of the court.
“Try to do it again.” She stepped back to give me room.
I hit another ball, and it too went over the net. Then a third and a fourth.
I was good at this.
That was all it took. I was hooked.
At the end of the day, Kristen’s mom dropped me off at home and told my parents how well I’d done and that they should consider putting me in lessons. I remained still as a statue during the entire conversation, hanging on to every word they said, too scared to even breathe. They had to say yes. They had to.
That night, I crept into the hall and listened to my parents’ hushed discussion at the kitchen table.
“Do you know how expensive private tennis lessons are?” Dad asked.
“I know,” Mom said. “But she said he has talent. Maybe he could be a real athlete.”
“Why couldn’t he have had talent for one of the sports the kids play at school for free?”
“Jack. I know money is tight, but think about it. This could get him back on track.”
I knew what she meant. It was exactly what I knew they would think: Normal boys like sports. This is the first regular boy thing he’s ever shown an interest in. Maybe this is our chance to fix him.
There was a pause, and then Dad said, “You’re right. Of course. We have to.”
I resisted the urge to whoop and punch the air in triumph. I didn’t care that they were only agreeing because they thought it would straighten me out, or that my actual happiness hadn’t factored into their decision at all.
Intentions didn’t matter. For the first time in my life, my parents and I were actually on the same page.
Tennis quickly became everything to me. When I had a racquet in my hand, I turned into someone else. Someone confident. Someone talented. Someone strong. Someone who had parents who were proud of them. When I wasn’t at a lesson I was on the practice courts, and when I wasn’t on the practice courts, I was shadow swinging in front of the bathroom mirror or doing string catches with a ball and racquet in my room. I started setting goals, and then did everything I could to reach them.
Sound familiar?
Love,
Mom
“Ugh, that smiley face,” I groan.
One corner of Sam’s mouth quirks down sympathetically. “I know.”
“So, what, is she trying to say that we’re the same? That because she was good at tennis too when she was younger and we all of a sudden have that in common I should just go ahead and forgive her?”
He scratches between Yoshimi’s ears. “I think maybe she’s trying to relate to you. To show that she understands you, not that she expects you to understand her.”
I grimace. “I knew you were on her side.”
“What?”
“You keep finding good things to say about her, or asking me if I know much about trans stuff. It’s like you’re trying to get me to not be mad at her anymore.”
“Dara, obviously I’m on your side if I’m here with you right now. You have to see that, right?”
I shrug.
“Well, it’s true. But …”
I give him the side-eye. “But what?”
He lifts his hands in a sort of defeated shrug, and drops them in his lap. “You can’t stay mad at her forever. Even if things go absolutely amazingly with your grandparents tomorrow, Mellie is still your mother. Your closest family.”
“Just because she’s my parent doesn’t mean she gets to do whatever the hell she wants and I automatically have to forgive her.”
“No, but she’s trying to fix it.” He nods at the phone. “She’s confiding some pretty heavy stuff in you now. Stuff that maybe she’s never told anyone. Yes, it’s way too late, but it has to count for something, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” It’s not exactly an answer, but it’s also the most honest thing I can say right now. I don’t know. I wanted the truth, and then I didn’t, and now that I’m getting it I’m not sure what to feel or do about it.
I hate that she’s considered suicide. And there are still so many blank spaces: Has she actually attempted it? And what does “I’m not in a great place right now” mean?
I get that those feelings are part of the reason she felt she had no choice but to transition. I do. But on the other hand, should that give her a free pass for the rest of it? Should I just give up and go home and tell her everything’s fine, because I’m scared of her hurting herself?
Maybe I should call her. Not to forgive, but just to … check.
I lean my head on Sam’s shoulder. I’m sure I don’t smell great after my run—and building the fence and hitting balls for an hour in the southern sun—but he doesn’t seem to mind. “I don’t know, Sam.”
He lets out a breath. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
We’re building a fire in the front-yard fire pit when Catherine’s cell phone rings. My bundle of wood falls from my arms, and I hold my breath as she checks who’s calling. When Ruth and William didn’t call by dinner, I was beginning to think it wasn’t going to happen.
She looks to me eagerly. “It’s them!”
I try to let the breath out, but I can’t seem to make my body work right. My heart is racing, and the sound reverberates in my head.
She answers the call
and waves for me to follow her. “Hi, Dad,” she says into the phone. We go inside and into the kitchen, which is clean and quiet post-dinner. A single light is on over the stove, and the dogs are curled up in their beds in the corner by the table. Catherine closes the kitchen door behind us and switches the call to speakerphone. “Did you have a good day sailing?” We sit on the benches, and she grabs my hand.
“Oh yes. Not too much wind at all.” That’s him. My grandfather. His voice is deep, with a hint of a Southern accent. I wonder if he’s picked it up from living in the South for the past couple years, or if maybe he’s from the South originally. “Your mother finished the novel she was reading, and I caught a nice four-pound flounder.”
Catherine winces. “You know I’ve asked you not to tell me about that stuff, Dad.”
“Fish isn’t meat, Catherine. Everyone knows that.”
She rolls her eyes in good-natured exasperation; it’s clear this is an argument they’ve had many times before. They even bicker like the perfect family. “Anyway, is Mom nearby? I have news.”
“Yes, she’s right here.”
“Put the phone on speaker so I can hear both of you.” There are a few beeps as he apparently tries to figure it out.
“Okay, got it,” William says.
“Hello, dear,” Ruth says. Her voice is higher pitched than I imagined, but it folds around me like a blanket. They’re really real. I finally found them. “Is everything all right? The farm is okay?”
“Yes, the farm is great. Everything is great. Better than great, actually.” Catherine grins at me and squeezes my hand. “You’ll never guess who’s sitting next to me right now.”
“Who?” Ruth asks.
“Dara.”
The silence that follows goes on for a long time. I know they’re still there because I can hear the ambient noise from their end of the speakerphone, but neither William nor Ruth says a word.
“Mom? Dad?”
“What do you mean, Dara is sitting next to you?” Ruth whispers shakily.
“She came to the farm today, looking for you both!”
“Oh my goodness. Oh my goodness, oh my goodness,” Ruth says. “Put her on the phone!”
“She’s on speaker. Go ahead, Dara, say hi.”
I clear my throat. “Hi,” I say. This is so weird. Exciting, but incredibly bizarre. I don’t really know what to say. I don’t need to introduce myself, because they already know who I am, and I can’t shake their hands or give them hugs because they’re not here. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I only just found out you existed this week.”
“Marcus didn’t tell her anything about us!” Catherine says.
“Oh my goodness,” Ruth says again.
“Where have you been living, Dara?” William asks. “We looked for you for so long, but never found a single clue.”
“Um, a small town in western New York called Francis,” I tell them.
“New York?” Ruth asks in dismay. “We assumed Marcus would have taken you farther from home. How could we have missed it?”
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not your fault, either,” Catherine assures me.
We sit with that, without a doubt all thinking the same thing: It’s Marcus’s/Mellie’s fault.
“But we’re very glad you’re here now,” Catherine continues after a beat.
“Praise the Lord,” Ruth says. “It’s a miracle. Our granddaughter home with us at last.”
“Speaking of which,” Catherine says, “Mom, Dad, do you want to come here tomorrow? We can all properly catch up then.”
“Of course we’re coming,” William exclaims. “We’ll get on the road at sunup and be there by eight.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’m really looking forward to it,” I tell them.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Ruth says, her voice breaking. “We’ve been waiting for this day for a very long time. Thank you for coming to find us.”
The fire Matt and Gabby built is roaring impressively. The flames dance off our faces, arms, legs, matching the warmth I feel inside after talking to my grandparents. Sam sits to my left, snapping photos of the fire. Matt’s on my right, significantly closer to me than Sam is.
Catherine went to bed a little while ago, and it’s just the seven of us now.
We can’t see the pigs in the darkness, but we can hear them—they’re snoring. Loudly.
We’ve been waiting for this day for a very long time, Ruth said. I keep hearing her voice in my ears. My grandmother.
Ruth and William. Catherine. This farm. This family. The enormity of it all, the fact that my grandparents are probably packing a bag at this very moment, preparing to come meet me, is a lot to process. I need to not think about it for a little while.
“Too bad we don’t have any marshmallows,” I say to distract myself. “S’mores would be amazing right now.”
Jane shakes her head. “It’s hard to find vegan marshmallows around here.”
“Oh.” I had no idea regular marshmallows weren’t vegan. For someone who’s spent her whole life watching what she eats, I don’t know very much about this stuff.
Matt places a hand on mine, and my skin ignites even hotter than the fire. “It’s okay, a lot of people don’t know that. I even ate marshmallows and gummy worms and stuff for a while after becoming vegetarian, because I didn’t know, either.”
That makes me feel better.
He holds out an Oreo, and I take it from him. I make sure to use my left hand, because I don’t want to remove my right one from his grasp. Our fingers have somehow become interweaved, and our grip is active, as if we’re both sending all our energy to the places where we’re touching. I watch as Meadow and Gabby take notice and exchange a look. It’s not clear what exactly they’re saying to each other, but they’ve got matching smirks on their faces.
I purposely don’t look to my left. If Sam has realized that Matt and I are holding hands, I don’t want his opinion about it.
I turn my attention back to Matt and the cookie in my hand. “Wait, Oreos are vegan?”
He laughs. “Pure sugar and chemicals, but not an ounce of gelatin or dairy in sight.”
Ezra passes around a couple six-packs of beer and a bag of candy. I shake my head when the beer comes my way. I don’t need a repeat of last night. Sam, however, takes one.
Now I look at him, incredulous.
“What?” he says, and tilts the bottle against his lips almost defiantly, taking a long pull.
“Nothing.”
“Let’s play two truths and a lie!” Meadow says, undoing her braids and running her hands through her hair.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“It’s a game. It’s really fun. We go around the circle and each person shares three facts about themselves that the rest of us might not already know. Interesting things, like, ‘I drove cross-country once’ or ‘I won a pie-eating contest.’ But only two of them should be true—the other one is completely made up. And we all have to guess which one is the lie.”
I want to say, I’ve had enough lies to last me a while.
Meadow goes first. “Let’s see …” She chomps on a Sour Patch Kid as she thinks. “Okay. I’ve been to all the continents except Antarctica, I have a twin brother, and I hate eggplant.”
“Oooh, good ones!” Jane says. “I think … the continent one is the lie.”
“I agree,” Ezra says.
“Eggplant,” Matt says.
“Eggplant,” I say.
“Twin brother,” Sam says.
Everyone waits for Gabby to guess. She laughs. Her silver eyebrow ring, shiny in the light of the fire, is a miniature version of the half moon hovering high above us. “You really want me to play? She’s my girlfriend—of course I already know the answer.”
“True,” Matt says. “Okay, you won’t get the point, but tell us the answer.”
“Meadow does not have a twin brother,” Gabby says confident
ly.
“Sam gets the point!” Meadow reaches over to fist-bump him.
“You seriously don’t like eggplant?” Matt asks. “How did I never know this?”
Meadow makes a yuck face. “Ew. So gross.” She claps her hands. “Sam’s turn!”
“Oh. Um, okay. I’m allergic to shellfish, I used to have really long hair, and Sam is actually short for Samarjit.”
So easy.
“Long hair,” Meadow says.
“Yeah, long hair,” Gabby says.
“Shellfish,” Ezra and Jane say in unison, and then laugh.
“The last one,” Matt says. “The name one.”
I’m the only one left. “I’m the Gabby this time. I mean, we’re not dating like Gabby and Meadow, but—” Stop babbling. “I just mean it wouldn’t be fair for me to play this round because I already know the answer.”
Sam holds his hand out in a please do the honors gesture.
“Sam is not allergic to shellfish,” I proclaim. “But he did have hair past his shoulders in ninth grade, and Samarjit is a Hindu name meaning ‘victorious in war.’ ”
“The lady is correct,” Sam says into his beer bottle.
Jane takes a piece of candy from the bag and pops it in Ezra’s mouth. “Do you think you know me as well as Gabby knows Meadow and Dara knows Sam, babe?”
I feel my face go red, and I hope it blends in with the firelight so no one can tell. Sam and I are not a couple! I want to shout. But that probably wouldn’t help.
Ezra licks the flavored sugar from Jane’s fingertips, their eyes locked on each other’s. “Whatever I don’t know I look forward to learning.”
She leans in, kisses him full on the mouth, and lingers there.
As if they share a brain, they stand up at the same time and gather their trash. “We’re going to turn in for the night,” Ezra says.
“Already?” I say. “But the game’s not over.”
Sam snorts, and I glance his way in time to catch him rolling his eyes.
“What?” I ask. Am I missing something?
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