15. Before
BEFORE
My racket swung through the air, connecting with the tennis ball in a satisfying thunk my coach would have praised.
You hear that, Alice? That’s the sound we’re gunning for every time.
But it gained me no advantage over the two boys on the opposite side of the net.
Grant lunged for the ball. He didn’t have proper footwork.
He didn’t even know how to grip a racket.
But what he did have was long arms and even longer legs, and in tennis, those things mattered.
He returned the ball, a weak shot that managed to float to my side.
I backed up, set my feet, and fired the ball back.
Against a single opponent, that frustration-fueled, laser-focused shot would’ve scored me a point. But instead, it greeted Colt’s clumsy racket and that blasted ball returned to me.
I was playing two-on-one, a tactic my parents devised before leaving to check on a client’s warehouse, because apparently playing against one six-foot-whatever football player wasn’t challenging enough.
And if I were focusing on my lessons the way I should’ve been, two non-tennis players wouldn’t be an issue.
I ran for the ball, court shoes squeaking.
At the last moment, I hit the ball backward over my head, abandoning all form and going on instinct alone.
Grant was waiting at the net, no forehand or backhand to speak of, and yet he managed to smash the ball down.
He threw his arms in the air, roaring with victory, and then pretended to beat the racket against the ground, which made absolutely no sense.
I stood there, panting, red-faced from exhaustion and heat and humiliation. I’d been playing since I was eight, and now—at age thirteen—I was getting beaten by two boys who didn’t even know what a drop shot was.
Although that was the problem; they didn’t resemble real players. In an actual tournament, I could tell where an opponent’s ball would go based on their shoulder placement and how they’d set their feet. But with these two and their clumsy shots, the ball could go anywhere.
“You okay?” Colt asked, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his T-shirt. My eyes went briefly to his toned abdomen, and then I glanced away, fuming.
I let my racket clatter to the court and marched to the bench, grabbing my water and guzzling.
“Ah, don’t be pissed,” Grant called out, attempting a cartwheel and failing miserably.
“The thing is, I was born first. And I took up all the athletic genes Mom and Dad had to offer.” Grant stood, brushing himself off.
“I just…” he mimed pulling and sucking things into himself.
“Took them all in. There was nothing left for you but dork genes.”
“I’m getting kind of bored,” Colt announced. “Let’s do something different.”
“But I need to—” I began.
“Seriously,” Grant groaned. “Anything but this.”
“Let’s hit with only one hand now. And only straight up.” Colt glanced my way with a smile. “The ball isn’t allowed to hit the ground at all.”
My anger softened around the edges. “You are allowed to hit a ball before it bounces, actually.”
Colt pointed at me. “See? It’s real tennis. Let’s go.”
Grant swung his racket in a wild arc over his head.
“Fine. Whatever.” My brother tossed the ball in the air and hit it straight up, his racket flat to the court.
The ball soared over the net to my side, and while normally it would’ve been out, I played along, chasing after it and hitting it straight up like Grant had.
The ball went wild, arcing toward the chain-link fence. Colt ran for it, yelling.
“You better get that ball, Mitchell, goddammit.” Grant’s voice deepened, mirroring their football coach.
The ball bounced off the fence, and Colt fumbled before hitting it. I laughed, shocked that he got it, while Grant ran for the rebound, sprinting across the court and connecting with the ball not a moment too late.
The ball soared straight up, touched the sky, and came right back down, landing on their side of the court.
Colt grabbed Grant’s shirt and shook him, using the same tone Grant had moments ago. “You missed the shot, Sinclair. You want to play ball in college, boy? Then you better show me something better than that shit. And you!” Colt pointed at me. “Not bad.”
We played a few more rounds of Colt’s revised game, and by the end, all three of us were roaring with laughter.
At one point, we all stood twelve inches from the net and just popped the ball straight up to each other in a one-two-three triangle.
And the thing is, I’m not sure my coach would’ve called it a waste of time, because in his opinion, each time your racket touched the ball, it helped you understand the game a fraction better.
“This grows tiresome.” Grant sidestepped the ball when it returned to him. “I am bored by your sport.” Grant did air quotes here. “It’s not your fault, Alice. Football players are at the pinnacle of athletic prowess. And your little yellow ball is no match for pigskin.”
“Play her one-on-one then,” Colt suggested.
“Nooo,” Grant groaned.
Colt flopped down on the bench, draping a sweat towel over his head. “We can’t just sit here. Your parents will freak out when they get back, and then they won’t take us to the river.”
Grant bobbed his head side to side and moved his lips quickly, mocking Colt.
“Fine! It’s clear I’m the dominant one here, and I will now demonstrate my strength.
Watch in awe.” Grant tapped his racket against the court twice like a batter at the plate.
Then he poised it on his shoulder, awaiting an invisible pitcher.
I sighed, knowing Colt was right. If my parents returned to find us messing around, they’d be pissed. And I’d get the brunt of their disappointment since it was me who was supposed to be practicing. The surprising thing is, I did want to practice. Just not the way they’d chosen.
I backed up to the baseline and bounced the ball, preparing. My eyes cut to Colt and I noticed he was wearing an odd grin. He nodded subtly toward Grant and winked. I shot my gaze to Grant, watching him rock back and forth theatrically, and suddenly realized what Colt was getting at.
It was one-on-one now. And Grant hadn’t seen me play in ages.
I smiled.
I bounced the ball a couple more times. “Ready?”
Grant shot straight up. “I’ve been ready. Come on!”
I served, hitting at the very top of my toss, and slammed it into the service box with everything I had. Grant ran for it, swinging, hitting only empty air, and watched the ball whiz by his head.
“Out,” Grant said.
“No.” Colt shook his head, laughing.
Grant huffed. “I let you have that one so you wouldn’t cry all the way home. Now we play for real.”
And so we did. The next half hour was a blur of my balls going exactly where I wanted them to, and Grant missing every opportunity to gain an advantage. Without another body to depend on, he became an unsuspecting victim, and I became the player I remembered I was.
After slaughtering Grant, Colt took his place, and even though I dripped sweat and my legs shook from exertion, I felt exhilarated. How long had it been since I’d played a novice? How long since I’d been reminded how far I’d come?
I beat Colt 4-0, 4-0. And by the end, even Grant became a fair-weather fan, cheering for me to cream Colt.
When the match was over, I expected Colt to sulk the way I might’ve at a tournament.
But instead, the moment the match concluded, Colt rushed over and grabbed my arms. I didn’t understand what was happening until he yelled for Grant to get my legs.
Together, they swung my body side to side through the air until I laughed so hard my sides ached.
My mom’s sharp voice rang out. “Looks like you’re working pretty hard.”
Instantly, my heart was in my throat. Grant and Colt set me down, and I clambered to my feet. “Mom! We just got done. We were practicing and—”
“And she killed us both,” Colt chimed in.
“That right?” my dad said, swinging the car keys around his pointer finger.
“Killed is a strong word,” Grant grunted, already bypassing my parents and striding toward their idling SUV.
“It is,” Colt agreed. “Though obliterated might be a better one.”
Mom removed the baseball cap from her head and ran a hand through her sweat-dampened hair. She seemed tired, though not entirely displeased by what she was hearing. “Alice beat y’all two-on-one?”
My face burned. “We switched to one-on-one,” I admitted, my voice too high, feigning excitement in the hopes that it would deter her disappointment.
“Hmm.” Mom frowned.
“Y’all get any points on her?” Dad bent over to help Colt pack our rackets and gather the water bottles.
Colt barked a laugh. “Not a single one. She’s a little machine.”
“Come on!” Grant yelled out the car window. He was in the front seat, two hands gripping the steering wheel, shaking himself forward and backward.
“Not a chance, buddy,” Dad called, walking toward the SUV. “Get in the back seat.”
“So, can we go to the river?” I watched Mom’s reaction closely. I knew her well enough to know she was irritated. Her lips pursed, and then, with a glance toward the cloudless sky, she sighed. “Yeah, y’all can go. In fact, we’ll all go.”
Mom squeezed my shoulder as we strode toward my dad, who was dragging a hollering Grant out of the front seat. “Good work today, kiddo.”
I beamed up at her, soaking in her praise like a desert would rain.
The car ride was quiet toward the river, the whoosh of the AC the only sound.
Eventually, I reached into my tennis bag to retrieve my book.
It was a hardcover, so thick it made me proud.
I cracked it open and tucked the rainbow-colored bookmark into the back.
If I finished it by tomorrow, I’d be in the lead for the ninth-grade summer reading challenge.
I wished all competitions were this easy. And enjoyable.
Colt noticed my book and cocked his head. “That any good?”
I glanced up at him, shrugged, and then nodded.
“What’s it about?”
“Nooo,” Grant groaned.
“Cut it out, Grant.” Dad’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.
“She’s going to talk about it for the rest of the night,” lamented Grant. But he was wrong, because now I didn’t want to say a single word about it.
I gripped the book tighter. “Just…about a boy.”
I expected Colt to let it go. He didn’t. Instead, he shifted in his seat, facing me more fully. “And?”
I glanced at my brother, who shook his head and pretended to hang himself.
I cleared my throat, keeping my voice soft as I continued. “It’s about a boy who goes on a safari with his dad to…” I checked the back cover to ensure I got it right. “Kruger National Park in South Africa. He gets lost and sees this lion by itself.”
“Why’s it alone?” Colt’s brow furrowed. “Don’t lions usually hang out with other lions?”
I smiled, sitting up straighter. “No, it was like, rejected by its pride. It’s a male lion. I guess that happens sometimes. Anyway, the lion sees the boy, and instead of attacking him, he lingers nearby, seemingly out of loneliness.”
My brother pulled headphones up over his ears, so I kept talking. I explained the drought, the regional geography, and the way the boy finds water by studying birds’ flight patterns.
“So what happens in the end?” Colt seemed genuinely interested. “Does the lion get his own pride, or does he stay with the boy?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t finished it,” I admitted. “But also, there’s a sequel and I couldn’t find it at—”
“Come on.” Grant shoved the SUV door open and spilled outside. “Last one in the river’s a fart licker.”
“Grant!” Mom yelled.
Colt hopped out after my brother. “Thanks for telling me about your book,” he said.
And then he dashed off, racing after Grant.
I glanced down at the hardcover in my hands and smiled, warmth spreading through my chest. Slowly, I closed the book and tucked it away, suddenly more interested in getting in the river than I was in finding out the ending.