we are
not
members of the Sporty Forty. We live in the
caretakerâs
cottage.â
âWhy do you always have to keep reminding me of that, Sammie?â
âBecause itâs true. You are not one of the rich kids, something you seem to be forgetting.â
âThey donât care if Iâm rich or poor. Theyâre my friends.â
âYou seem to be forgetting a recent little cheating scandal they involved you in?â
âI told you, Lauren apologized all over the place. The other kids did, too. And I forgave them. Itâs like it never happened now. Everything is fine between us.â
âYeah, weâll see about that.â
âYou are so suspicious of everyone, Sammie. I feel sorry for you.â
âFine. In the meantime, Iâve invited Eddie and Oscar for tomorrow, and as far as Iâm concerned, theyâre coming. They belong at the Sand and Surf every bit as much as Lauren or stupid Jared, who looks like heâs going to trip on his shorts every time he takes a step.â
Now it was Charlieâs turn to snap at me. âThat is his signature look!â
âWhatever.â I sighed. I hated this conversation almost as much as the one Iâd just had with my dad. âIâm really tired.â
âMe too. Letâs just go to sleep.â Charlie flicked off the light and rolled over to face the wall. She didnât even say good night.
I changed clothes quickly, got into bed, and fell asleep wondering exactly when my sister had turned into such a brat.
Kicked Out
Chapter 6
âMiss Samantha Diamond and Miss Charlotte Diamond, last call to report to the registration desk.â We could hear the officialâs voice over the loudspeaker even from the parking lot.
It was noon the next day and we had just arrived at the Sand and Surf Club, a few minutes later than we planned. We had been up since eight oâclock, but our dad wanted to make sure we got in a practice before we headed over for the match. Wouldnât you know it, my serve was off during practice, and my dad made me stay on the court at the Sporty Forty and do one hundred serves until I got my timing right. That didnât happen until serve number ninety-nine, and my dad wasnât pleased. In fact, he was a total crab apple. He just stood there yelling, âBall toss! Timing! Snap your racket! Soften your grip! Watch the baseline!â and getting grumpier by the minute.
Tension on the car ride over was running pretty high. On big tournament days, my dad gets himself all in a twist, and even though this wasnât a tournament, he seemed to have put his âall in a twistâ mode on high alert. He sped into the parking lot (hard to do when you have a twelve-year-old Toyota), screeched to a stop, and popped open the trunk.
âYou girls get your gear and hustle in there,â he said in his crab apple voice. âBe sure to apologize for being late and let them know youâre ready to play immediately.â
âRelax, Rick,â GoGo said, giving him a gentle pat on the hand. âNothing has begun yet. Weâre all fine.â
âYouâre fine, Phyllis,â he said to her. âIâm not fine with tardiness. Professional sports is like the armed forces. The trains run on time.â
Okay, so the first thing I wanted to say was that nothing he said made sense. For the life of me, I didnât get how tennis had anything at all to do with trains. And the second thing was,
professional
sports? We were good tennis players, but last time I looked, no one was handing us a one hundred thousand-dollar check for our winnings. The most weâd ever won were some fake gold trophies that turned pretty rusty when we left them in the garage during a rainstorm. In my opinion, that hardly made us professional.
But he was in no mood to discuss vocabulary, so Charlie and I just did as he said and hurried into the club. GoGo offered to stay while he
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