“Hey, Bella, watch this!” I shout as I chase down her lob and return the tennis ball between my legs.
Thwack.
The ball hits the racquet’s sweet spot and skims the top of the net. It spins across the mid-court and lands in front of my twin sister.
“Oh, yeah, back in the swing of things,” I yell as I give a victory whoop.
Bella lets out a groan louder than the crashing Pacific Ocean waves behind the courts. “I knew I should have just used the ball machine!”
I’m too busy laughing at my sister’s frustration to say anything.
She crosses her tan arms in front of her pale blue Nike dress, causing her racquet to slip out of her hand and kick up a bit of clay dust on the court. “Just my luck Joe had to leave this morning for New York. Wish I was going to the US Open.”
“Oh, you know you miss playing tennis with your favorite sister.” I spin the racquet grip between my palms like a whirligig, surprised that I’m having so much fun playing tennis today, considering how long it’s been since I’ve played competitively.
“You’re my only sister.” Bella bends over and delicately picks up her racquet as a gentle breeze crinkles the palm fronds and whips her russet ponytail, a couple of stray pieces dancing in front her face. Strands of the same color tickle my nose too. I tuck them behind my ear.
Bella carefully brushes off her racquet, treating it more like a rare pink diamond than a grid of gut strings and composite. Then she remembers why we’re here, and her brow furrows as she looks to me for an apology. “All I need is for you to help me prep for tomorrow, but you insist on messing around.”
I don’t apologize. Instead, I smile, knowing it will further irritate my twin.
And it does.
“You know how much this season means to me. And tryouts start tomorrow. Tomorrow!” Bella walks to the side of the court to switch her newest purple Head racquet for another one of her fourteen spares. She violently pushes more coffee-colored hair away from her face.
“Relax, Bellarina,” I say. Bella danced until sixth grade, when my parents “encouraged” her to concentrate solely on one activity. But just because she stopped dancing doesn’t mean I have to stop using my cleverest nickname for her.
Bella continues to yell. “Are you ever going to take anything seriously? I mean, we’re freshman now, Maggie. About to start our high school career at Beachwood Academy, and all you ever want to do is clown around like we’re still in kindergarten.”
“When did high school become a career?” I grab a pair of fuzzy yellow tennis balls from the metal ball hopper behind me. Two club members carry beach bags along the wooden path adjacent to the tennis courts. We’re practicing at the Beachwood Country Club, Malibu’s mega exclusive beach oasis and the home of Bella’s private coach, Joe Miller, or “Joe the Pro” as I’ve referred to him ever since I took tennis lessons with him when I was little. Even though Joe’s off doing his Pro thing at a series of competitions, beginning with the US Open, Bella insisted on squeezing in some court time. And, to my own surprise, I said yes.
“You know what I mean. It’s a big deal to start freshman year, and B-Dub’s high school tennis program is practically famous.”
I shake my head and attempt to juggle the two balls to tune out the sound of Bella’s whining. I’ve always wanted to learn how to juggle—it’s something I haven’t done yet. I wonder where I could get lessons. Clown school maybe? Does B-Dub have a clowning team?
“And if I don’t make the tennis team tomorrow, I might just… just… die.” Bella adjusts her white and blue visor, ignoring the gawking of club members volleying on the court next to us. She’s used to members making a big deal out of her since her trophies line the case outside the locker room to entice players to sign up for lessons with Joe.
I bounce one of the balls off the top of my hand and catch it before it hits the red clay. “Stop being so dramatic. You were part of the ‘great’ B-Dub middle school team and you’re, like, nationally ranked or whatever. I think you can manage to make a high school tennis team.” For a second, I catch myself wondering where I might have ended up in the rankings if I were still playing.
“I’m ranked eighty-first in the United States Tennis Association, SoCal Junior Division, Girls’ U16. Which means there are eighty girls who are better than me in my age group alone.” Bella huffs. “And four happen to be trying out for the varsity team at school tomorrow.” She squats and begins swaying back and forth in what Joe refers to as the “ready position.” “That’s why this practice is so important.”
Thoughts of my own ranking disappear as Bella spits out the digits of everyone she’s ever encountered. I can’t imagine caring about a silly number so much. “How do you sleep at night?” I ask then shake my head, wondering how we’re possibly related, much less identical twins. I find my spot behind the baseline.
“Just serve, for real this time, okay?” Bella catches my eye and stares at me. It’s almost like I’m looking in the mirror, except that I wouldn’t be caught dead in that ridiculous tennis dress.
“I’m serious,” Bella adds.
“When aren’t you?”
“Very funny,” she says, bouncing on the soles of her feet.
“Okay, sis. Watch this! Are you ready for another between-the-legs shot?” I bounce the yellow Penn ball in order to demonstrate, but really it’s an attempt to divert Bella’s attention away from my less-than-brilliant serve.
She glares at me from underneath her visor and continues to rock into her ready position. If she stares any harder, she’ll burn a hole through my forehead.
I shake my head again and continue to bounce the ball off my hand, leg, and then wrist, wishing Bella could relax that all-work-and-no-play Anderson attitude she inherited from my parents. It’s obvious Bella is happiest competing and showing off for Mom and Dad, but I wish we could have fun together, like we used to when we played doubles as kids. It’s like now that I’ve retired from the life of the competitive tennis player, Bella and my parents barely have any use for me.
Not to mention, we would have so much more fun if she weren’t such a stickler. I mean, she’s never even agreed to switch places. What identical twins don’t pretend that they’re each other at least once? Especially when boys are involved.
“Maggie. Please!” she shouts like a stern teacher.
With a smile plastered across my face, I let the ball bounce and square the racquet. I widen my stance and strike the ball through my legs, using power from the movement of my hips. A quick wrist-snap upward produces a lob, and as I pivot back to ready position, I see a look of incredulity on Bella’s face.
I used to love nailing trick shots on this very court. Back when my parents dressed Bella and me in matching tennis dresses and dropped us off for our private lessons with Joe. As usual, Bella was a total kiss-up. I, on the other hand, spent my time making miniature clay houses and climbing the fences that surrounded the courts, often attempting to somehow ruin my dress in the process, so I wouldn’t have to wear it again.
The ball sails past my sister. Instead of lunging toward it, like she usually does, she stands there, points at the thick white line outlining the court, and simply says, “Out.”
I’m having none of that. “Ace! I hit an ace! That was so in.”
“It was so out!” Bella says. “And besides it wasn’t even really a serve.”
I break into my old victory dance. The same routine I used to bust out every time we won a match. “Oh yeah. Oh yeah. It’s my birthday. It’s my birthday,” I sing, jutting my hips and swinging my racquet back and forth.
Bella giggles. “I haven’t seen those moves in a long time.”
“I’ve still got it,” I chant. Really, though, if we’re being technical about it, Bella is probably right—I’ve never truly aced the ball in my life.
“If you’ve still got it, then explain to me again why you don’t play tennis anymore,” Bella grumbles as she walks toward the net.
I point at her outfit and mime a little curtsy. “That’s why.”
“You know you love my look,” Bella teases, pirouetting like the ballerina she once was.
I roll my eyes. “I’ll never, ever wear a dress to play a sport. It’s just not my style.” I point my racquet at my brand-new Mongoose bike leaning against the fence. “That is.”
“That”—Bella dismisses my beautiful bike with a flick of her hand—“is another hobby that you picked up on a whim because of some guy.” Bella turns around and strolls back to her spot.
I stand frozen in place. Bella’s words sting worse than a jellyfish. I’m not some pathetic clone who spends her days flitting from one activity to the next. Yeah, Ryan turned me on to BMX. Turns out boys just happen to like what I like, which is terribly convenient. “No,” I call after her. “I choose to have fun. And boys have more fun.”
“Sure,” she mumbles loud enough so I can hear her. Then she pirouettes a few more times while waiting for me to get back in the game. Her dress whirls around her.
“Whatever,” I say, annoyed.
Behind the fence, Grace, Bella’s friend from dance, walks the palm-tree lined path past the courts, spinning a set of keys around her index finger. A Capezio bag that she’s clearly decided to adopt for beach-going purposes is slung across her shoulder, and a boogie board is tucked under her arm.
“Keep pirouetting like that and I’ll drag your butt back to the dance studio myself,” Grace shouts at Bella. She stops at the fence, leans her board against the navy chain link, and adjusts her flowered bikini top.
“Grace!” Bella screeches in the tone she usually saves for birthday surprises. She sprints toward her friend, leaving me alone on the court.
As Bella and Grace play catch-up, I stare at my racquet, a Wilson, left over from my tennis days. I attempt to spin the bottom of the grip on my palm like I used to, wishing I was airing on the half-pipe with my boyfriend Ryan and my new Mongoose bike instead of waiting for my sister to finish gabbing.
But I have to say, I actually enjoy being back out on the courts—the sound of the ball hitting the racquet’s sweet spot is better than devouring an entire package of Skittles. I’ll never admit that to Bella or my parents, though. They’d have a field day telling me about how I’m “my own worst enemy” and how it’s “my own fault” that I’m “not as adept as Bella.”
“Don’t do that. You might drop it.” Bella returns, seizing the racquet from my palm.
“What did Gracie have to say?” I ask, snatching the racquet back and walking to the ball hopper.
“The usual. She was filling me in about what’s going on at the studio.” Bella balances her racquet between her legs and gathers her poker-straight hair into a high pony.
“Do you miss it?” I ask.
“Miss what?” Bella snaps.
“Dance?”
“Not really. I love tennis,” Bella retorts. “Can you believe Grace is going to be a junior?” she adds, changing the subject as quickly as she returns a serve. “And guess what?” She bounces on the balls of her feet and rises to her toes like she’s wearing pointe shoes.
“What?” I ask as I begin twirling the racquet again.
“Grace is driving already. Isn’t it awesome we know someone at Beachwood who drives?”
“Bells, we’ve been going to B-Dub since we were little. We probably know loads of people there who drive.”
“Yeah, but Grace said if I ever needed a ride home, I could bum one off her.”
“Great. And let me guess, she drives a…” I smirk and place my index finger to my chin like I’m deep in thought. “A Beemer.”
Bella stops her little ballet routine and lets out a deep breath. “Just serve the ball, Maggie Mayhem.” She uses the stupid nickname she christened me with after I broke Joe’s nose at the last tournament I ever played.
“Oh, you want mayhem, huh?” I flip the ball into the air and smack it crosscourt. Bella gets to it this time, backhanding it to my left. I run the ball down and use my powerful, nose-breaking forehand to hit the ball back to my sister.
Thwack.
“Ha!” I say. “Take that.”
Bella sprints toward it, but she’s too late. The ball hits the clay just inside the line, then pings into the back fence.
Bella stops dead in her tracks and places her hands on her hips, wearing the wide smile she always wears when she’s on the court and in the zone. “I would kill for the spin and power you get with your forehand,” she says, shaking her head like refusing to play tennis is some sort of terrible sin. “What a waste.”
“I’m not wasting anything.” I look over at my bike. “You should see the spin and power I can ‘get,’” I air quote, “when I’m practicing tricks on the ramp. Ryan even said that—”
Bella interrupts me. “And what makes it worse is that you hardly try when you’re playing tennis.” She walks back to her spot behind the service line. “Think what you could be like if you actually gave it a teensy bit of effort.”
“I try at what matters. For example, I’m trying really hard to get some air on the quarter pipe.”
“And where’s BMX going to get you? Or any of those things you end up not sticking with for more than a minute? Like soccer? Or surfing? Or what happened to painting and pottery, huh?”
I shrug. “I just didn’t—”
“What about yoga? Whatever happened to your meditations? Oh, and what activity did that guy Greg do? Remember him? The one you hung out with last winter? Or did you forget about him already?” Bella adjusts her visor and straightens her shoulders like she’s about to enter a pageant.
“Snowboarding,” I mumble.
“Right. Snowboarding. You know, it’s not like you can get a scholarship or win any money messing around with stuff that doesn’t matter.”
“Uh, not that I care about winning money or medals, but actually, yes, I can. Ever hear of the X Games? Or the Super Jam? How about the Olympics? They’re adding more action sports events every year!” I roll my eyes. “But it’s not about the fame and glory for me—it’s about having fun.”
“Tell me that you’d try all those extreme sports if it weren’t for the guys.”
I shake my head and look up in exasperation at the clear blue sky. “There are other reasons.”
“Name one.”
My face heats up. “Ugh… forget it. Let’s just concentrate on playing. That’s what you love so much isn’t it?”
Bella stares at her racquet and straightens the strings with her fingers. Something she does when she’s attempting to figure out what to say next. “I… I’ve worked my whole life for this. I’m very blessed to be able to play at the level I do.”
“To the exclusion of everything else, right?”
When she looks up, the corners of her mouth crease, and I know then that I’ve hit on exactly what she’s feeling. That’s the thing about being twins. You can’t hide anything from each other.
“Enough talk.” Bella takes a deep breath and tosses the ball into the air. She whips her racquet like a machine. “Ehh!”
I lunge at the yellow blur as it bounces toward me, letting Bella have her moment of self-delusion. I forehand it toward her. “Take that!”
Thwack.
“Oh yeah?” She backhands the ball crosscourt. “How about that!”
I sprint toward it. Because I’m a lefty, it’s an easy forehand return. “Is that all you’ve got?” I say, continuing the playful taunt.
Anticipating my return, Bella pulls back her racquet and slices it with a heavy topspin. “Check out that smoking shot!”
“Oh yeah? How about this one!”
Thwack.
We rally back and forth ten times before I yell, “Check this out!” Taking a wide step, I turn around and hit the ball between my legs. “And Maggie is back with another between-the-legs sista return!”
“Mags,” Bella says through clenched teeth. Behind her, the ball sails in the direction of a woman who is making her way toward us.
It hits her right square on the side of the head. Whoopsies!
Immediately, Bella’s face turns as red and tense as it did the day I broke a rail while grinding at the Colorado hotel we stayed at last spring for one of her tournaments.
When I garner enough courage to look at the woman I nailed, I see that she’s rubbing the side of her head and wearing a collared shirt that reads Beachwood Academy Tennis.
If Bella’s looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.
On the bright side, at least I didn’t break her nose.