Chapter 8 #2
He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Hums. “I…I don’t know.
Both my parents were world number one players at one point in their lives, and that comes with a lot of pressure for their kids.
I try to be with them, help them, as much as I can.
I guess home as a concept is them because I’m so rarely apart from them. ”
His gaze slides to Anya, then to me, tracing my features, holding for a moment on my lips before jumping back to meet my eyes.
I want to know more, want to know if being the eldest of four is as taxing for him as it has been for Delilah, but don’t dare ask.
It’s not my business, and I don’t want it to be.
Aleksandr blinks a couple of times, watching me, before his grin slides slowly over his face. He claps. “Break over. Back to work.”
We stand, and he grabs the thickest of the three resistance bands from the ground. Whirling it over his head, he tosses it over mine like I’m a calf he’s lassoing.
“My mom used to tell my sister if she scrunched her face like that too often or for too long, it’d get stuck that way.”
My eyes narrow, flicking between Anya and him. “Talking about your sister is a breach of our agreement.”
“You don’t know which sister I’m talking about. I could be talking about Natasha.”
Damn. He’s right. Natasha Morozov, like me, often seems like the forgotten child.
She’s older than Anya by a couple of years, so closer to my age, and though she’s in the top twenty most of the time, her parents are far more often found in Anya’s player box than in hers. She’s also Anya’s doubles partner.
“Are you going to tell me what’s next or keep talking?” I ask, hoping to divert the conversation.
His smile widens, and he tugs me closer with the resistance band around my waist, explaining what he wants me to do.
An hour later, when we’ve managed to use every piece of his equipment and I feel like I need to lie down, he says, “Done for today.” I try to hold in the breath of relief, but he hears it. “Thought you were worried I would be soft on you.”
“I told you I’m not worried about anything when it comes to you.” Except for the fact that he’s Anya’s brother. But after today, that only acts as an irritant, not an anxiety. She’s continued to pout, grumbling and smacking balls next to us.
“Right.” We pack our things, and as we step off the court, my body covered in dark gray green dust exactly how I like it, he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is my rest day.”
Aleksandr gives me his dumb smile, like he’s aware I won’t be resting. But instead of saying that, he says something far, far worse. “I meant at brunch. Your friends invited me.”
Shots Fired
Who invited the oldest Morozov to brunch tomorrow?
Austin
I wish I could take credit for this, but alas, I am in Monaco
Delilah
Oh?? This is quite the turn of events
I would *never*
And Matteo (my honey bunny, who I love dearly) is also in Monaco
Matteo emphasized “And Matteo (my honey bunny, who I love dearly) is also in Monaco”
Austin
I beg of you on behalf of the entire group, stop
The pet names must end
Matteo
Are you upset that I don’t call you honey bunny?
Harper laughed at “Are you upset that I don’t call you honey bunny?”
Harper
Rest assured, I have no idea who invited him.
(psst it wasn’t me, but I know who did)
Sahar
It was definitely Noah
Noah
Damn it, Sahar
Nic, please don’t put me on your shit list. I have too much life left to live.
You removed Noah from the chat.
Sahar added Noah to the chat.
That evening, after an hour-long hitting session with Delilah, I settle into my hotel room, staring at the ceiling, awaiting a call that may never come.
My fingers brush over the soft fabric of the blanket I travel with, thankful to feel it against my legs instead of the rough material of the one provided by the hotel. I reach over to check my phone again.
Nothing.
I spent the majority of my life trying my best to stay out of my parents’ way. It was clear to me from the moment I could perceive much of anything that they wanted nothing to do with me, and if it was blatant enough for me to know it, it was obvious to the world too.
Outside of nannies, my yiayia took care of me during most of my early years, and even then, I was often overlooked for my other cousins.
My many aunts and uncles sprawled across my yiayia’s mansion on the Athenian Riviera, paid for by my pappou’s shipping business.
Younger cousins ran around the house, chased by each other and the matriarch of the Vassilakis family, while the older cousins disappeared into basements to partake in drugs and booze.
But not me. I sat primly where I was told and failed to interest any of my cousins enough to be invited to play.
Too quiet, too boring, too strange.
Same as in school. The problem wasn’t that I didn’t want to play so much as I wasn’t sure how to be invited.
When I was six and my yiayia’s health deteriorated, boarding school was the logical next choice.
My parents certainly had no interest in shuttling me to and from school, so a British boarding school was the perfect solution.
English became the only language I was allowed to speak.
Greek went from my primary language to one I hardly used.
School was more of the same. More interactions I couldn’t navigate, more teasing, more wishing to be anyone else, anywhere else.
But when my parents realized professional tennis was a viable option—because, let’s be honest, I spent all my free time on the courts running away from everything I could—being whisked to the United States didn’t do me much good either.
Home school for a few hours, tennis for the rest, minimal interactions with people my age.
It didn’t help that I had a slight accent I still can’t seem to shake, no matter how much I try to shape my consonants the way Americans do.
My phone rings, and though the call was planned, it surprises me. “Weekly” calls with my parents usually devolve into one call a month, mostly with my mother, while my parents travel the world.
My wellbeing has never been their first priority.
“Hello, Mother,” I answer after the second ring.
“Hello, Nicola,” my mother’s Spanish accent bleeds back. I bite back a cringe at the name. I doubt she knows how much I hate being called by my full name, especially since the reason I hate it so much is because it reminds me of her, nannies, and a dark, empty home.
It doesn’t help that the name is the shortened form of Nicholas, and therefore only used for men in Greece. My parents couldn’t even be bothered to give me a proper Greek girl name like Nikoleta.
“How are you?”
“Oh, you know. Your father and I are in Tokyo this month. Lots to do.”
I hum in agreement. This call will only be a few minutes long, I’m sure. I’d have to win a tournament for it to last any longer.
Living up to the great Carmen Aguirre’s name is no easy feat.
“Are you enjoying it?” I finally ask into the stilted silence.
“Of course. I went so many times for tournaments. Then we had you. So it’s nice to be able to explore more.”
If it’s an insult, it’s wrapped tightly enough in a layer of indifference that I don’t recognize it as such. It’s not as though their vacation plans were impacted much by me.
“I’m sure plenty of people take their children on trips with them to Tokyo.”
“Perhaps. But you were so…peculiar.”
I inhale sharply. There it is. The proof that my pieces are too fractured and jagged for anyone to want to hold on to them. Not even those bound by blood can stomach me, let alone love me. Why would I expect anyone else to?
“I wasn’t sure how well you’d travel,” she continues.
“Daphne told us that you once spent an afternoon organizing your grandmother’s spice rack while your cousins played.
So strange. And at school, during assemblies, you threw fits.
Covering your ears, causing a scene because you were too close to the speaker.
She’d have to come pick you up and stay with you at the house.
No, you wouldn’t have done well on an airplane. ”
I could point out that the girls at school pushed me toward the speaker because they knew it stressed me out—fodder for their teasing.
Or the glaring issue, which is that I travel plenty now without issue.
Instead, I say, “Right.” It’s better not to fight her on this.
She’ll give up quickly and end the call in a matter of seconds after the matter is “settled.”
It’s her turn to hum. “Your father says hello.”
“Hello.” It’s so absurd, saying hello to my father without hearing his voice.
I can’t remember the last time I did. If my mother is indifferent, my father is outright forgetful about my existence.
The only thing he’s grateful for is that his portion of his father’s billions have somewhere to go when he dies.
How horrifying it would be to donate it to charity or give it to his squabbling siblings he’s constantly feuding with.
I haven’t exactly told him I want none of it in the spaces of seconds we’ve talked over the years.
Physically, I’m pieces of them—my father’s sharp cheekbones, nose, and thick wavy chestnut-brown hair (which I chemically straighten), my mother’s gray eyes, bowed lips—and yet I have no idea whether I’m anything like them.
Does my father feel alone in a room full of people?
Does my mother react angrily when she doesn’t understand something or is too hot, too overwhelmed, only to have remorse weigh heavily afterward?
I don’t think so. They have so many friends, such rich social lives, that I have to imagine it’s just me.
Just as it’s always been.
“Alright, Nicola. Our friends want to get back to exploring, so I’ll let you go.”
“Oh. Right. Talk to you next week.”
“Talk to you next week.”
If I pretend it’s true, I’ll have something to look forward to. Maybe then I won’t feel so alone.