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Chapter 1
Taylor
“Eww! I look ridiculous,” I said aloud to no one.
I stared at my reflection, the pleated plaid maroon and yellow skirt skimmed the top of my knees, while the fabric gaped around my waist. And with no needle and thread, or any knowledge of sewing for that matter, I was doomed to wear the ill-fitting skirt. Right along with a crisp white blouse, a pretentious blazer and an absolutely superfluous tie. I mean, what was the point of a tie? Okay, so they may have served a function for King Louis XIII’s soldiers back in the 17th century by keeping the tops of their jackets in place, but several centuries later they had no relevance to a high school senior like me. In my opinion, it was truly unwarranted aristocratic nonsense, with no purpose other than tradition and decoration. And, ugly decoration at that.
But, this was my new life.
A new town, a new school, a new uniform, an opportunity for my dreams to become more than just a pie-in-the-sky pursuit.
The scholarship to Covington Prep, a prestigious school in the town of River Valley, had meant a relocation, leaving behind our hometown to come here. And why?
Because it was my mother’s dream that I would someday play college tennis, and for that to happen I needed exposure, I needed competition, I needed to stretch my wings.
And I knew it, and I wanted it, too.
But I never thought it would be without her.
The sound of a revving motorized lawn mower startled me. Mainly because it sounded so close. Like right outside the house.
I took one last look at the horrible skirt in the mirror and ran downstairs, along the hallway stacked with moving boxes which I was in the process of unpacking. Going into Dad’s bedroom, which was at the front of the house, I peered from behind the shabby brown drapes. A man wearing a gray hoodie, a cap and safety earmuffs was pushing a lawnmower over the grass in the front yard.
1040 Fox Avenue was not the nicest of houses. In fact, it was somewhat of a dive. The houses near my school in Covington Heights had been outrageously out of our price range and way too big for my father and me, and the demand in the housing market meant rentals were in short supply. Dad feared that we might be forced to look on the outskirts of town, and with all the tennis training he envisioned I’d have, a long drive home was the last thing he wanted for me. The agent had come to the rescue when he said he had a small house he could offer us—though he conceded it wasn’t in the best condition, having been earmarked for renovation. It was over the bridge from Covington Prep, which would be a fifteen minute drive for me. The photos showed a dated kitchen, one solitary bathroom, and the walls were beige and drab and worn. But there was a stairway which led to an upstairs area and I had immediately declared it as my bedroom. It was a long room with dark hardwood floors and the small window meant there wasn’t a lot of natural light, but I could see it would become my haven. Not having much choice, Dad had signed a one year lease. Perfect—because we didn’t intend to be in River Valley longer than that.
In real life, the room was smaller than the photos showed, and the movers struggled to bring my bed up the narrow staircase. There was no closet for my clothes, and crammed with a small chest of drawers, my desk, chair and beanbag, the place was decidedly cozy.
But it was my space.
My own floor, my sanctuary.
The lawnmower man was working his way down the left side of the front lawn. It was an uninspired yard, a grassed area divided by a concrete path that led to the front porch. The white paint was flaking off the picket fence, and the planter boxes might have provided a bit of color once upon a time, but were presently barren of any life form. That was one thing at the top of my to-do list—to plant some flowers.
Flowers were my connection to Mom, that and tennis. Mom’s passion and love of the game had led me to this precise point in my life—her daughter would get to play college tennis someday—and who knew after that? A pro career? Maybe.
I’d played tennis since the age of six, with Mom as my coach. Yes, her own budding tennis career had been stifled by a hip injury, but to keep in the game she’d turned to coaching. Her reputation was building, and my own rankings in the junior league were improving, and everything was going great.
Until she got sick.
A repeated knock on the back door jolted me, and I put down the framed photograph that I’d been staring at—Mom and Dad on their wedding day, lovingly gazing into each other’s eyes. Dad had been clean shaven back in those days, and Mom’s hair had been piled up in a gorgeous up-do, stunning and elegant. So different from how I remembered her. As a tennis coach, she’d worn a visor everyday of her life. When chemo took her hair, she wore a cap.
I tiptoed into the hallway and squatted down next to the cartons, listening like a cat with pricked ears. Another loud rap came, this time tapping out a beat—da,da,da,da,da—da,da. For a moment, I smiled. Dad hadn’t said anything about a lawn man coming, and I had no money to pay him if that’s what he was wanting. In the next instance, I heard footsteps. Creeping back into Dad’s room, I peeked out to see the man pushing the mower to his truck. Only, he’d taken off his cap, his short brown hair was mussed up, his earmuffs hung around his neck and his hoodie was tied at his waist revealing a blue t-shirt underneath. And it wasn’t a man at all, more like a teenage boy. I winced—maybe he’d wanted to wash his hands or have a glass of water. He might have been dying of thirst. I watched as he folded down the mower and opened the tailgate of the pickup truck. I squinted, making out the wordmaintenanceon the side of the door.
The boy flipped the cover back on the truck bed, bent down and hoisted the machine up onto it. He then headed back toward the house, and I immediately sunk to the floor. I saw his figure go past the window, pausing for a moment and turning his head as if he’d seen my shadow, or I’d disturbed the drapes. I sat still, tugging the skirt over my knees in an attempt to make myself small.
A few seconds later there was the sound of something heavy being dragged. Upon raising my head for a peep, I saw the boy pulling a standard green garden waste sack. My overactive imagination envisioned a dead body, but as he lifted it up onto the truck, it was obvious it contained the grass clippings. I giggled to myself at my absurd thinking. Perhaps I’d been separated from the real world for too long. And as the truck drove off, I regretted that I hadn’t made the effort to talk to him.
We’d only arrived two days ago, and yesterday Dad and I had driven around the main area of River Valley town familiarizing ourselves with the mall, the grocery store and the fast food chains. Then we’d gone over the bridge to Covington Heights to my new school. It had been like entering a different world—tree-lined streets, mansions with circular driveways, manicured gardens with tall, imposing gates, and an abundance of sleek, new cars. As for Covington Prep, although the brick exterior of the school building hinted at history and character, inside it was updated and modern, the rooms and equipment like nothing I’d seen before, all state of the art. And the tennis courts at the Country Club where my scholarship allowed me a complimentary membership, had been amazing—six hard courts, two clay and two indoor, a far cry from the old worn courts at Kirkville Racquet Club where Mom had worked. This was a top of the line facility, heaven to me.
I couldn’t wait to play on them, and I’d scheduled a coaching session with the club coach for later in the afternoon. Dad had started at his new job today, quite nervous about his position in the production department at Whittakers Ice Cream Factory. We both laughed and joked that he might be sampling ice cream all day. But I knew this move was a massive sacrifice for Dad. He’d had to leave his hometown, his job at a dairy company where he’d been a plant supervisor for twelve years.
All for me and my tennis dream.
I ran back up to my room, my face scrunching up at my reflection, now pleased that I hadn’t opened the door. I didn’t suit the uniform, which was only going to look worse when I put on the black regulation shoes. The only time I wore a skirt was when playing in a tennis tournament, usually I lived in shorts, leggings or jeans. I unzipped the skirt and pulled on a pair of running shorts, suddenly inspired to go into the fresh air. The last few boxes could wait until later.
I strapped on my smartwatch, tied my hair into a ponytail and put on a cap. Gah, what if the lawn boy had been dehydrated! What if he’d been about to faint? Though the ease at which he’d lifted things onto the back of the truck hadn’t indicated any kind of struggle. Beats me why I was still thinking about him.
The lawn was cut in perfect rows and the edges were trimmed to precision, immediately improving the appearance of the house. The smell of fresh cut grass wafted around me, sharp and sweet, reminding me that it was a good day to be alive. Every day was, but sometimes I had to remind myself.
