hadn’t even admitted it was true. I knew how childish I sounded and I should’ve been embarrassed but I never was with Nonz.
I pinned the receiver between my ear and shoulder and quietly shut my bedroom door. “Why does he want to be on the team so badly, anyway?” I asked. “The three of us play tennis together all the time.”
“Sometimes people want new things,” said Nonz. “It doesn’t have to mean you let go of each other.”
Refusing to show up for the timed sprints and elimination drills, I’d watched instead from the window in our guest room, thinking that Sam would come for me, that he would tell Coach Klawson he needed a drink of water and run over to 59 Susquehanna looking for me, but it was Carl who’d stopped by afterward to ask me where I’d been.
Now I saw empty afternoons stretching out endlessly before me. I pictured Sam and Carl on the school bus without me, traveling to away matches against other Section III, Class C public schools. Ilion, where a sign in front of the Remington Arms factory tracked the number of days since the last accident. Herkimer, from which the closest orthodontist, Dr. Caruso, traveled one Wednesday a month to a pop-up office in Doubleday Court. In Hamilton, Sam and Carl would play on the Colgate University tennis courts. In Mohawk, they’d press their faces against the bus windows to eye the runaway-truck stop halfway down Vickerman Hill. Sauquoit, Little Falls, Richfield Springs. Frankfurt, Waterville, Mount Markham. Wherever Sam was going, I wanted to go with him, but it was too late.
“Tryouts are over,” I said.
“Forget it,” said Nonz, dismissing the notion. “Go to practice tomorrow. See what happens.”
During the next commercial Carl asked Poppy how his day had been.
“I miss having lunch,” he sighed.
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast?” I asked.
“Holy crap,” said Sam, who ate at least five times a day.
While I made Poppy a PB&J with a pickle and potato chips and a glass of milk, Sam and Carl changed into wind pants and zipper jackets, then the three of us left for practice.
“Bye, kids,” Poppy called, which made me feel bouncy, and I walked a little faster and so did Sam and Carl and then we were almost running for the courts.
“This is why I always say, ‘Ride the bus.’” Coach Klawson pointed to Sam, then Carl. “Just ride the bus with the rest of the team.” He shrugged. “Not complicated, right? Julia,” he said, zeroing in on me. “You’re not even on the team, and now you’re preventing my players from being on time. Give me five laps.”
“Nice going,” said Alan Forrest, rotating his racket by slow half turns with a rhythmic flick of his wrist.
I jogged the perimeter of the fence in my jeans and moccasins, keeping one eye trained on Claw. During the preseason practices before spring break, he’d grudgingly tolerated my presence on the hill overlooking the courts and even let me squeegee the baselines before practice began, but with the official season under way, Claw seemed to have pegged me for a nuisance. Nonz would’ve told me to talk to him. Certainly that’s what Dad had advised. But the lineup was set. The best I could hope for now was co–team manager, helping Carl fill empty ball cans with water for the real players to drink from, and I didn’t want to be Sam’s water girl.
Technically CHS tennis was a boys’ team, but because there was no corresponding girls’ team, Title IX mandated that girls be allowed to try out for it, though hardly any did. All the tennis teams in our athletic conference worked this way, with anywhere from zero to two girls playing with and against boys whose skill levels ranged from “possible college competitor,” like our captain, Evan, to “backyard player,” like Alan Forrest, whose unorthodox ground strokes produced such dramatic sidespins that his returns occasionally bounced back over to his side of the net.
This year in our singles slots were Evan,
I pinned the receiver between my ear and shoulder and quietly shut my bedroom door. “Why does he want to be on the team so badly, anyway?” I asked. “The three of us play tennis together all the time.”
“Sometimes people want new things,” said Nonz. “It doesn’t have to mean you let go of each other.”
Refusing to show up for the timed sprints and elimination drills, I’d watched instead from the window in our guest room, thinking that Sam would come for me, that he would tell Coach Klawson he needed a drink of water and run over to 59 Susquehanna looking for me, but it was Carl who’d stopped by afterward to ask me where I’d been.
Now I saw empty afternoons stretching out endlessly before me. I pictured Sam and Carl on the school bus without me, traveling to away matches against other Section III, Class C public schools. Ilion, where a sign in front of the Remington Arms factory tracked the number of days since the last accident. Herkimer, from which the closest orthodontist, Dr. Caruso, traveled one Wednesday a month to a pop-up office in Doubleday Court. In Hamilton, Sam and Carl would play on the Colgate University tennis courts. In Mohawk, they’d press their faces against the bus windows to eye the runaway-truck stop halfway down Vickerman Hill. Sauquoit, Little Falls, Richfield Springs. Frankfurt, Waterville, Mount Markham. Wherever Sam was going, I wanted to go with him, but it was too late.
“Tryouts are over,” I said.
“Forget it,” said Nonz, dismissing the notion. “Go to practice tomorrow. See what happens.”
During the next commercial Carl asked Poppy how his day had been.
“I miss having lunch,” he sighed.
“You haven’t eaten since breakfast?” I asked.
“Holy crap,” said Sam, who ate at least five times a day.
While I made Poppy a PB&J with a pickle and potato chips and a glass of milk, Sam and Carl changed into wind pants and zipper jackets, then the three of us left for practice.
“Bye, kids,” Poppy called, which made me feel bouncy, and I walked a little faster and so did Sam and Carl and then we were almost running for the courts.
“This is why I always say, ‘Ride the bus.’” Coach Klawson pointed to Sam, then Carl. “Just ride the bus with the rest of the team.” He shrugged. “Not complicated, right? Julia,” he said, zeroing in on me. “You’re not even on the team, and now you’re preventing my players from being on time. Give me five laps.”
“Nice going,” said Alan Forrest, rotating his racket by slow half turns with a rhythmic flick of his wrist.
I jogged the perimeter of the fence in my jeans and moccasins, keeping one eye trained on Claw. During the preseason practices before spring break, he’d grudgingly tolerated my presence on the hill overlooking the courts and even let me squeegee the baselines before practice began, but with the official season under way, Claw seemed to have pegged me for a nuisance. Nonz would’ve told me to talk to him. Certainly that’s what Dad had advised. But the lineup was set. The best I could hope for now was co–team manager, helping Carl fill empty ball cans with water for the real players to drink from, and I didn’t want to be Sam’s water girl.
Technically CHS tennis was a boys’ team, but because there was no corresponding girls’ team, Title IX mandated that girls be allowed to try out for it, though hardly any did. All the tennis teams in our athletic conference worked this way, with anywhere from zero to two girls playing with and against boys whose skill levels ranged from “possible college competitor,” like our captain, Evan, to “backyard player,” like Alan Forrest, whose unorthodox ground strokes produced such dramatic sidespins that his returns occasionally bounced back over to his side of the net.
This year in our singles slots were Evan,
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