gave it to him.”
Poppy made a gesture somewhere between the okay sign and the bird.
“My God,” Poppy said when Jenny Jones returned from commercial break.
“Looks like teen prostitutes with weight problems,” said Sam. “Should be profesh.”
Carl had gone to the kitchen for his Fruit Roll-Ups and now returned with the whole box. He passed one to each of us, including Poppy.
“What is this?” Poppy asked.
“A Fruit Roll-Up,” Carl explained. He unfurled Poppy’s and peeled off the plastic sheet for him. “You eat it.”
“Poppy, no,” Sam said absently. “Your teeth.”
Which is what I liked about Sam: there was an ease to his presence, an okay-ness with the world. He knew what he wanted, knew how to ask for it, knew he would get it, knew what to do with it when it was his. On the couch, he crossed his legs at the ankles, clasped his hands behind his head, and scooted over until he was pressed into the pillows. I thought about how simple it must’ve been for Megan. She barely knew him, would never see him again, but I had everything in the world to lose.
Already I had forfeited tennis, the one sport in which I’d nearly triumphed over Teddy. We’d both taken summer lessons at the country club as kids, but around age twelve Teddy had laid his athletic prowess at the altar of PONY League and American Legion, and before long his serves lacked the laser precision of his fastballs and he was choking up on his racket as though he were gripping a big-barrel bat. The last time Teddy and I played, he’d sailed every first serve long, sliced every backhand wide, and when our hour was up we were on serve 5–4, and I’d marked it down in the chronicles of my childhood as a solid win.
But it wasn’t enough to take on Teddy. It wasn’t enough to play, practice, improve. Two weeks ago it hadn’t been enough even to earn a place on our high school’s coed varsity tennis team, which, as freshmen, Sam and Carl and I hadn’t made. Throughout the winter, the three of us had spent every afternoon together, driving around in Sam’s BASS, smoking OPs, playing board games at Nonz and Poppy’s house. Now, with four openings in this year’s lineup—four seniors graduated and gone—Sam, at least, was poised to make the team, while Carl and I might still be axed. I was good at tennis but high school boys were bigger, stronger—my fate hung in the balance and Sam hadn’t even acknowledged that things would change.
In the days leading up to tryouts, while Sam debated whether he’d be number two or three in the singles lineup, I thought about running track instead. Hilary and Paige, my friends from the field hockey team, spoke of long bus rides to away meets with nothing but time to hang out with each other and the other teams. I pictured flocks of girls stretching their calves and loosening their hamstrings in the grassy center of the track while boys of every uniform ogled from the lanes. Never mind that I’d never run a lap outside gym class. Maybe I had a hidden talent—long jump, shot put, pole vault—but when I pictured myself at the javelin throw, I saw only a tennis racket in my hand.
When Sam booked an hour at the indoor courts in Oneonta and invited Carl and me to join him—he wanted to practice his serves—I lied, said I had to go shopping with my mom, and instead curled up with a book in bed. If not the track team, then maybe I’d volunteer at the Seedlings after-school program or take up solo rock climbing at the gym. In the end, I did none of these things. The moment for tennis-team tryouts came and I simply didn’t go.
“I probably wouldn’t have made it, anyway,” I’d told Nonz when she called to discuss. Dad had shared the news—Sam, second singles; Carl, alternate/team manager; me, a no-show.
“But I’ve seen you play,” said Nonz. “You’re good.”
I shrugged, waited.
“So this is about Sam,” she said.
With anyone else I would’ve denied it. Until that moment, I
Poppy made a gesture somewhere between the okay sign and the bird.
“My God,” Poppy said when Jenny Jones returned from commercial break.
“Looks like teen prostitutes with weight problems,” said Sam. “Should be profesh.”
Carl had gone to the kitchen for his Fruit Roll-Ups and now returned with the whole box. He passed one to each of us, including Poppy.
“What is this?” Poppy asked.
“A Fruit Roll-Up,” Carl explained. He unfurled Poppy’s and peeled off the plastic sheet for him. “You eat it.”
“Poppy, no,” Sam said absently. “Your teeth.”
Which is what I liked about Sam: there was an ease to his presence, an okay-ness with the world. He knew what he wanted, knew how to ask for it, knew he would get it, knew what to do with it when it was his. On the couch, he crossed his legs at the ankles, clasped his hands behind his head, and scooted over until he was pressed into the pillows. I thought about how simple it must’ve been for Megan. She barely knew him, would never see him again, but I had everything in the world to lose.
Already I had forfeited tennis, the one sport in which I’d nearly triumphed over Teddy. We’d both taken summer lessons at the country club as kids, but around age twelve Teddy had laid his athletic prowess at the altar of PONY League and American Legion, and before long his serves lacked the laser precision of his fastballs and he was choking up on his racket as though he were gripping a big-barrel bat. The last time Teddy and I played, he’d sailed every first serve long, sliced every backhand wide, and when our hour was up we were on serve 5–4, and I’d marked it down in the chronicles of my childhood as a solid win.
But it wasn’t enough to take on Teddy. It wasn’t enough to play, practice, improve. Two weeks ago it hadn’t been enough even to earn a place on our high school’s coed varsity tennis team, which, as freshmen, Sam and Carl and I hadn’t made. Throughout the winter, the three of us had spent every afternoon together, driving around in Sam’s BASS, smoking OPs, playing board games at Nonz and Poppy’s house. Now, with four openings in this year’s lineup—four seniors graduated and gone—Sam, at least, was poised to make the team, while Carl and I might still be axed. I was good at tennis but high school boys were bigger, stronger—my fate hung in the balance and Sam hadn’t even acknowledged that things would change.
In the days leading up to tryouts, while Sam debated whether he’d be number two or three in the singles lineup, I thought about running track instead. Hilary and Paige, my friends from the field hockey team, spoke of long bus rides to away meets with nothing but time to hang out with each other and the other teams. I pictured flocks of girls stretching their calves and loosening their hamstrings in the grassy center of the track while boys of every uniform ogled from the lanes. Never mind that I’d never run a lap outside gym class. Maybe I had a hidden talent—long jump, shot put, pole vault—but when I pictured myself at the javelin throw, I saw only a tennis racket in my hand.
When Sam booked an hour at the indoor courts in Oneonta and invited Carl and me to join him—he wanted to practice his serves—I lied, said I had to go shopping with my mom, and instead curled up with a book in bed. If not the track team, then maybe I’d volunteer at the Seedlings after-school program or take up solo rock climbing at the gym. In the end, I did none of these things. The moment for tennis-team tryouts came and I simply didn’t go.
“I probably wouldn’t have made it, anyway,” I’d told Nonz when she called to discuss. Dad had shared the news—Sam, second singles; Carl, alternate/team manager; me, a no-show.
“But I’ve seen you play,” said Nonz. “You’re good.”
I shrugged, waited.
“So this is about Sam,” she said.
With anyone else I would’ve denied it. Until that moment, I
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