Sam, and the German exchange student, Friedrich, whom we called Danke Schoen. In the doubles slots were Phillip and T.J., cousins who had been playing together since they were kids; and Alan and Doug, starters on the varsity football and basketball teams, who’d had convenient openings for spring sports. Alan and Doug were new to tennis, and with thick necks hammered into their shoulders, they looked wrong for the part, but they were athletic and quick and they’d beaten out Carl for a spot in the doubles lineup, and they might’ve beaten me, too.
After my penalty laps, I starfished on a patch of dry grass in the sun at Carl’s feet and we watched Sam hit approach shots on Court 1. Seven out of his first ten went long. “Adjust your backswing,” I called, and Sam shortened it up, and the next ten were perfect.
“What are we doing this weekend?” asked Carl.
“Who knows? We have four more days of school before then and I have detention tomorrow.”
“We could try to get the goods.”
Four wine coolers between us—that’s what it took Carl and me to get drunk.
“Okay,” I said.
“Policy,” said Carl. Then, “Want to come over tonight? We can study for the math quiz.”
“Is Sam going?” I asked.
“Doubt it,” said Carl. “He’s at his mom’s.”
Sam’s mom lived in Index, twenty minutes outside town; his dad’s house was just down the block from Carl’s. They’d bought him double sets of everything—two pairs of sneakers, two tennis rackets, two Nintendos—but still Sam forgot stuff when he switched houses, so there was at least a chance he’d be by Carl’s.
On the court, Sam practiced volleys with Danke Schoen. He stood with his knees bent, his right arm extended like a sword. Two weeks earlier there’d been snow on these courts and Claw had hauled everyone up here with shovels from his family’s hardware store to clear off months of crusty slush. Doug had taken a chunk out of the baseline on Court 2, leaving a black divot that now glinted in the sun.
I thought back to last summer, to the strip-poker tennis game that Sam and Carl and I had invented: whatever logos and labels we were wearing became our sponsors, and each time we lost a round-robin match we had to remove two items of clothing. Carl and I had arrived in track pants and sweatshirts, extra socks and wristbands, wilting in the August humidity, while Sam had made no special effort at all. In his Nike shorts and Nick Bollettieri T-shirt , he’d stripped us down until I was wearing only a sports bra and shorts while Carl wore his boxers and one sock and Sam stood on the other side of the net, fully clothed.
“OP,” I announced, shaking off the memory, and Carl and I skirted around behind the Womb, the miniature yellow school bus that Claw used to transport the team between school and practice. Carl lit us up and I inhaled deeply. Above us the sky was cartoonishly blue and I thought about summer, no school or practice, just Sam and Carl and me.
“Claw’s coming,” said Carl suddenly. I took a mind-numbing drag and mashed my OP on the Womb’s tire. Carl did the same and we hopped out from behind the bus in time to catch Claw peering around the bumper.
“What’re you two doing back here?” he said, smoothing his running pants. He was tall with orange hair and green eyes that went squinty when he was annoyed. “Were you smoking?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” said Claw. “Carl, go get your racket.”
Carl took off for the courts and I started to speak but Claw touched my shoulder and said, “What’s the plan here?”
I said nothing. The two things I wanted most in the world were here at Bassett Hall, and I was afraid I could have only half of either of them: not Sam’s girlfriend but his water girl; not a team member but a team manager.
“You can’t just hang out with the team all season,” said Claw.
On the courts at the bottom of the hill, Sam hit backhands: crosscourt, crosscourt, down the line. I
After my penalty laps, I starfished on a patch of dry grass in the sun at Carl’s feet and we watched Sam hit approach shots on Court 1. Seven out of his first ten went long. “Adjust your backswing,” I called, and Sam shortened it up, and the next ten were perfect.
“What are we doing this weekend?” asked Carl.
“Who knows? We have four more days of school before then and I have detention tomorrow.”
“We could try to get the goods.”
Four wine coolers between us—that’s what it took Carl and me to get drunk.
“Okay,” I said.
“Policy,” said Carl. Then, “Want to come over tonight? We can study for the math quiz.”
“Is Sam going?” I asked.
“Doubt it,” said Carl. “He’s at his mom’s.”
Sam’s mom lived in Index, twenty minutes outside town; his dad’s house was just down the block from Carl’s. They’d bought him double sets of everything—two pairs of sneakers, two tennis rackets, two Nintendos—but still Sam forgot stuff when he switched houses, so there was at least a chance he’d be by Carl’s.
On the court, Sam practiced volleys with Danke Schoen. He stood with his knees bent, his right arm extended like a sword. Two weeks earlier there’d been snow on these courts and Claw had hauled everyone up here with shovels from his family’s hardware store to clear off months of crusty slush. Doug had taken a chunk out of the baseline on Court 2, leaving a black divot that now glinted in the sun.
I thought back to last summer, to the strip-poker tennis game that Sam and Carl and I had invented: whatever logos and labels we were wearing became our sponsors, and each time we lost a round-robin match we had to remove two items of clothing. Carl and I had arrived in track pants and sweatshirts, extra socks and wristbands, wilting in the August humidity, while Sam had made no special effort at all. In his Nike shorts and Nick Bollettieri T-shirt , he’d stripped us down until I was wearing only a sports bra and shorts while Carl wore his boxers and one sock and Sam stood on the other side of the net, fully clothed.
“OP,” I announced, shaking off the memory, and Carl and I skirted around behind the Womb, the miniature yellow school bus that Claw used to transport the team between school and practice. Carl lit us up and I inhaled deeply. Above us the sky was cartoonishly blue and I thought about summer, no school or practice, just Sam and Carl and me.
“Claw’s coming,” said Carl suddenly. I took a mind-numbing drag and mashed my OP on the Womb’s tire. Carl did the same and we hopped out from behind the bus in time to catch Claw peering around the bumper.
“What’re you two doing back here?” he said, smoothing his running pants. He was tall with orange hair and green eyes that went squinty when he was annoyed. “Were you smoking?”
“No,” I said.
“Yes,” said Claw. “Carl, go get your racket.”
Carl took off for the courts and I started to speak but Claw touched my shoulder and said, “What’s the plan here?”
I said nothing. The two things I wanted most in the world were here at Bassett Hall, and I was afraid I could have only half of either of them: not Sam’s girlfriend but his water girl; not a team member but a team manager.
“You can’t just hang out with the team all season,” said Claw.
On the courts at the bottom of the hill, Sam hit backhands: crosscourt, crosscourt, down the line. I
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