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Authors: Melissa Kantor
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unlike an overheated dog as I crossed to where Natasha stood. I’d waited until 11:so it wouldn’t be too obvious that I was desperate to get away from bitter Natasha and her crazy father.
“Yeah, sure,” she said. “It was really nice to meet you,” I said. “You too.” Were we both lying? I knew I hadn’t done a very good job of teaching her, but I couldn’t see where I’d gone wrong. As Natasha’s dad headed over to us, I wondered what a lesson with just me and Natasha would have been like. Not that I was ever going to have the opportunity to find out—no way was any sane parent going to continue to pay someone who clearly had so little to offer his daughter by way of tennis instruction.
“Thanks a million, Katie,” he said. Then he reached into his pocket, took out a tight wad of bills and peeled a crisp twenty off the top. Given how much I disliked him, I wished I had the nerve to spit out something really insulting like, Sir, you can keep your money. But I just took the bill and thanked him.
“So,” he said to me, “when’s a good time for the next lesson?”
Was he serious? Did this man just have, like, money to burn? Did he not realize that his daughter was about as interested in learning the game of tennis as I was in … I don’t know, hunting?
“Well, I …”
“Let’s see,” he said. “Today’s Monday. Tomorrow we’ve got that sailing thing. Wednesday’s the Fourth, so that’s out. What about Thursday at ten again? Natasha?”
She shrugged. I couldn’t tell if she was scowling at the idea of another lesson with me or if the look on her face was just her baseline expression of distaste for life in general. “Whatever,” she said.
“Great. Does that work for you, Katie?”
Who was I to turn down twenty dollars?
“Um, yeah,” I said. “Sure.”
We said good-bye, and the second they were out of earshot, I dialed my dad.
“You are not going to believe the girl I’m supposed to be teaching tennis to,” I said. I told him about Natasha.
“Sounds like she has a real chip on her shoulder,” he said when I’d finished.
“Tell me about it,” I said. I was sitting on the bench, zipping and unzipping the cover for my tennis racket. I was glad my dad agreed with me about Natasha’s being a pain. Still, I had agreed to try and teach her again. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I admitted.
“I’ll tell you what you can’t do,” he said. “You can’t take responsibility for other people’s anger.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean—hang on a second, hon.” I heard him saying something to someone else. He sounded irritated with the person. “You know what, Katie,” he said, “I’m really sorry. I’ve got to go and deal with this, okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
“Honey, I wish I could solve this one for you. But just remember: you’re the best. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate that is just nuts.”
“Thanks, Daddy,” I said.
“I love you, Katie,” he said.
“I love you too,” I said.
Hanging up, I couldn’t help but wish that, in addition to loving me, my dad could solve all my problems. I wished he could solve all of his and my mom’s problems too, since that, actually, would have gone a long way toward solving mine.
WHEN MY MOM HAD SAID she was going to get her hair cut, I’d figured she was going to do just that—get her hair cut. I hadn’t expected to find myself on the latest episode of Extreme Makeover: Mom Edition .
I’m not exaggerating if I say that at first glance I thought she was Tina. I went home, put the bike in the shed, walked into the kitchen, and saw a woman who looked like Tina sitting at the table with a cookbook in front of her. I was literally about to say, Hey, Tina when the woman looked up at me and it was my mom .
First of all, her hair was dyed brown. I’d never seen my mom with hair even remotely resembling its natural color except in pictures from college and the early, early
“Yeah, sure,” she said. “It was really nice to meet you,” I said. “You too.” Were we both lying? I knew I hadn’t done a very good job of teaching her, but I couldn’t see where I’d gone wrong. As Natasha’s dad headed over to us, I wondered what a lesson with just me and Natasha would have been like. Not that I was ever going to have the opportunity to find out—no way was any sane parent going to continue to pay someone who clearly had so little to offer his daughter by way of tennis instruction.
“Thanks a million, Katie,” he said. Then he reached into his pocket, took out a tight wad of bills and peeled a crisp twenty off the top. Given how much I disliked him, I wished I had the nerve to spit out something really insulting like, Sir, you can keep your money. But I just took the bill and thanked him.
“So,” he said to me, “when’s a good time for the next lesson?”
Was he serious? Did this man just have, like, money to burn? Did he not realize that his daughter was about as interested in learning the game of tennis as I was in … I don’t know, hunting?
“Well, I …”
“Let’s see,” he said. “Today’s Monday. Tomorrow we’ve got that sailing thing. Wednesday’s the Fourth, so that’s out. What about Thursday at ten again? Natasha?”
She shrugged. I couldn’t tell if she was scowling at the idea of another lesson with me or if the look on her face was just her baseline expression of distaste for life in general. “Whatever,” she said.
“Great. Does that work for you, Katie?”
Who was I to turn down twenty dollars?
“Um, yeah,” I said. “Sure.”
We said good-bye, and the second they were out of earshot, I dialed my dad.
“You are not going to believe the girl I’m supposed to be teaching tennis to,” I said. I told him about Natasha.
“Sounds like she has a real chip on her shoulder,” he said when I’d finished.
“Tell me about it,” I said. I was sitting on the bench, zipping and unzipping the cover for my tennis racket. I was glad my dad agreed with me about Natasha’s being a pain. Still, I had agreed to try and teach her again. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I admitted.
“I’ll tell you what you can’t do,” he said. “You can’t take responsibility for other people’s anger.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean—hang on a second, hon.” I heard him saying something to someone else. He sounded irritated with the person. “You know what, Katie,” he said, “I’m really sorry. I’ve got to go and deal with this, okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said.
“Honey, I wish I could solve this one for you. But just remember: you’re the best. Anyone who doesn’t appreciate that is just nuts.”
“Thanks, Daddy,” I said.
“I love you, Katie,” he said.
“I love you too,” I said.
Hanging up, I couldn’t help but wish that, in addition to loving me, my dad could solve all my problems. I wished he could solve all of his and my mom’s problems too, since that, actually, would have gone a long way toward solving mine.
WHEN MY MOM HAD SAID she was going to get her hair cut, I’d figured she was going to do just that—get her hair cut. I hadn’t expected to find myself on the latest episode of Extreme Makeover: Mom Edition .
I’m not exaggerating if I say that at first glance I thought she was Tina. I went home, put the bike in the shed, walked into the kitchen, and saw a woman who looked like Tina sitting at the table with a cookbook in front of her. I was literally about to say, Hey, Tina when the woman looked up at me and it was my mom .
First of all, her hair was dyed brown. I’d never seen my mom with hair even remotely resembling its natural color except in pictures from college and the early, early
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