needs. Vivian, with this extra money we've got now—”
Mom: “We can't use all that money on Hall. What about the boys? What about college funds? It's not fair to—”
Dad: “We could—”
Mom: “We can't send her to an academy for a single year, then make her come home. If we make the commitment, it's got to be for the duration.”
Dad: “I know, I know …”
I didn't know what guy they were talking about, but regardless, my mom is definitely the Weak Link. When she says things like “They're
children,
Frank” and “It's a boot camp,” I feel she's on my side. And I plan to play off her doubts as much as I'm able.
Lately they've acquired calculators and have been adding up mortgage payments, food, and car expenses. Then they subtract bits of money from specific columns, hoping an extra four thousand dollars a month for tennis academy tuition will emerge.
They're acting like insane accountants now because my grandpa is dead. He died three years ago, but his house in Chicago recently sold. They got a big check last week. My parents want to use my dead grandpa's money to help banish me to a tennis academy. They refer to this money as the Dead Grandpa Bonus Fund. My grandpa Floyd was a chef, not a sports fan.
“Ready, Hall?” my mom called.
“Yeah, just a sec.”
“Hurry up, we're already late.”
I grabbed my Prince stick. My mom had the engine running by the time I reached the garage. Her lips were glazed with lipstick, her good lipstick, the kind reserved for dinner reservations and anniversaries. Looked like she was going someplace special. My dad was perched in the front seat as if on his way to a celebration. The jig was up.
“How come you're both driving me?”
“We thought we'd watch you practice,” my dad said.
Most of the time I felt lucky to get a ride at all. The club was clear across town on Broadmoor Valley Road, a forty-minute drive to and fro. They never watched my lessons, not even when I was eight. “Both of you? Both of you are watching me practice?”
“Sure,” my dad said. “It's a splendid day, why not?”
A splendid day?
I would have jumped out of the car right then, but we were already a block from home and traveling at roughly thirty-five miles per hour. Words like “splendid” weren't part of my dad's vocabulary.
My parents weren't club members—they needed guest passes or they'd be tossed out. Since technically I wasn't a member, either, I couldn't provide passes.
“Can't get in without a pass,” I told them, gloating.
“Trent gave us passes,” my mom said.
“Gave you … Why did he do that?”
My mom turned in her seat, glaring. “Well, excuse us for taking an interest in your life.”
An interest, ha! We drove in silence the rest of the way.
The air roasted me from the inside out. It was Africa hot. Heat swelled from the sky and ground at equal intensities; the fiery court surface threatened to swallow my legs in flames. My parents and I fell through the gate of court 3. Trent bounded over. Trent never
bounds.
“Glad you could make it,” he said, using an elegant tone of voice. “Hot one today. Can I get you something to drink? Snack bar is just over yonder.”
“No, we're fine. Thanks,” my mom said.
“Been a while,” my dad said. “Please tell me you'rebald by choice and not from the stress of coaching the enigma.”
Coach chuckled. “No. Wouldn't put it past her, though. Girl keeps me on my toes.”
Something was askew. Trent was famous for his dislike of tennis parents. Normally he didn't even like encouraging but semi-removed parents like mine (until lately, that is), and here he was bounding over to greet them, being polite. Cracking jokes, no less.
As my parents moseyed to the bleachers, Trent grabbed my arm. “Face north,” he said, “and play hard.”
“But, Coach, I—”
“Face north. Play hard.”
Coach knows I prefer facing south on court 3. Facing south, I can view sailboats that drift in the lake.
Mom: “We can't use all that money on Hall. What about the boys? What about college funds? It's not fair to—”
Dad: “We could—”
Mom: “We can't send her to an academy for a single year, then make her come home. If we make the commitment, it's got to be for the duration.”
Dad: “I know, I know …”
I didn't know what guy they were talking about, but regardless, my mom is definitely the Weak Link. When she says things like “They're
children,
Frank” and “It's a boot camp,” I feel she's on my side. And I plan to play off her doubts as much as I'm able.
Lately they've acquired calculators and have been adding up mortgage payments, food, and car expenses. Then they subtract bits of money from specific columns, hoping an extra four thousand dollars a month for tennis academy tuition will emerge.
They're acting like insane accountants now because my grandpa is dead. He died three years ago, but his house in Chicago recently sold. They got a big check last week. My parents want to use my dead grandpa's money to help banish me to a tennis academy. They refer to this money as the Dead Grandpa Bonus Fund. My grandpa Floyd was a chef, not a sports fan.
“Ready, Hall?” my mom called.
“Yeah, just a sec.”
“Hurry up, we're already late.”
I grabbed my Prince stick. My mom had the engine running by the time I reached the garage. Her lips were glazed with lipstick, her good lipstick, the kind reserved for dinner reservations and anniversaries. Looked like she was going someplace special. My dad was perched in the front seat as if on his way to a celebration. The jig was up.
“How come you're both driving me?”
“We thought we'd watch you practice,” my dad said.
Most of the time I felt lucky to get a ride at all. The club was clear across town on Broadmoor Valley Road, a forty-minute drive to and fro. They never watched my lessons, not even when I was eight. “Both of you? Both of you are watching me practice?”
“Sure,” my dad said. “It's a splendid day, why not?”
A splendid day?
I would have jumped out of the car right then, but we were already a block from home and traveling at roughly thirty-five miles per hour. Words like “splendid” weren't part of my dad's vocabulary.
My parents weren't club members—they needed guest passes or they'd be tossed out. Since technically I wasn't a member, either, I couldn't provide passes.
“Can't get in without a pass,” I told them, gloating.
“Trent gave us passes,” my mom said.
“Gave you … Why did he do that?”
My mom turned in her seat, glaring. “Well, excuse us for taking an interest in your life.”
An interest, ha! We drove in silence the rest of the way.
The air roasted me from the inside out. It was Africa hot. Heat swelled from the sky and ground at equal intensities; the fiery court surface threatened to swallow my legs in flames. My parents and I fell through the gate of court 3. Trent bounded over. Trent never
bounds.
“Glad you could make it,” he said, using an elegant tone of voice. “Hot one today. Can I get you something to drink? Snack bar is just over yonder.”
“No, we're fine. Thanks,” my mom said.
“Been a while,” my dad said. “Please tell me you'rebald by choice and not from the stress of coaching the enigma.”
Coach chuckled. “No. Wouldn't put it past her, though. Girl keeps me on my toes.”
Something was askew. Trent was famous for his dislike of tennis parents. Normally he didn't even like encouraging but semi-removed parents like mine (until lately, that is), and here he was bounding over to greet them, being polite. Cracking jokes, no less.
As my parents moseyed to the bleachers, Trent grabbed my arm. “Face north,” he said, “and play hard.”
“But, Coach, I—”
“Face north. Play hard.”
Coach knows I prefer facing south on court 3. Facing south, I can view sailboats that drift in the lake.
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