My sister has lost her mind.
Fat chance I’m ever stepping on the courts with her again, at least not competitively. Especially when I’m finally making progress on my bike. Bottom line: I am not spending the entire fall season hanging out with my stiff sister dressed in a white skirt or, ugh, even worse, one of those awful skort things. I’d rather eat that crazy-sounding squid dish my mom just ordered for dinner.
The relaxing jazz music at Beachwood Country Club’s dimly lit restaurant, the Dolphin, irritates me, so I discreetly shove a white bud into my ear while my sister orders. Beyond the open terrace and glistening pool, the enormous setting sun casts an intense fuchsia glow over the ocean. I wish Ryan were here to witness the awesome sunset. I’ve left my bike out in the parking lot, so hopefully I can meet up with him later.
“Burger. Fries. Medium,” I proudly announce to the waiter when he asks for my order. While Bella loves to nibble on lettuce leaves, I prefer real, non-rabbit food, like cheese steaks and onion rings at the fast-food joint on the pier. Of course, Miss Perfect refuses to ingest anything overly fatty or with too much sugar. She insists it makes her sluggish and messes with her game. But I’m the opposite. It’s a good thing I don’t conform to any stiff dietary rules because I’ve had my best days at the skate park after throwing back one of In-N-Out’s big, greasy Double Double Animal Style burgers.
“So, are you girls ready for your first day of school?” my dad asks, turning his attention toward us after handing his leather-covered menu to the waiter. He’s dressed in his typical starched collared shirt and beige tie.
I wait for Bella to answer since she’s the one who’s always clamoring to be the center of attention. Not that I care. It gives me more time to listen to my favorite band, Daydream.
But this time, Bella stays mum, focusing all her attention on straightening the fork and knife in front of her. I stare at her, wondering why she’s not blabbing about signing me up… or at least about meeting the one and only Olga Kaniziwooshky or whatever her name is. Normally, Bella blurts out her latest accomplishments faster than I can say “pass the ketchup.”
My dad looks at my mom. Mom gives him a smile as flat as her pressed suit. “Tomorrow’s your very first day of high school.” She moves a flickering candle to the side of the table. “You must be so excited.”
Their asking us about our day instead of delving into a discussion of their latest litigation can mean only one thing: My parents are working on a case that involves a troubled teenager. Usually, our Tuesday night family dinner convo centers around recent affidavits, arbitrations, adjournments, and appeals at my parents’ law firm. That is, unless my parents are working on something involving someone our age—then it’s all eyes on us.
Still, Bella says nothing, and neither do I.
“Girls, we asked you a question,” my mother prompts again after a long silence. She sips her blood-red wine.
I look at Bella, who sighs again.
“Can’t wait,” I finally say, before lifting the white tablecloth in front of my lap so I can tap on my iPhone’s screen without their noticing.
“Yeah. Can’t wait,” my sister concurs flimsily. She repositions her water, and I see a look in her eyes that says she’s waiting for my parents to ask her what’s wrong.
Earlier, after Bella told that coach we’d try out as a doubles pair without even consulting me, I slammed down my racquet and demanded she get me out of this mess. (That is, after I already stomped on her foot.) But Bella, being stubborn and bullheaded (basically the same as me), crossed her arms and refused. She said, as much as she knew I didn’t want to be on the courts with her again, this was her chance to be Coach’s favorite player. And nothing comes between my sister and a goal.
After spewing some empty threats about how I would cover Bella’s precious tennis clothes with grease from my bike if she didn’t get me out of the tryouts, I stormed away and caught waves for about an hour by myself to release some steam.
Once I’d calmed down, guilt somehow wormed its way inside my freaky brain. Tennis does mean everything to my sister, and I admit I like hitting the ball around with her. So I went back to the court (where I knew she’d still be) and returned her serves in silence until dinner.
When we were done, I told her that if she wanted, I’d help her with her serves and slices and whatnot the rest of the time Joe was away, but that I wouldn’t slap on some silly skort to play tennis again. My tennis days are like the Jonas Brothers and belly shirts—O-V-E-R.
My father clears his throat; the hard grumble suggests that he’s had enough of our lack of cooperation. “When are tennis tryouts?” he asks, again attempting to get the conversation going.
“Yeah. When are tennis tryouts, Bells?” I nudge my sister.
“Tomorrow,” Bella chirps. Then she looks down and begins spooning the ice cubes out of her water as part of her never-ending effort to avoid consuming anything too cold. (She claims that cold things make her cough, which in turn means her game suffers. It’s, like, rule twenty-two on Bella’s guide to a tennis-filled life, right after “thou shalt not have any fun.”)
My mother smooths out her navy napkin across the white tablecloth. “And are you thinking of trying out for any interscholastic sports this fall, Maggie?” she asks in her courtroom voice.
Here it goes. Another Anderson assault on my latest extracurricular. They think I quit everything. They don’t get that I look at life like a buffet—sports, boys, clubs, classes—all meant to be tasted. Why limit myself?
“Umm…” I glance at Bella before I answer. “Not in this lifetime.”
She narrows her eyes at me. The unspoken tension between me and my sis is thicker than the steaming New England clam chowder that the waiter has just placed in front of my father.
“Well, Maggie Lynn, that’s just unacceptable,” Dad grunts. “How do you ever expect to make it in this world if you don’t exert yourself now? Look at your sister. She’s a model of the kind of perseverance we’re talking about. Now, she could win a little more, but still, she’s going to go places in life.” He looks over at Bella approvingly, but his expression shifts once he catches sight of what she’s still doing. “That is, if she shows the good sense to get her head out of her water.” He turns to my sister—“Why are you so fixated by ice?”—then looks back at me. “And starts paying attention to her parents at the dinner table.”
Bella’s shoulders sink and she removes the spoon from her glass, the metal clinking against the last remaining ice cubes as she does so.
My mother places her hand on my dad’s knee. “The girls are probably just anxious to start at Beachwood, Steven. You remember how nerve-wracking that can be. The beginning of high school.” She lowers her voice to a whisper in what’s either an attempt to distract him or an expression of an irrepressible urge to discuss work at all times. “How’s that new divorce case coming? Are we making any headway?”
As my father begins to chat about his latest case, I blurt out, “Bella signed me up to play tennis at school.”
My father looks like he just got smacked in the face. My mom’s mouth hangs open like a nutcracker.
“What?” Dad finally says.
“Excuse me?” Mom shakes her head. “I thought we’ve been down this road already.”
My father drops his spoon in his chowder. A few droplets splash onto the white tablecloth and onto his lap. My mother dabs at him with her napkin.
“Bella, why on earth would you…” Mom stops herself, clearing her throat as she rethinks her statement.
I pull the brim of the Red Bull hat that Ryan gave me for my birthday over my eyes. I can’t deal with the parental inquisition.
“Does Joe know about this?” my father asks, reaching for his phone.
“Honey, wait a second,” Mom says, placing a calming hand over my father’s before he gets ahold of his cell. “If Maggie is integrated in the proper manner, I think it could actually be marvelous for the girls.”
Dad eyes her suspiciously.
She continues regardless. “If Maggie and Bella played together again, they could strengthen that bond we’re always talking about. That special twin bond.”
My sister and I glance at each other disgustedly.
Since when does my mom say marvelous? And where did she dream up that Bella and me playing tennis together again is a good idea?
After a moment’s hesitation, my father appears to concede. “Yes. It would be nice for the two of you to spend some quality time together.” He eyes my mother warily, obviously still far from convinced.
Whoosh.
A fiery skillet appears beside our table, illuminating the dim room around us. We look up to see a waiter in a collared shirt and khaki shorts standing next to my mother, holding a dish that he’s just set on fire. “Saganaki?” he announces, though it comes out more like a question than anything.
“Yes. Thank you.” My mother leans back as the waiter places the Greek flambéed “delicacy” in front of us.
There’s nothing grosser than burnt cheese. Unless you count the grilled calamari my mom ordered for her entrée.
“So I’m assuming, Maggie, that you’re on board with this,” my dad says. He doesn’t pause to let me answer. “I’m also assuming that you won’t let this end in disaster like before.” He leans back in his chair, confident that he’s made his wishes known. Behind him, a waiter pulls out wooden chairs for what I’d call a clone couple—it’s like seeing Barbie and Ken in the flesh. My dad must notice that my attention has shifted elsewhere because he adds, “If you’re going to do this, you better be fully committed.”
My mom nods in agreement.
“When is everybody going to let it go? I didn’t mean to break Joe’s nose.” I glance beneath the tablecloth and select another track on my playlist, hoping the music will block the horrible memory… and my parents’ chatter.
“Honey!” my mother raises her voice. “Please take that thing out of your ear when your father and I are speaking to you.”
I pull out the earbud and wrap the wires around my iPhone.
“To continue,” my dad says, “are you—as I just said—truly committed to playing tennis?”
I decide to play along. “Can I wear shorts?”
“See! That’s exactly what I’m always talking about.” Bella furiously slices the fried cheese in half. “She’s not serious about anything.”
“Calm down with the knife work there, psycho,” I say, checking the time on my phone. “You’re the one who signed me up.”
Bella rolls her eyes at me. “No offense, Mags. But I just said yes to appease Coach. I would say yes to Coach if she asked me to lie on the court and make clay angels.” She takes a tender bite, allowing no more than a tenth of an ounce into her mouth.
“Really, Bells? Was that the only reason?” I press on, my eyebrows raised.
“Yeah… uh-huh, of course,” Bella answers quickly, shifting her eyes about uneasily. I must have struck a nerve
“Hold on, girls.” My father raises his hand for us to stop. “Which coach are you talking about?”
My mother leans toward us as if proximity will help her better understand how her screwup daughter was recruited to play tennis.
Bella plays with her cheese, then looks up, an almost guilty expression on her face. “Coach Kasinski.”
“Olga Kasinski?” my father gasps.
“The Olga Kasinski? Beachwood’s head tennis coach wants Maggie to play?” my mother exclaims, her hand over her heart in shock.
While they’re drooling over Olga, I sneak an earbud back into my ear and turn up my favorite Lil Wayne song so I can tune out my family again. I stare past the open terrace at the ocean and beyond, wondering if perhaps I should have saved myself the pain by telling them I wasn’t planning to try out anyway, despite what Bella says.
“Maggie!” My mother interrupts my meditation.
I pull out the bud once more and shove my iPhone into the pocket of my Element hoodie.
“So let me get this straight,” my dad begins, turning to my sister, his hands out in front of him, all serious and lawyerlike. “Olga Kasinski wants Maggie to join the team.” A wrinkle appears between his brows as he processes this information. “She must have watched you two play today?”
“Yup,” Bella answers, pushing the remaining cheese to the side of her plate. “She thinks Maggie has a powerful forehand, plus she loves her angles and the fact she’s a lefty.”
“She always did have a heck of a stroke,” my mother says in a whisper, gazing past Bella. The glimmering lights above the bar create little white specks in the irises of her eyes.
“And you were just saying how you’d like to see Maggie participate in a team sport,” Bella adds, earnestly.
I look over at her in surprise. Did she really just defend me? She’s obviously just as shocked as I am that she said something supportive because she begins gulping down her water as if afraid of what else might come out of her mouth.
“Remember when Maggie played soccer?” my mother asks, wistfully.
“Of course. She scored eighteen goals in six games.” My father’s lips turn upward slightly in a hint of a smile, but then his expression shifts into a frown. “But then she quit.” He looks at me directly. “What worries me is that we crossed this bridge a long time ago and it didn’t go well. And this time it’s Bella’s future that you’re putting at risk.”
Bella opens her mouth to speak, but my dad cuts her off before she can. “Even if your sister,” he nods at Bella, “thinks this is a good idea”—Bella’s cheeks flush at that one—“and even though we certainly want you to participate in a school-sanctioned sport, I’m concerned about your involvement being something that directly impacts your sister.”
Heat courses through my body. “Why?! Why are you so worried about me screwing everything up for your perfect, darling Bella?”
“That’s not it, sweetie,” my mom says. The words come out calmly but in that moment I feel like she’s turning on me as well. “It’s just you know how hard your sister works.”
Bella looks down at her food as if she’s ashamed, but I know it’s just an act—I can see the pride in her eyes.
Mom glances at her, then adds, “There’s a lot at stake for Bella.”
“And, as exciting as this all sounds, we can’t let her success be limited by your problems with prioritization,” my dad concludes, severely.
“Ughh… why do you all always think that I have ‘problems with prioritization’?” I say the last part in a mocking tone. “If you’d just give me a chance, I’d show you that—”
Dad cuts me off. “We gave you a chance, and you ended up hitting Joe in the nose.”
“Seriously? That again? Twice in one dinner conversation? Will you guys just let it go? It was an accident,” I insist, practically whining.
“An accident that was caused by your decision to attend a party instead of practice like your sister,” Dad says, pursing his lips.
I stare at him, shooting daggers with my eyes. He’s right that the day before my last big match I chose to attend my best bud’s birthday party, instead of practicing like Bella did. But what he forgot to mention is how when I double faulted five times, he and my mom got up and left to go watch Bella practice. Once I noticed they were gone, I lost my temper and pegged a ball toward the bench, which unfortunately was right where Joe was standing.
“That party cost you tennis,” Dad says, pursing his lips.
You picking Bella over me is what really cost me tennis.
I forcefully tear a piece of bread off the crusty loaf, imagining myself completing a double peg stall. Why focus on one sport anyway when I can try them all? I’m only fifteen.
Bella sucks in a deep breath as if gathering her strength. “Coach Kasinski thinks Maggie and I would make an excellent doubles team. She said we complement each other and might be even better than Lauren and Minka O’Donnell.”
My mother gasps.
My father drops his spoon, splashing more soup everywhere.
Bella, meanwhile, adjusts her headband, as if that’ll bring everything back to normal.
I stare at my sister in disbelief. She’s really going for it. Our family’s arguments have always been carried out like we’re in a courtroom, and Bella can play my parents’ games with the best of them.
Once my mom regains her composure, she says, “Well, I have to agree. There’s a lot of potential there. The both of you were wonderful when you played doubles together before.”
“I still don’t know,” my dad says, shaking his head. “As we’ve been telling you, playing at that level requires a certain type of commitment. That’s a commitment you weren’t prepared for previously, Maggie.”
“I’m committed to BMX.”
“I’m sure, sweetie,” Mom says in a tone so patronizing it makes my skin crawl.
“Maybe you can try out for the volleyball team?” my dad adds. “That way you can start over without ruining things for your sister.”
“Ruining things for my sister!” I exclaim. “I knew it! Is that really what you think I’d do?”
“Well, your history—”
“Screw my history. Just admit that this is 100 percent about Bella, isn’t it? Why are you are always so worried about her? Why don’t you ever worry about me?”
“That’s not true, Maggie. We just think that—”
“I’d be doing her a favor anyway.”
“A favor?” Bella sits up straighter. “You think I need you?”
“You need me if you want to win more matches,” I mutter.
“How can you say that?” Her face pales.
“Maggie, leave your sister out of it. This is about you.”
“Is it? Well, then, I’ve made up my mind. Count me in,” I slam my empty cup on the table. “But I’m not wearing that stupid skort.”
I storm out of the restaurant and jump on my bike to pedal to the skate park. It’s not until later that I realize what I just got myself into.