Brooke (12 page)

His partner was shorter, stout, and light-haired, with a round face and blue eyes. His bottom lip looked thicker than the top, and there was a softness in his cheeks and chin that made him look more childish than handsome.

“This is your Mickey Mantle?” Harrison asked with a laugh. His friend looked as if his face was made of putty and someone had stamped a smile on it.

“Brooke, my cousin Harrison,” Lisa said.

“Hi,” he said. “This is Brody Taylor. You know my cousin Lisa.”

“Yes, I do,” Brody said.

“Are you as good at tennis as you are at softball?” Harrison asked me.

“No. I just got my first lesson.”

“From Lisa?” He laughed. “That's like the blind teaching the blind.”

“Really?” Lisa looked at me and smiled. “Why don't we start with boys against girls?”

“It won't even be a contest,” Harrison bragged.

“We'll chance it.”

“What's the bet?”

“What do you want to bet?”

“Virginity?” he quipped.

Lisa turned beet red, and Brody laughed, a sort of sniffle laugh with the air being pushed out of his nose and his body shaking.

“You're still a virgin?” I countered. It was as if we were playing tennis with words.

This time, Harrison turned crimson. “Okay, let's bet twenty dollars,” he suggested.

“Fine,” Lisa replied.

“Twenty dollars! I don't have any money with me,” I cried.

“Don't worry about it,” Lisa said. “You could always pay me back in school if we should lose.”

“What do you mean, if you should lose? You mean
when
you lose,” Harrison said. Brody laughed again.

“I don't even know the rules,” I whispered to Lisa.

“Just keep the ball within the inside lines,” she advised. She turned to Harrison. “Why don't you two warm up, then?”

“We don't need a warmup, do we, Brody?”

He shrugged. Harrison removed his racquet from his case, and Brody did the same. They took their positions on the other side of the net.

“I'll serve first,” Lisa told me.

My heart was thumping. Twenty dollars! They talked about it as if it were small change.

We began to play. Harrison was good, but Brody was slow. I saw the way he positioned himself and discovered quickly that he was usually off balance. There were things that were common to all sports: posture, poise, conditioning, and timing. All I had to do was return the ball at Brody with some speed, and he usually hit it out of bounds or into the net. As we won set after set, Harrison's temper flared. He directed his fury at Brody, which only made him play worse. When Lisa and I won, Harrison threw his racquet across the lawn.

“You lied,” he said, pointing at Lisa.

“What?”

“You didn't just teach her how to play. No one just learns and hits the ball like that.”

“I didn't lie!” Lisa screamed, her hands on her hips. “That's what she told me. Right, Brooke?”

“It's true,” I said, but he didn't look any more satisfied. “Let's forget the money,” I added.

“Who cares about the money?” he muttered. “Brody, give them twenty bucks,” he ordered.

“All twenty? Why do I have to give them all of it?” he whined.

“Because you let a couple of girls from Agnes Fodor make us look like fools, that's why.”

Brody dug into his pocket and came up with a wad of bills. He peeled off two tens and handed them to Lisa, who took the money with a fat smile on her face. She handed me a ten.

“I don't want it,” I said.

“Because you lied, right?” Harrison shot at me.

“No, because I don't need money and because I played because I wanted to play for the fun of it.”

“Right,” he said. “Let's get something to eat,” he told Lisa.

She couldn't stop smiling. Harrison retrieved his racquet, and we all went up to the house where a lunch had been set up for us. It looked lavish enough to be a wedding reception to me, but to them it was just another meal. There were so many choices–meats, breads, salads, and different potatoes.

“Where are your parents?” Harrison asked Lisa. We sat at a patio table that had a tablecloth on it. Servants moved inconspicuously around us, cleaning up dishes, arranging foods.

“Golf club,” she said between bites.

The food was delicious. I tried to remember my mealtime etiquette, but I was too hungry and started to eat too fast.

“Starving or something?” Harrison asked me.

“I forgot to eat breakfast,” I said, even though I hadn't. It was something Lisa or one of the other girls would say. He accepted it.

“What took you so long to get here?” he inquired.

“Pardon?” I looked at Lisa.

“He means attending Agnes Fodor.”

“Oh. I don't know. I just . . . my parents just decided I belonged there,” I said.

He stared at me and then smiled. “Those real?” he asked.

“What?” I asked.

“Those boobs, they real?”

“Harrison!” Lisa squealed.

“Just asking. Nothing wrong with asking, is there, Brody?”

Brody, who had his face buried in the lobster salad, looked up and shook his head. His cheeks bulged with food.

“Well?” Harrison pursued.

“It's none of your business,” I said.

He laughed. “That usually means, no, right, Brody?”

Brody nodded emphatically.

“What is he, your puppet?” I shot at him.

Harrison laughed. “She's all right, Lisa. Better than those other snot noses you call your friends,” he said. He leaned over the table toward me. “Maybe I'll invite you to my house for a little one-on-one.”

“What?”

“Tennis.” He sat back, smiling. “Or did you want to do something else?”

“I don't want to do anything with you,” I said.

“What's the matter, worried about your virginity?” he quipped. Brody started to laugh.

“No,” I said. “My reputation.”

Brody paused and then laughed harder.

“Shut up,” Harrison snapped at him.

Harrison turned and glared at me. “I don't ask every girl to my house,” he said.

“That surprises me,” I replied.

Brody had to bite down on his lip to stop another
laugh. Harrison caught it out of the corner of his eyes.

“Want to go listen to some music?” Lisa asked, growing nervous. “Harrison?”

He turned to her, a look of annoyance on his face. “What for?” he asked. “I'm not interested in wasting any more of my time.” He stood up. “Maybe I'll come watch you play your next ball game,” he said to me.

“Fine.”

“Don't strike out,” he said with a self-satisfied smile, “or I'll have my puppet here laugh.”

“I can't think of a better reason not to,” I said, and looked at Brody, who wiped his mouth, thanked Lisa for the lunch, and ran off to catch up with Harrison.

We watched them in silence, and then Lisa turned to me.

“Wow,” she said. “No one's ever put Harrison down like that. Most of my other girlfriends swoon over him.” She tilted her head and looked at me curiously.

“What?” I asked.

“You're different,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, my heart knocking like a tiny hammer in my chest.

“I don't know. You're full of surprises, like when you hit that home run. But,” she said, jumping up, “that's what I like about you. Come on. Let's go listen to music and talk.”

I followed her into the house, feeling deceitful, feeling as if I really didn't belong, but I wasn't upset
so much about lying to my new friends as I was about lying to myself.

The truth was, the only time I felt honest was when I was playing softball or some sport. The real me couldn't be hidden.

Harrison would be disappointed. I wouldn't even come close to striking out.

W
e lost our next game, but not because I struck out or the other team got so many hits off me. Our team made too many errors, the big one being Cora Munsen's dropping of a fly ball with two on base. The way she looked at me afterward gave me the feeling she had done it on purpose just so I wouldn't look good. Coach Grossbard might have thought so, too. Afterward, in the locker room, she kept asking Cora why she dropped it.

“The sun wasn't in your eyes. You were in good position. What happened, Cora?”

“I don't know,” Cora said, eyes down.

“Well, I don't understand. Anyone could have caught that ball,” the coach insisted.

Cora was silent.

“Maybe she was too anxious,” I said. “That's happened to me. I think about throwing the ball before I catch it.”

It really didn't happen to me, but I'd seen it happen enough times to other girls. Cora looked up quickly.

“Yes,” she said, grateful for the suggestion. “I think that was it.”

The coach still looked suspicious. “Let's be sure it doesn't happen against Westgate next Saturday. We've never come close to beating them, and they shut us out the last three times,” Coach Grossbard said.

“It won't,” Cora promised.

The coach put up posters with the words “Get Westgate” on the locker-room walls during the week. I soon realized there was a real rivalry between the two schools, and pressure began to mount toward Saturday. It was hard for me to keep my mind on my piano lessons and modeling lessons while doing my homework and attending practices.

During Wednesday's piano lesson, Professor Wertzman had a tantrum.

“You seem to have forgotten everything. Such mistakes are not made by someone who is supposedly practicing!” he accused.

He jumped up and paced at the piano, shaking his head and looking at me furiously.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm trying.”

“No, you're not trying. I know when a student is trying. I made your mother promises, and you're making it impossible to keep them,” he declared.

Tears clouded my eyes. I lowered my head and waited for his fury to die down.

“I'll be a laughingstock,” he muttered. “I have a reputation to protect. My reputation is my livelihood!”

“I'm trying,” I moaned. “I'll try harder. I promise.”

He stared at me with a look that made me feel as if I wasn't fit even to be in his presence. My lips began to tremble. Just then, Pamela entered. Right after dinner, her beautician had come over to do a treatment on her hair that she said would make it look fuller and richer. It didn't look any different to me.

“What's going on in here?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

The professor looked at me and shook his head. “I must have the full cooperation and attention of my student if I am to succeed,” he said, shifting his eyes toward me.

“Brooke, aren't you trying?”

“Yes,” I said. “I am. I'm not as good as everyone thinks, that's all.”

“Who thinks that?” the professor muttered. “You can't be any good if you don't practice and pay attention. You are not practicing enough,” he insisted.

“I do practice. I do,” I said.

“Are you saying she needs more practice?” Pamela asked.

“At the rate she is going, more practice is definitely needed. I would like to see her add at least another four hours a week,” he prescribed.

It hit me like a tablespoon of castor oil or a whip across my back. “Four more hours! When could I do that?”

Pamela stared coldly at me. “I think,” she began slowly, “considering the sacrifices and the expense Peter and I are undertaking for your benefit, you could at least find the time. She'll practice an additional four hours every Saturday from now on,” she declared firmly.

The professor looked satisfied.

“I can't practice any more on Saturday, especially not this coming Saturday. It's the biggest game of the year!”

“Game?” the professor asked, looking at Pamela.

“Don't listen to anything she says, Professor Wertzman. Please, give her instructions on what you want her to practice and what you expect her to accomplish this coming Saturday.”

She turned back to me, her eyes like cold stones. “I'm filling out the application for the pageant's first audition tonight, Brooke. You have to be ready for every event. No,” she said as I went to speak. “I don't want to say another word about it.”

“But Saturday is very important. Everyone's depending on me,” I blurted despite her order.

She stared and then looked up at the ceiling as if she were in great emotional pain. Without looking at me, she continued, “If there is any further problem or if the professor complains to me again, I will call Mrs. Harper and tell her you are forbidden from being on any team, baseball, checkers,
anything,” she threatened, her eyes still on the ceiling. Then she pivoted on her high heels and went clip-clopping down the hallway.