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“Practice, practice, and more practice makes perfect,” I say by rote in a monotone. Hand on Bible. She came up with that when she was nine.
“I understand there’s a method to the madness but, Beebs–– this isn’t tennis. It’s…umm…there’s a lot of fluid exchanged.”
“Way to kill the dream. And no, I don’t know. That’s the point.”
“Well…it’s…hmm.”
Oh heck, how do I describe sex without making it sound like a lot of squishy, sloppy sounds coupled with weird jerking motions, culminating into a Fourth of July fireworks display between your legs––and that’s if you’re lucky?
“It’s intimate.” Duh. Gosh, this is hard. “A lot sloppier than coming on your own. There’s a lot of stuff that should only be shared with someone that cares about you. At least, the first time. Because under the best of circumstances, it’s going to be awkward. And no, it does not look anything like porn.”
Annabelle looks less sure of her plan now. Her pensive frown slides back to the television screen. John Cusack is holding up a boom box toward his lover’s bedroom window, serenading Ione Skye because he’s crazy in love.
“Tough call. What do I do?”
“My two cents? Wait till someone boom boxes you. Then jump his bones.”
Chapter Eighteen
Maren
The next few days pass in the same vein. I work out. I go to Rowdy’s, where I’m starting to really get into the groove of things. Noah does an A plus job of impersonating someone with a split personality disorder. He’s either helpful and quiet. Or dismissive and quiet. Those are my two choices. My personal life may be in the toilet and my career in limbo, and yet at Rowdy’s I’m actually having fun. Wonders never cease.
Crystal’s revelation has been lurking on the outskirts of my thoughts like leftovers in the fridge. I’ve been ignoring it. I know it needs to be dealt with, but I also know it will be highly messy and unpleasant when I do, so I keep putting it off.
And, no, it does not make me feel better that he was remorseful afterward. He should’ve thought of that before he let his dick get away from him.
“Jen––when I say run sprints I mean run sprints!” my sister barks at her teenage student. “I don’t mean go for a leisurely jog.” Bebe throws her hands up in exasperation and I curl my lips around my teeth to suppress the laughter.
Today, I mark one more check on Rowdy’s to-do list. I’m watching Annabelle teach a lesson at the local tennis club.
Jen, Bebe’s student, spots me on the bleachers and runs over to introduce herself. Some hero worship happens. I sign her racket and we chat until Bebe barks at her to get a move on. Nothing out of the ordinary for my sister. She was the same way when she was training. Just as hard, if not more so, on herself.
Annabelle goes through the same training method she and I used when training as juniors. All goes well until they start working on the girl’s serve.
Bebe keeps trying to work on shortening the rotational path of the racket without throwing off her balance, which is extremely hard to do. As hard as asking a quarterback to change his throwing mechanics, or asking a person to change how they write. There’s a ton of muscle memory involved and it takes time and focus to change that.
Bebe looks over her shoulder and calls me down. I spring up from my seat and trot down to the court with a pep in my step, surprisingly excited to take part in this demonstration. Sadly, this is the first time all year I’m excited to participate in any tennis-related activity.
“Okay, Jen,” Bebe starts. “I want you to watch Maren’s rotation and how compact it is. There’s less waste of time and energy.”
I go through the motion of the serve sans racket because of the cast.
“Mare, stop tilting your hips,” comes from my left.
“I’m not tilting my hips,” I grumble.
“Ignore the way Maren is tilting her hips, Jen, but you see how efficient her rotation is, right?” Jen nods. Although her expression grows worried as my sister and I go back and forth. “If she didn’t push her hips out, it would be even better.”
Wtf? “I’m not throwing my hips, dammit! Stand in front of me and you can see better.”
My sister arches a snotty eyebrow and tips up her chin. “If you didn’t throw your hips forward, your serve would have a lot more power to it. It’s what, a hundred and one miles per hour? You could get it up to one hundred and ten if you stopped throwing your daggone hips!”
Back molars grinding, I go through the motion again. Annabelle marches over, positions herself behind me and as I’m swinging my arm, pulls my hips back.
“Eek!” My balance thrown off, I almost fall. “You little bitch!”
