A Really Nice Dad
Do you like my dad?” Hayward asked me. We were sitting on the bench at the club, waiting for his tennis lesson to start. Out on the court, one of the other players’ fathers—a man I’d seen around a lot, the dad to a couple of pale, ginger-haired twins—was hitting balls to one of his daughters.
“I like both your parents,” I told Hayward.
“But mostly my dad, right?” he said. “My mom just lies around all the time. She never does anything. My dad’s way cooler than other people’s dads.”
On the court, the twins’ father was picking up balls with the ball hopper now. From the back, you could see the crack where his bottom started—the kind of thing I never failed to notice. Hayward was right, of course. Nobody else’s dad at the club or anyplace else came close to being as cool as his.
“You’re lucky,” I told Hayward. “You’ve got a really nice dad.”
“And you like him a ton, right?”
No way Hayward could have found my journal any more than Regina could have. And anyway, I doubted he could read cursive. On the court where Jonathan was finishing up another boy’s lesson, I heard the sound of racquets hitting the ball.
“That kid’s pretty good,” I said. Diversionary tactic. Unsuccessful.
“Everyone loves my dad,” Hayward said. “Especially girls. All the moms get this look on their faces when he picks us up at swimming. Mason’s mom keeps inviting us over for lemonade. Same with Carter’s mom.”
Hayward fingered the strings on his tennis racquet.
He pressed it into his thigh in way that left a mark.
As he spoke, he studied his skin. He had taken out a pen, and was drawing tiny squares on it in the spaces where the strings of his racquet had left the marks. He did not look at me as he spoke.
“The moms all know my mom hardly ever goes anyplace. If we went over to their house, it would be just my dad that took me. The mom would tell their kid and me to go outside and play, then she’d try to kiss him or something.”
“Your father loves your mother,” I told him. “He’s just a really nice person. It’s not surprising that people like him. Not just your friends’ moms. Everyone.”
“But the moms especially,” Hayward said. More tiny squares on his thigh.
I studied his face. He still wasn’t meeting my eyes, but it seemed to me that he was looking for a reaction.
“He likes them back too,” Hayward said. Now his gaze met mine. For a second I could see what he’d look like when he was older.
“You ever go all the way with anybody?” he asked me. From the way he put it, I guessed this was not a term he’d tried out before, if ever. “Like your boyfriend back in New Jersey?”
“None of your business,” I told him.
“You think I’m just some little kid,” he said. “But I did French kissing one time. It was at this girl’s birthday party that I know. We were in the basement playing Twister and someone turned out the lights. I put my tongue in her mouth.”
“Big whoop,” I said. “It’s time for your lesson.”
“I think she had onions on her cheeseburger or something,” he said. “If you know you’re going to be doing French kissing, you should probably brush your teeth first.”
Jonathan appeared at the edge of the court. “Time to get out on the court, bud,” he said.
Taking his time, Olivia-style, Hayward picked up his racquet, but not the way a tennis player does.
He held it as if it were a guitar. He strummed the strings and bent his body over the racquet with his face twisted up like a person in pain, the way rock stars did on MTV when they were in the middle of some amazing riff.
From over at the court, Jonathan looked on, waiting.
This was not the first time one of his students wasted his time.
Hayward kept on playing his tennis racquet.
“You like Guns N’ Roses?” he called out to me from the edge of the court. “I could play you a tape of them sometime on my boom box.”
“You’re up, buddy. Time’s a-wasting.” Jonathan again.
From where he stood, racquet in hand, still in guitar position, Hayward ignored him.
“My birthday’s coming up,” he told me. “I’ll be thirteen, but I’m old for my age.”
“Let’s see what you got for me today, Hay-man,” Jonathan said.
People who worked at the country club weren’t supposed to lose their patience, but I could see he was getting close.
With certain people it was pointless to argue.
Not if their family were founding members of the Lake Catherine Country Club.
Hayward made his way slowly toward the service line. But not before turning around first and sticking out his tongue at me, wiggling it like a snake that was slithering out of his mouth.
“French kissing,” he called out to me. “You should try it.”