parked the car. I think she was probably going to try to slow him down some. Sheâs always such a calming force in our family, reminding us that being kind and having fun are more important than zooming around all stressed out.
The registration was taking place in the lobby at a big old mahogany desk with red velvet chairs behind it. Two stuffy-looking men were sitting in those stuffy-looking chairs, wearing stuffy-looking navy blazers with gold buttons, and striped red ties. It was weird because practically nobody in California wears jackets and ties, and certainly nobody does at a beach club.
Except those two guys. They looked us up and down and seemed tickled pink that we were wearing white tennis skirts and white tops, which is the traditional way tennis players dress. The Sand and Surf Club is so snooty, they even have a policy that all women have to wear tennis skirts and all men have to wear collared shirtsâno T-shirts allowed except on the beach. I donât know where they get the idea that having a collar on your shirt makes you classy, but somehow they made that rule like three hundred years ago and itâs stuck.
Charlie and I always dress alike when we play tennis because our dad thinks itâs good strategy. âMakes your opponent think sheâs seeing double,â he says. So when the man at the registration desk looked up and saw us both in white, our hair pulled back with white headbands, looking all preppy and identical, he broke into a big smile.
âWhat do we have here?â he said, tweaking his thin gray mustache that was clipped so short it was hardly a mustache at all. âLooks like double trouble, Ted.â
âIt does indeed,â said the man next to him, who Iâm presuming was the Ted in question. âTwo little peas in a pod.â
Really, Ted? Little peas? Breaking newsâweâre not green and round. Well, okay, maybe one of us is round. Roundish. But weâre definitely not green.
âWhich court are we on?â Charlie asked. She was trying to be polite, but there was a definite edge in her voice. Neither of us like it when people make a big deal out of the fact that weâre twins.
âCourt eleven,â Mr. I-Donât-Have-Much-of-a-Mustache said. âYour match begins at exactly twelve thirty. Oh, by the way, you have three guests waiting for you on the court. They already checked in.â
As we walked down the cement path to court eleven, I craned my neck to see if it was Alicia and Oscar and Eddie. Ever since last night, Charlie had been distant and cold to me, and I was hoping to see a friendly face or three.
It wasnât them, though. It was just the
opposite
â Lauren Wadsworth, Brooke Addison, and Jillian Kendall. The girls were lounging around on the bleachers, sipping iced Frappuccinos and looking ever so gorgeous in their tennis whites.
What are they wearing white for? They arenât playing.
âCharlie! Over here!â Lauren screeched, waving to Charlie as though she had been shipwrecked on a deserted island and they hadnât seen each other in twenty years.
Charlie went running up to her and all four of them hugged in that overly enthusiastic SF2 way, which is to say there was lots of squealing and jumping up and down and hand-holding involved.
âHi, Sammie,â Lauren said when I strolled up and plopped my monogrammed red canvas tennis bag down on the bench. It had been a going-away gift from my mom. âCute bag.â
The one thing you have to say about Lauren is that the girl has a good eye for accessories. She never misses a new leather belt or a pair of dangly earrings. Sheâs like one of those radar screens that lights up when she spots an expensive purse.
âHi, Lauren,â I said.
âWasnât it so great of them to come?â Charlie said to me.
âAre you kidding?â Lauren squealed. âWe wouldnât have missed it. We all came to support you
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