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“My mom used to play, so I always remember having a racquet,” I said. “She started coaching me when I was six.”
Alize recommended the Atlantic salmon with lemon dill sauce, so I obliged. I didn’t know what filet mignon or barramundi was, and the only salmon I had eaten had come from a can. I felt guilty as the tender fish melted in my mouth, knowing that Dad was having plain old pepperoni pizza. I savored each mouthful as if I would never taste it again. Likely I wouldn’t.
Alize and I never had a moment of silence. We discussed everything tennis, all our favorite players, and she told me about all the top tournaments she had been to—Wimbledon, Roland Garros, the US Open, Indian Wells. I was envious that she’d seen all the top players. I offered to pay my share of the meal, knowing it would empty my account, but she refused to hear of it.
“We’ll do this again,” she said as she patted my arm; a valet had already brought her silver Mercedes to the door.
I was excited to get home to Dad. So much to tell him, not only about Alize and the delicious lemon dill salmon, but Millie, who wanted to interview me for the newspaper, and the sad story of Phoenix, who used to be the number one boys player.
But Dad was gently snoring on the couch. I muted the television and grabbed a blanket to cover him. Picking up the two empty beer bottles and the pizza box, I noticed a piece of paper on the coffee table. It was a hand written roster for the next two weeks. There were days when Dad was working twelve hour shifts, like he had today, others where he was starting at four in the morning, so he would get to watch my tennis matches.
My heart clenched. Dad was doing all of this for me. Days of monotonous activities— loading ingredients into machines, checking lids, moving pallets—none of it was riveting or stimulating. All so I could play tennis and live my dream, use the Country Club’s restroom facilities, and now, dining on grilled salmon. I owed him everything, and doing my best was how I would show I was eternally grateful.
But I did hate that he had to work so hard, too exhausted to change out of his work clothes before flaking out on the couch.
The clang of the bottles caused Dad to stir and he sat up, momentarily disorientated.
“What’s up?”
“Hi, I just got home,” I said, dropping the trash in the recycling bin. “You were snoring like a freight train.”
I came back in and folded the blanket he’d discarded while he grumbled in denial.
“Why do you look all dressed up?” He scrutinized me with a frown.
“I’m not,” I said. “It’s just my hair.” I flicked it over my shoulder and Dad got a rundown on all of my news. He was thankful that Alize had invited me for dinner, adamant an interview for the school newspaper would be good for me and tennis in general, and concerned about Phoenix and his injuries, a boy neither of us had met. I didn’t mention that Max and Phoenix were best friends, in fact I didn’t say anything about Max at all.
But Dad did.
As I was going up to my room to finish my homework, he called out, “Did you talk to Max about photography class?”
I froze at the base of the stairs, wondering what on earth he meant. “What?”
“Max said he’d talk to you about photography class,” Dad repeated. “You wanted to switch, didn’t you?”
“Why would Max talk to me about it?”
“I asked him. He does photography. He said he’d help you change.”
My cheeks flushed as I remembered Max standing in the hallway by Tennessee and me, my heartbeat accelerating at the thought that maybe he’d been waiting to speak to me. And Tenn had called him Bagel Boy. Gah! His icy glare looked like he’d wished that bagel had hit me straight in the face, but what if he’d wanted a conversation...a normal conversation about photography class?
I raced through the reading I needed to do for my assignment and wrote up a basic report. I wasn’t expecting an A, just a passing grade. My phone pinged and I read the text from Millie:Would you be available some time this weekend? Maybe we could meet at Peter’s cafe?
I pondered my schedule. Tomorrow I planned to go to the club early. Grace was going to meet me for a game, then I’d hit balls, a lot of balls. I’d come home for lunch, go for a run, return to the club in the afternoon for more training. Sunday would likely be a repeat of Saturday, except for meeting Grace.
I texted Millie that I could meet her on Saturday for lunch. Ice cream would be a nice way to cool down after a morning of tennis, and I could run the calories off later.
It was my first time to Peter’s Ice Cream Shoppe, though Dad had brought home a reject tub of chocolate flavor from the factory, (it’s lid had been squished so he got it at a discount rate.) Whittakers truly was the best ice cream I’d tasted.
Millie was sitting at a corner table, her nose in a paperback. She looked so demure, with her hair in a bun, wearing her glasses and a pretty floral blouse and a white skirt and sandals. I cringed that I hadn’t showered and changed, and I was way too casual, not to mention sweaty, in my tennis gear. At least I had put a clean t-shirt over my tank. Plus, the place was busy, so busy.
Millie told me to select whatever I wanted, and she’d go up to order while I waited at the table. She said it was her treat, and for that reason I chose a banana berry smoothie. I tried to give her some money, but she refused it.
While waiting, I perused her book, a novel of some sort. I wasn’t a reader, unless it was required for class. Generally, I’d wait for the movie or television series to come out.
“Have you read it?” Millie asked on her return. I shook my head. “It’s really good. You can borrow it when I’m done, if you like.” My smile was apologetic, and I guessed she realized it would never happen.
Millie pulled a llama notepad out of her leather tote bag. I wasn’t big on designer fashion, but even I recognized the Gucci brand. “I really appreciate you doing this,” she said. “I’ve got some questions I’d like to ask, and you can answer them.” She looked up with a bright smile. “Or not. It’s totally up to you!”
