Chapter Eleven Lily
I feel like I’m at a crossroads, you know?” I hear a teen boy say to his instructor. “Like with my tennis swing. I need to either bulk up and commit to my forehand, or work on getting better at doubles and my net game.”
A row of shiny rackets stares down at me with judgment from behind the desk I’m seated at: Wilson, Head, Babolat, Prince.
All of which are available for demo. Their grips are wrapped in various shades of pastel.
Little green hairs are stuck in the strings, almost imperceptible unless in direct sunlight.
It’s a week after the fundraiser and my first day at the job Theo helped me secure.
“We can work on both, but first, I think we need to nail down your serve,” says the instructor.
The interview for the position was seamless.
The manager didn’t care much about who took over this role as long as they could show up on time, keep a schedule, and appear friendly.
Theo is apparently a beloved instructor, so his recommendation meant a lot, too.
It was generous of him to put himself on the line like that for someone he barely knows.
It makes me even more eager to impress everyone, to prove to them that his word carries weight.
I’m scheduled to work the morning shift on Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays for the rest of the summer.
The teen boy stands in his white shorts and athletic polo, apparently oblivious to the fact that his sneakers have tracked in clay on the hardwood floors. A steady trail of his green footsteps follows from the screen doors to the desk. I’ll have to grab a mop to clean them up as soon as he is gone.
“So, am I making varsity or what?”
The boy leans against the desk, almost into my face. I can smell an unpleasant combination of his sweat and shampoo, distinctly similar to baby powder.
He has the calm arrogance of someone who has been raised in beauty, good health, and wealth his entire life.
I imagine his father as a stout bald man with a mean streak.
Maybe he owns a hedge fund in Connecticut, like Henry’s family.
His mother is probably one of the many professionally skinny blond women who frequent this place: their faces artificially preserved with Botox and whatever magic is in the green juice they suck down like it is a potion, just as God and Goop intended.
“We’ll see.” The instructor gives him a friendly shoulder slap. “I have a good feeling.”
I haven’t been officially introduced to the pro yet, but from what I’ve gathered from the other staffers, her name is Emily and she plays tennis at University of Georgia. Her family is from Hawaii originally.
Immediately, I recognize that she is beautiful. She has sun-kissed brown hair and the kind of collected coolness of someone who has spent a lifetime cultivating self-confidence. She leans against the counter, swinging her racket back and forth, looking at ease in a world dominated by men.
I want to be her friend immediately.
I have loads of friends back in New York, but right now, they feel inaccessible.
I have friends from the magazine, coworkers whom I now can’t bear to face.
Jade is still angry at me for needing to move out and leaving her with a subletter she doesn’t know.
Becca is busy with Henry’s circle, and although I know I could text her, too, I don’t want to hear more about the wedding.
Truthfully, with Rose working so much this week and missing dinners, it’s been a bit lonely.
“Well, we better hope so,” the boy says, spinning his racket in his left hand, copying Emily. “Or else we’ll have to see if you get that end-of-summer tip from good ol’ mom and pop.”
The racket drops to the ground, making a loud, tinny sound against the wood.
I wince as Emily picks it up for him. A cocky grin flashes on the boy’s unbothered face.
“I’ll see you next week!” he calls as he takes the racket from her hands and heads out to the shell-lined parking lot.
“Can’t wait, champ!” Emily yells after him in a good-natured tone. “Screw that kid,” she mumbles to me as soon as the boy is out of sight.
I let out a surprised laugh.
Theo walks by and takes the boy’s previous spot, leaning against the counter between Emily and me. His farmer’s tan looks more pronounced with the contrast of his tennis whites, like a paint swatch.
“Can’t wait, champ!” Theo playfully mocks Emily in a high-pitched imitation of her voice, nudging her shoulder. “I’m surprised you kept your cool so well with that little shit.”
“He’s not worth my time.” Emily rolls her eyes, nudging him back. “Besides, let’s be real. He’ll make varsity when hell freezes over. You should see him trying to hit my lobs. He looks like a grasshopper.”
She does an impression of the boy eagerly jumping up and down in little hops. The bit makes Theo laugh so hard he nearly spits out his water, and suddenly, I wonder if there’s something between them. I’m surprised to find myself disappointed by the possibility.
“He’s probably in love with you,” I offer. The two abruptly stop laughing and look at me. “What I mean to say is that boys that age usually tease the girls they like.”
Emily raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, that’s no excuse. Anyway, I have to go to my next lesson. I have three seven-year-old girls, so we’ll probably just play Alligator all session, which is fine by me.”
Alligator is a drill in which you line up at the net for volleys, and if you miss a feed, you “lose a limb” to the alligator.
During my precisely four hours and thirty-three minutes on the job, I’ve already learned that there’s a lot that goes into being a tennis pro at a place like this.
There’s the athletic skill, of course, the technical knowledge of tennis, but that’s just the barrier to entry.
Perhaps more important is personality—or the performance of a certain type of personality.
You have to be likable, reveal enough about yourself so the members can relate to you, but not too much that they feel you’ve crossed a line.
They don’t want to think about you more than they have to.
You must be good with kids, encouraging with mothers, fun to be around but tough when you need to be—a disciplinarian who can make anyone laugh.
You have to be able to shoot the shit and snap back into business mode.
It helps if you’re young and attractive, too.
That’s probably why Theo is beloved. He has an easygoing charm that makes everyone instantly comfortable.
I’ve seen him chatting up different members all day, and with each, he makes the individual feel like they’re his friend immediately, and it doesn’t even appear to be an act.
He’s like a golden retriever: affable, loyal, undiscerning.
“So, I was thinking,” he says to me once Emily is gone. “You should probably learn tennis if you’re going to be working here.”
The only time I tried to play tennis was in gym class in middle school, and I hit the ball so far into the neighboring trees, the teacher called it a “home run.”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’m good at the front desk. I love the front desk. It’s safe here.”
“Come on, you have to try. I can give you a lesson.” He winks. “For free.”
I roll my eyes. “So generous of you. But I’m telling you, it’s better for all of us if I don’t try. I’m a danger to myself and others when it comes to sports.”
My mind flashes back to the grocery store, the laundry detergent falling.
“Okay, fine. We can start with something a little easier. What about pickleball?”
“Pickleball?” I repeat, considering it. Lottie loved to play with her friends, and I know Mom still has her paddles, but I can’t imagine it would go any better than my brief foray into tennis.
“The ball is lighter. The court is smaller. It’ll be an easier transition into the racket sports arena. And anyway, I happen to be the reigning pickleball champion of this island, and beyond being gorgeous, smart, funny, charismat—”
I cut him off. “Can we get on with it?”
“As I was saying, in addition to all of those other qualities, I am also an exceptional teacher. You’ll be an expert in no time.”
“Okay,” I agree hesitantly. “Maybe.”
“Maybe is a yes! When are you free for a lesson?”
I laugh at his eagerness. “Next Thursday afternoon work for you? We can go after work.”
“Excellent.” He smirks at the corner of the room, avoiding my eyes. “It’s a date.”
I open my mouth to protest, but before I can refute the statement, he is already walking away and out the door to the courts.
A few hours later, I wait for the bus home, tired the way only a new job can make you tired—even a half day. It’s the memorization of new names, new rules, new social and professional protocols.
In my hands are half a dozen pages of scribbles, doodles I made in the downtime between tasks. They’re not much to look at, but I’m proud nonetheless. I’m proud that I created anything at all.
The last few years working for Clive at the magazine, I started to worry that the creative impulse had abandoned me entirely. I used to spend every spare minute sketching, but the longer I worked as his assistant, the less I felt the desire to pick up a pencil or paintbrush.
When I first moved to New York City, I was twenty-two years old and thought I had reached the center of the universe.
I could see the Empire State Building from my cramped apartment in Murray Hill, the air through the open window was warm but not humid, and the sun beamed bright and fearless.
Later, I would find out that it was in fact the Chrysler Building, not the Empire State, and maybe nothing good happens at the center of the universe.
Clive wasn’t outright abusive at first. He never screamed at me, but he raised his voice until I learned to cower, avoiding anything that might trigger an outburst: a wrong coffee order, an email with a minor typo.
“You’re an idiot,” he told me firmly and often. “Do you even want this job? Do you even want to be here?”
I suspect idiot may have been his favorite word.