Love All Page 5

  Now I dropped my math notebook on the bleachers and settled in while the girls went outside for Frisbee golf and the boys suited up for dodgeball in the gymnasium. If my parents had known about this arrangement they would’ve ended it, so at the dinner table at night I described my PE units in great detail, telling them about Hope Crowley cross-country skiing into a tree and Barbara Kowski backswinging her indoor hockey stick into Angela Mink’s nose. Who cared that I made it all up? Gym grades didn’t factor into our GPAs, and an F in PE seemed a fair price to pay for more time with Sam.

  There was no question Sam could’ve been a super-pop like Teddy, but either he didn’t care or he didn’t see it. He was smarter than most of the super-pops but not quite a striver; he played soccer in the fall and tennis in the spring, but he wasn’t a jock, either. For some reason, Sam seemed to like being saddled with Carl and me.

  “Hey,” said Sam, collapsing on the bleachers two rows below me. We had only seconds to talk before his dodgeball game began.

  The fluorescent gymnasium lights flashed on Sam’s hair and I resisted the urge to pet him. He’d changed into a fresh set of gym clothes—black Umbros and a T-shirt that said SECOND ANNUAL COOPERSTOWN SOCCER KICK—and I inhaled deeply, dizzy from the smell of his detergent. When he leaned over to tie his Sambas, I spied his swimsuit tan line above his boxers, and I wondered if Megan had seen it, too.

  On the gym floor, Mr. Yonkey bounced a single red ball and tooted his whistle to call the boys over. Sam didn’t move.

  I took a deep breath. “So?” I said.

  “What?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Megan.”

  Sam shrugged. “Nothing happened, really. Carl and Wylie and Doug just said I should go for her.”

  Effing Carl.

  “We kissed,” he admitted.

  “Like once?”

  My heart thudded in my chest as Sam looked down at his hands, then back up at me.

  “Like a few times.”

  “And?”

  “And what?” asked Sam. “It’s not like I’m going to write her or anything. Why do you care, anyway?”

  Yonkey blew his whistle and said, “Move it, men!”

  “I better go,” said Sam. He looked back once, then Q-Berted down the bleacher seats to join Yonkey on the gym floor.

  In my math notebook I drew three connected circles, a Venn diagram for our friendship, a chain-linked triumvirate for Sam and Carl and me. Where Carl and I overlapped was in the way we made room for each other in our lives, our front doors always open, and in our mutual adoration of Sam. We courted his affections, and when we couldn’t have him, which was often enough, we always had each other, and in that way Carl was my best friend. Where Sam and I overlapped was in the way he reached under his desk during history class to lay notes folded in the shape of right triangles on the very top of my knee, and in the way he used a pen during study hall to draw random images—a pine forest, an open book, our lunch monitor’s shoe—in dark-blue strokes on the soft underside of my arm. At the heart of our three-way union was the language we had created, our mother tongue, but with one thousand words at the ready, I still couldn’t tell Sam that I had missed him while he was gone.

  * * *

  Before the final bell of the day we were in Sam’s Badass Scirocco Scirocco, tearing out of the parking lot at top speed, just ahead of the school-bus traffic. Tennis didn’t start until three thirty and we had minutes to kill. First stop, Stewart’s for snacks: pork rinds and Dr Peppers and fifty-cent gumballs from the Titan Big’un machine, then on to my house, where we could catch the first half of The Jenny Jones Show before practice.

  Our house was a Victorian two-story at the base of Bassett Hall, which had been an orphanage when Poppy was a kid, then offices for Bassett Hospital. Next to Bassett Hall were the tennis courts where our school tennis team played, visible from our kitchen window and also upstairs from Poppy’s new bedroom.

  We found Poppy in front of the TV where I’d planted him that morning. He’d traded in his plaid pajamas for khakis and a wool work shirt but was still sporting his robe and slippers, which Nonz never would’ve allowed, and he hadn’t combed his hair or shaved or applied Vicks VapoRub to his nose.

  I sat on the corduroy couch next to Poppy and nabbed the remote. “Have you ever seen Jenny Jones?” I asked. Every episode was about oversexed teenagers. It was by far our favorite show.

  “Who?” asked Poppy.

  Sam kicked back on the purple couch below the TV. “Poppy,” he said, “how do you like your new digs?”

  “Where’s your grandfather been keeping himself?” Poppy asked Sam. He and Sam’s grandfather had gone to CHS together a thousand years ago. “That man has a hat of mine.”

  “He says you 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 volu
nteer 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 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, 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 wa
s 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 was terrified of the things he wanted—the things I wanted, too. Girlfriend or random girl? Hanging out or just a kiss? Sam was a train zooming by and I couldn’t see my way on.

  “So?” said Claw.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  Claw shook his head, thinking I was being sarcastic, and it occurred to me that there are very few people who can hear us the way we want to be heard.

  * * *

  After practice, Sam and Carl came back to my house to pick up the Badass Scirocco Scirocco. It was still light out and we squeezed onto my porch swing, kicking off with our right feet, catching the ground on the way back with our left. Carl brought up the idea of getting the goods, and we agreed to take the BASS out Friday night and drive up Route 28 until Sam found a clerk willing to sell him our Seagram’s Wild Berries and his Natty Light. When the sun started to set, we swung without talking, the only noise a creak from the chain on Carl’s side that fired up when we pushed off. The last light cast our shadows across the painted porch floor, stretching Sam’s head to the opposite railing, and when we saw my mom’s car turn onto Susquehanna, we pushed harder, nearly tipping at the apex.

  Mom waved as she shut off the engine, and all three of us waved back.

  “Kids,” she said, hauling out her briefcase. “Time to say your goodbyes.”

  We let the swing glide to a stop.

  “See you tomorrow,” said Sam, pushing off my thigh and the armrest as he rose, and a shock bolted up my spine.

  I followed Mom into the house, narrow and long with two staircases. Walking front to back we passed the living room, my mother’s study, and finally the kitchen, which fed into the den where Poppy was asleep, TV blaring, a blue light flickering over his skin.

  “There’s Poppy,” I said.

  Mom said nothing, only drifted back to the kitchen.