Read Online Jersey Tomatoes are the Best by Maria Padian - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Maria Padian
Ads: Link
those streaks natural,” Henry adds.
“Next,” I say.
We go on like this for a good half hour, rating the guys from Hot But Pretentious (Jon Dundas), to Super Jock With Kissing Potential (very buff fellow from Florida, more great teeth), to Foreign and Hopelessly Incomprehensible (some Czech kid with no vowels in his name). There are plenty of girls, too, but they all blend together for me, like one giant Megan or Amber, with tight ponytails, freckled turned-up noses and muscle definition in their arms. Henry, however, seems fascinated by them. She leans forward, head close to the screen, reading their tennis “pedigrees”: what tournaments they’ve entered, and won; how long they’ve played; whether they work with private coaches or have attended other academies or camps.
I watch as she stalks her prey. To her, the Chadwick guys are an interesting diversion. But the girls? They are already on the other side of the net.
After we’ve read every friend profile, Henry sits back. She looks thoughtful.
“I doubt anyone will get the tomatoes thing,” she says.
“Ah,” I reply. “Funny you should mention that.” I go over to my closet, where I’ve hidden a box. It’s wrapped with this great paper I bought that has little tennis rackets all over it.
That
was a find.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“A very appropriate going-away gift. Let me ask you, although I’m sure I already know the answer. What are your plans for T-shirt night?”
“What’s T-shirt night?” Henry’s brow furrows.
“Hen,
what
are you going to do without me?” I sigh. “It’s on the Chadwick website, and I’ll bet it came in that orientation packet you got. Every camper is supposed to wear a T-shirt that describes where they’re from. As a fellow Jersey Girl, I thought it was appropriate that I gift you with the perfect T-shirt representing the Garden State.”
Henry looks touched.
“Eva, that’s so thoughtful. It almost makes up for the liverwurst.”
“Open it,” I prompt.
Henry rips the amazing paper. (I have to hold my breath. I always carefully pull off the tape and unfold the paper in a single, intact sheet.) From the gift box within, she pulls out a short-sleeved white T-shirt.
“ ‘Jersey Tomatoes Are the Best,’ ” she reads aloud, then gasps. The words are emblazoned across the chest of the shirt, just beneath the neck. Beneath the words are two strategically positioned plump, ripe red tomatoes.
“You will be the rage of the opening-night ceremonies,” I tell her.
“I will be the slut of the opening-night ceremonies!” she exclaims. “No way can I wear this. It’d be like
asking
guys to stare at my … tomatoes!”
“Only the perverted guys will stare, and
that’s
how you’ll sort them out from the nice guys,” I say.
“Any guy over the age of ten with a pulse will stare!” Henry insists.
“Put it on,” I suggest. Henry yanks the T-shirt over herhead, and we move to my full-length mirror for a look. The tomatoes fall precisely where they should.
“Let’s go downstairs and see what Mark thinks,” I suggest.
“You are so nuts!” Henry is yelling and laughing at the same time. She begins prancing around in front of the mirror, sticking her tomatoes out as far as possible.
“Look out,” she says to her reflection in a deep, sexy voice. “I’m going to kick your ass in straight sets.”
Henry cavorts like this for a few minutes, and I stand back from the mirror. No girl wants to get a look at herself side by side with Henriette Lloyd. It’s like agreeing to pose for photographs with a Russian supermodel. Makes your own thighs expand.
Henry finally flops on my bed. I flop beside her.
“I’m gonna miss you,” she says quietly.
“I know. You’ll be completely lost without me.” She reaches behind her, grabs a pillow and bats me over the head with it.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“You do understand that I can’t possibly wear it?” I roll over and look Henry in
“Next,” I say.
We go on like this for a good half hour, rating the guys from Hot But Pretentious (Jon Dundas), to Super Jock With Kissing Potential (very buff fellow from Florida, more great teeth), to Foreign and Hopelessly Incomprehensible (some Czech kid with no vowels in his name). There are plenty of girls, too, but they all blend together for me, like one giant Megan or Amber, with tight ponytails, freckled turned-up noses and muscle definition in their arms. Henry, however, seems fascinated by them. She leans forward, head close to the screen, reading their tennis “pedigrees”: what tournaments they’ve entered, and won; how long they’ve played; whether they work with private coaches or have attended other academies or camps.
I watch as she stalks her prey. To her, the Chadwick guys are an interesting diversion. But the girls? They are already on the other side of the net.
After we’ve read every friend profile, Henry sits back. She looks thoughtful.
“I doubt anyone will get the tomatoes thing,” she says.
“Ah,” I reply. “Funny you should mention that.” I go over to my closet, where I’ve hidden a box. It’s wrapped with this great paper I bought that has little tennis rackets all over it.
That
was a find.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“A very appropriate going-away gift. Let me ask you, although I’m sure I already know the answer. What are your plans for T-shirt night?”
“What’s T-shirt night?” Henry’s brow furrows.
“Hen,
what
are you going to do without me?” I sigh. “It’s on the Chadwick website, and I’ll bet it came in that orientation packet you got. Every camper is supposed to wear a T-shirt that describes where they’re from. As a fellow Jersey Girl, I thought it was appropriate that I gift you with the perfect T-shirt representing the Garden State.”
Henry looks touched.
“Eva, that’s so thoughtful. It almost makes up for the liverwurst.”
“Open it,” I prompt.
Henry rips the amazing paper. (I have to hold my breath. I always carefully pull off the tape and unfold the paper in a single, intact sheet.) From the gift box within, she pulls out a short-sleeved white T-shirt.
“ ‘Jersey Tomatoes Are the Best,’ ” she reads aloud, then gasps. The words are emblazoned across the chest of the shirt, just beneath the neck. Beneath the words are two strategically positioned plump, ripe red tomatoes.
“You will be the rage of the opening-night ceremonies,” I tell her.
“I will be the slut of the opening-night ceremonies!” she exclaims. “No way can I wear this. It’d be like
asking
guys to stare at my … tomatoes!”
“Only the perverted guys will stare, and
that’s
how you’ll sort them out from the nice guys,” I say.
“Any guy over the age of ten with a pulse will stare!” Henry insists.
“Put it on,” I suggest. Henry yanks the T-shirt over herhead, and we move to my full-length mirror for a look. The tomatoes fall precisely where they should.
“Let’s go downstairs and see what Mark thinks,” I suggest.
“You are so nuts!” Henry is yelling and laughing at the same time. She begins prancing around in front of the mirror, sticking her tomatoes out as far as possible.
“Look out,” she says to her reflection in a deep, sexy voice. “I’m going to kick your ass in straight sets.”
Henry cavorts like this for a few minutes, and I stand back from the mirror. No girl wants to get a look at herself side by side with Henriette Lloyd. It’s like agreeing to pose for photographs with a Russian supermodel. Makes your own thighs expand.
Henry finally flops on my bed. I flop beside her.
“I’m gonna miss you,” she says quietly.
“I know. You’ll be completely lost without me.” She reaches behind her, grabs a pillow and bats me over the head with it.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
“You do understand that I can’t possibly wear it?” I roll over and look Henry in
Similar Books
