Chapter 5
A SIGNIFICANT DOLLAR AMOUNT
YOU’VE GONE through this before, I tell myself as I make my way back to the apartment.
Liam will cool off.
He’ll talk it out with his friends and then he’ll call you in a few days.
At which point, I’ll have a new coach who’s not Henry, and everything will go back to normal, or turn out for the better. Because this time, I vow to open myself up to Liam. I won’t mess it up. I’ll ask him to be my boyfriend if I have to, if that’ll show him how serious I am about us.
My phone buzzes the second I step out of the elevator. One glance at the screen earns a sigh. I answer as I head toward PH-A.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Ah … no?” I glance at my watch to check the time.
It’s around seven p.m. Of course, I’m awake. Her question can only mean one thing: it’s gin o’clock on Upper Mountain Avenue, which explains why she doesn’t know the time of day.
“Congrats again on your almost-win yesterday,” she says to get the conversation started. I stop cold, realizing it’s best not to take this call inside my apartment with an audience. “I wasn’t expecting you to make it that far in your US Open debut, so good for you.”
Her tone and how she says things with this underlying bite make me want to throw my phone out the window.
“Thanks?”
A few seconds of awkward silence fall between us.
“That little racket outburst at the end was painful to watch,” she says. I can hear her sipping what my gut tells me it’s not her first gin of the day. An ordinary Sunday.
“No wonder Elliot finally decided to jump ship.”
She laughs. I don’t.
She smooths her expression and continues, calm as ever.
“I’m sure you’ll win the US Open in a few years once you learn to rein yourself in and let things go. Like that ball you swore was in.”
Oh no, she didn’t.
“Chad’s one of the most respected chair umpires in the game, but I know how you get. You fixate. On things. On people.”
Oh. My. God.
I’m using the Listen to Mom Talk and Let Her Tire Herself Out technique. She’ll eventually trail off or finish her drink and hang up to get a refill.
I can’t let her get under my skin. I have enough on my plate as it is.
“Speaking of … fixations,” she says with a chuckle, carrying on with the monologue. “Henry’s father passed away last December, and Dora, bless her, has been having such a hard time dealing with his death.”
I ignore the dig about me being fixated on Henry because: Mitch is dead? Since December?
Jack Mitchell was Henry’s dad, but everyone called him Mitch. I’m pissed that I wasn’t informed about this earlier. But my brain’s run out of adrenaline, so I can’t add my mom’s insults to my long list of concerns.
I’m about to ask her for more details about his death, but she’s rambling, and I can’t find a single opening to ask a question.
“You know how much your father cared about Mitch. They were like brothers,” she says, trying to sound sad. Or maybe she is, it’s hard to tell. “That’s why we thought it was best to bring Henry back to New York and support him during this difficult time.”
We?
I doubt she had anything to do with that decision. She probably only found out earlier today that he was coming.
“Things had been tough financially for the Mitchells since before Mitch’s death, so Dora needs to keep her job in Chicago, which isn’t paying enough to cover their expenses.
And I’m not supposed to say this,” she whispers, though she’s likely home alone, “but your father made a deal with Henry. He’ll pay him a generous salary to coach you.
That way, he can save some money for college. ”
There it is.
Dad wants to support Henry financially, so this coaching thing is a flimsy excuse to pay for his studies without making Henry feel guilty about taking the money. In a nutshell, it’s all improvised and last minute. And I’m supposed to play along with this?
“Why doesn’t Dad just give Dora the money to pay for Henry’s college?”
“He offered to pay for everything, but Henry refused. He wanted to earn the money himself. You know how Henry is, such a kind and responsible boy. You might not remember him though; it’s been years since you two last saw each other.”
She chuckles again, slower this time, as if amused by something only she understands.
She’s right about that one. I don’t think I know Henry anymore.
The situation is worse than I thought.
I feel like shit about Mitch dying, and I’m worried sick about Dora and her financial troubles. I don’t understand what happened to make them end up with all these issues. So much so that I can’t make myself care about my mom taunting me about Henry.
Part of me wants to go inside and give Henry the tightest hug in the world, but I can’t, because my mom is right: I don’t know how to let things go.
I’m still clinging to the pain of Henry abandoning me, to the idea that he never cared about me the way I cared about him.
So I wonder if I’d be wasting my time and energy trying to be sympathetic.
Knowing me, I’d probably make him uncomfortable.
Henry is here for the money.
I don’t know what to do or how to act. I want to be able to stay angry at him. Freely. But now I can’t, not after learning about his father’s death and their financial troubles.
It bothers me. It shouldn’t.
“Anyway,” Mom says after a brief pause. I am not one to discuss the inner machinations of my brain with her. Ever. “Expect your father to arrive with Henry any minute now.”
Right. She’s operating in a different dimension entirely. But I prefer it that way. She stays in hers. I stay in mine.
“Okay,” I say with a sigh. “I have to go.”
“Oh, okay! Goodbye … sweetie,” she says in that forced tone that practically screams, Trying to bond with my teenage daughter, even though we both know it’s almost eighteen years too late.
I end the call and reach my apartment door, determined to leave the past behind.
I want to be a better person. And as much as I hate when my mom’s right, I have to admit she’s not wrong about my grudge against Henry.
He might need our support, or at the very least, it could help ease the stress and difficulties Dora’s facing.
“Todo bien, mi amor?”1 Dad asks as soon as I shut the door behind me. I nod, but no, nothing’s okay.
Everyone’s sitting around the dining room table eating pizza. Liam’s pizza. It’s giving whiplash. Dad says Liam can’t come over, but his food gets a VIP pass? And I’ve said it before: when I’m spiraling, everything feels like a personal attack. This scene is no exception.
“I got a call from the Grand Slam Board earlier,” Dad says, setting his half-eaten slice of pizza back on the plate. “Why don’t you grab a pen and sit down?”
Gemma offers me a tight-lipped smile as I walk to the kitchen to grab a pen but quickly returns her attention to Robbie, who’s keeping her busy with his words.
Henry lifts his gaze from his plate for a second, and the moment I catch his mournful eyes, I’m disarmed. What I’d once interpreted as emptiness now appears to be a deep sadness settled in his features, but I can’t bring myself to say anything. Not yet.
I hate this.
After sitting at the table next to my dad, he pushes my plate in front of me, but I frown at the cold slice of pizza and say, “Thanks, I’m full.”
Dad takes a napkin and holds out his hand, swiveling his fingers for me to hand over the pen, which I do.
“This,” he says, jotting down a significant dollar amount on the napkin, “needs to be paid within ten days.”
I nod, trying to keep a straight face.
“It’s kind of steep, don’t you think? I’ve seen male players hurl their rackets over the fence and their fines don’t come anywhere close to half of mine. This is bullshit.”
“Language.”
Now everyone’s silent, suddenly interested in our conversation.
“We’re looking at double racket abuse, verbal abuse, and unsportsmanlike conduct for offending the chair umpire,” Dad reminds me. “But you already know that, so I don’t see why you’re so surprised.”
We could go back and forth all night about how men and women are treated in sports, but I don’t have it in me.
Not today.
I take a deep breath and let it go.
“Let me know who I’m making the check out to,” I say, knowing full well Dad’s the one who’ll actually sign it.
I’m not allowed access to my bank accounts. Dad insists a young lady my age shouldn’t have millions at her disposal, so he keeps close tabs on my expenses. I do have an allowance, though, one I never fully spend anyway. But I love sunglasses. That’s my one obsession.
“We’ll sort it out tomorrow,” he says, “but I thought you should know what we’re up against. Hopefully, you’ll learn from this and—”
“Dad,” I cut him off, bringing a hand to my forehead. “Please … you said we’d sort it out tomorrow.”
I can’t take it.
“Sure.” Dad nods and reaches for the pizza box to grab a fresh slice.
Dad considers everyone at this table family, but Henry’s sitting there with his arms crossed, judging me, and it makes me feel small. I already hate myself for how I acted yesterday, and now I’m being called out in front of everyone.
It sucks. But it sucks more in front of Henry. Because I care what he thinks, even if I’m not sure I know him anymore.
It’s pathetic.
I’m pathetic.
Robbie reaches for the napkin with Dad’s scribbles on it and whistles.
“Oh, shit!” He lets out a laugh, tossing it back on the table. “Seventeen grand?”
$17,260, to be precise.
Henry snorts, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Qué flojera me das,”2 I spit out.
Did he have to shout the number for everyone to hear?
I get up and grab the napkin to throw it away.
“Pues ese es el monto de la multa, ?no?”3 he retorts.
Gemma laughs. It’s not the Spanish. His accent is solid. It’s the fact that Mr. Computer Engineering sounds like he belongs in a telenovela, and it throws her off every time.