Chapter 10 Bryson #2
Not a single comment dissed me. Maybe one or two poked fun of me for needing an app to score with girls, but that’s not really taking a shot at a dude.
The running commentary on Jaden, however, ranged from jealousy because I picked her before I had someone better to choose from to jokes about her curly red hair.
More than a few people called her Little Mermaid, and some I think meant it as a weird kind of compliment.
The worst, though, were the single words that can only be meant to cut her down.
Ugly. Fat. Chunky. Pale. Loser. Dog. Skank.
There were a lot of repeats, and none of them were okay. It’s one thing to bust balls with your friends, but these were strangers ripping apart one of this school’s best athletes. Without knowing a thing about her.
“I gotta go,” I say, snagging my keys and wallet on my way out.
My friends are too lost in the train wreck of comments to pull their noses from their screens, so I leave them to duke it out over the rest of the bacon and my mess. I call Amelia from my truck, and she picks up after half a ring.
“I see it. We’re already moderating things,” she says rather than “hello.”
“Don’t moderate, Amelia. Take that shit down!” I bark, putting my phone on speaker and tossing it onto the passenger seat.
I don’t know where Jaden lives, so I head to the only other place I can guess she’ll be. I pull into the small parking lot near the tennis center and kill my engine.
“We can’t take it down, Bry. We just hit fifty thousand views.
Our subscribers are up to twelve hundred.
I know the internet is cruel, but it’s working.
People are loving you two. Besides, she has her fans in the mix.
#TeamJaden shows up more than once.” My sister sounds a lot like our father right now, if he understood tech. She’s not getting it at all.
“It shows up exactly once, Amelia. From her roommate.” I groan as I pick up my phone and scan through the latest round of comments. My sister’s right. There are a few Jaden supporters in the mix, but they’re mostly beefing with the negative trolls.
“People are loving the app, but they are hating Jaden, Amelia. H-A-T-E!” My sister and I rarely fight, so when I speak to her in certain tones, it tends to grab her attention. This business succeeding, though, seems to be more important than just about anything. She doesn’t flinch.
“People love to hate other people on social media. It’s great engagement. We’ll use the negative to ride the wave, but I’m already hiding the comments that go against our community standards. I’m sure it will be—”
“It’s fucking mean, Amelia. It’s not engagement.
It’s bullying. Sort it out.” I end the call and scan the length of the windscreen on the east end of the courts.
When I see a flicker of movement, I exit my truck and march right up to the fence to peek through one of the cracks in the screen.
I’m greeted with one hell of a thwap followed by the ball ricocheting off the fence.
“You may as well come in and grab a racket,” Jaden says.
I follow the thin concrete walkway to an open gate and lean inside to get a look at her. It’s hard to tell if she’s pissed off or focused by the way she pounds the ball into the court by her feet before cradling it in her palm against her racket head.
“Grab my Wilson Blade. It will protect you.” Her eyes don’t veer toward me, remaining locked on her invisible opponent.
She tosses the ball a few feet above her head, then arches back into her serve, whipping her racket through the ball with enough force that the smack echoes off the stands three times.
“That looked in, but it went by so fast, I can’t be sure,” I say, my voice light . . . positive. Praising.
“It was out by six inches. Go receive.” She grabs another ball from the cart and bounces it a few times by her feet again before cradling it to her racket head and finally shifting her gaze to me.
She’s read the comments. There’s no doubt. And she’s not brushing them off. She’s pissed. And I’m about to take the brunt of it.
“It’s just social media—” I cut myself off, hearing my own words and cringing. I sound like my sister. And I don’t believe that shit. Words hurt.
“Either pick up a racket or let me get back to work.” Her voice is stone cold and robotic. I glance to my right, where her gear bag is propped on a folding chair. I slip out the only Wilson racket inside and shuffle to the baseline across the net from her.
“Take it easy on me. I’m a hack,” I say with a chuckle, trying to add some deference, be humble. A second later I’m leaping out of the way of her hundred-mile-per-hour serve.
“Oh shit!” I hop back into place, adjusting my grip on the racket as if that’s going to make a difference.
Jaden has another ball in her palm within seconds, so I bend my knees and brace myself for the assault.
The ball sears toward me, landing about a foot in front of my toes and giving me just enough room to use the racket head as a shield, sending the ball sailing over the fence and into the parking lot.
“Move back about six feet,” Jaden barks.
I came here to talk. Or at least to see how she’s doing, maybe to comfort her. “Jaden, can we—”
Her next serve zooms past me before I can finish a sentence.
Okay, I’m going to need to do this her way.
I get it. Aggression needs an out sometimes.
And when you’re a competitor, falling into routine and testing your strength brings comfort.
I bend my knees again and put a hop in my step, wishing I were wearing something better than the slip-on street shoes that were by the door when I left.
I bounce side to side, testing the grip, as Jaden loads for another serve.
This time, I manage to get the racket on it, though it sails out of bounds. Her gaze follows the path the ball takes to her right, and her head locks on the corner of the fencing where the ball comes to rest after bouncing around a second ball cart and a rolled-up net.
“I’m getting this. Go ahead, give me your best. I’m ready,” I taunt. It’s what I know—shit talking and competition. It’s what she needs, and I feel obligated to give it to her. It’s my sister’s app. I pushed to hire her. I fucked up her tuition account . . . twice.
The ball is barreling toward me in a blink, and I shift my feet and swivel my hips as I fling my pathetic forehand swing into the ball and send it to the opposite corner, in bounds.
“Hell yeah!” I shout, holding the racket over my head a bit in disbelief.
Jaden tosses her racket across her side of the court a half second later and props her hands on her hips as she marches in a wide circle, head tilted to the sky as she wipes away the loose hairs sticking to the perspiration on her forehead.
“Hey, I got lucky is all,” I say, dropping my hands to my sides and moving toward the net.
“Ha!” Her laugh is drenched in sarcasm.
I don’t think we’re talking about tennis now.
“I told Amelia to take that post down—”
“Oh God, don’t do that. Ugh,” she groans, threading her hands behind her neck and meeting my gaze for a moment. Her eyes look pained, her mouth a tight, very straight line.
“I had to. I can’t let people bully you for no reason at all. I wouldn’t feel right.” I prop the racket on top of the net and lock onto her face until she gives in and drops her gaze back to mine.
“Like a good hero always does,” she says in a quiet, resentful tone.
My head falls to one side as I sigh.
“That’s not fair. I’m trying to help. You don’t deserve this.”
She blinks a few times as she studies me, her nostrils flaring with her heavy breath. I wonder how long she’s been out here. Her bare shoulders are pink with sunburn.
“It’s fine. You’re right. Thanks for trying to help. It’ll be . . . whatever. Just don’t ruin my check next month.” She snags the racket from my grip and carries it around the net to her gear bag while I turn in place and try to come up with something better to say.
“Jaden,” I mutter.
She doesn’t acknowledge me, instead stuffing her rackets into her bag before wiping a towel over her face and picking up her water bottle.
“Jaden!”
Her shoulder blades stiffen at my raised voice, and she pulls the water bottle from her mouth.
I tread carefully, slowly moving toward her.
Her profile finally in view, I manage to catch the slight slip of her mask.
Her eyes are pooled with tears I guarantee she won’t let fall, and the moment she senses me hovering close by, she sniffles and turns her attention to her bag as she zips it closed.
I step into her space with caution, and her frame tenses as the toes of our shoes are less than two feet apart, our bodies squared.
I want to reach out and touch her, lay my hand on her shoulder.
Instead, I hold up two open palms and take in a deep breath, praying she’ll look me in the eyes and see that this is me being as sincere as I can.
She lifts her bag over her shoulder and clears her throat before finally meeting my gaze, her lips pursed but her body still.
“I’m sorry,” I say, something I’m finding I say to this girl a lot.
Her body relaxes with a slow exhale.
“It’s not your fault,” she says, her eyes flitting from my face to the concrete beneath us.
“I know, but it doesn’t mean I can’t be sorry. And for what it’s worth, I hear you. Loud and clear. Hero worship. Like you said. And I am sorry for it, or how it makes you feel, or those people who are just . . .”
I shrug, not knowing what to label the trolls who attacked her online.
“Mean,” I finally decide.
Jaden’s mouth pulls into a faint, one-sided smile on the same side as the shoulder she lifts.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft, maybe even vulnerable. Her eyes meet mine, and even though the quiet between us lasts for a brief second, it feels heavy. In that instant, I want to both look away and never look away all at once.