Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [84]
I feel a sudden surge of intense nervousness, as if the next point could prove life-changing. Gripping my racket in the ready position, I watch MC line her toes up behind the baseline, bounce her ball three times, and stare me down, in what is either her pre-serve visualization or an obvious attempt at intimidation.
“Serve already,” I hear April mutter, as she finally tosses her ball in the air, simultaneously coiling her racket behind her head, crushing a slice serve with a Monica Seles—esque grunt.
The ball whizzes over the net, spins sideways, and slides off the singles line in the wide corner of my deuce service box, pushing me off the court. I spot the spin and the angle, stretching into the tennis version of a warrior-three yoga pose as I fully extend my arm and flip my wrist. The frame of my racket barely makes contact with the ball yet I still manage a high, deep forehand return. Feeling satisfied, I watch the ball lob its way down the line toward Romy, who yells “Mine! Mine!” a crucial instruction when playing with MC.
Romy hits an overhead up the middle.
“You!” April shouts as I, once again, stretch to make contact, this time with an awkward backhand that somehow manages to place the ball on the other side of the net.
MC hits a high forehand volley back to April, who returns with a topspin forehand of her own. My heart races as Romy s half volley sends the ball back to me, and I return it with a lucky lob deep in MC’s court.
And so on and so on until the point culminates in a dramatic, close-to-the-net, reflex-volley exhibition, finally ending when MC gets her racket over the ball, smashing it directly into me.
Hammer Time.
“Game, set, match!” she yells jubilantly.
I force a smile as we all walk to the sidelines, where we gulp from our water bottles and rehash the last point—or at least MC rehashes it. Then she turns to me and mentions that they are looking for a new team member.
“Would you be interested?” she asks while April beams, proud of her latest project—to remake me into one of the glamour girls of Wellesley.
“Yeah,” I say, thinking that I could get used to this life, a thought I have again after we shower, reconvene, and indulge in an après-tennis lunch at the juice bar, sipping protein shakes and commencing rigorous girl talk. We cover shoes and jewelry, Botox and plastic surgery, our diet and exercise regimes (or lack thereof), and our nannies, babysitters, and housekeepers. The conversation is mostly shallow and mindless, but I enjoy every minute of it, loving the utter escapism, akin to opening a tabloid magazine. I sheepishly admit to myself that I also like the feeling of belonging, of being included in their elite clique. It occurs to me that I haven’t had a true group of friends since Cate and I joined a sorority in college, perhaps because I typically prefer one-on-one friendships, but more likely because I have a family now. It also occurs to me that Nick would scoff if he could hear the Cliff’s Notes of our conversation—which, in turn, makes me feel defensive and all the more resentful.
Perhaps for this reason, I am unfazed when Romy finally gets down to the subject of Charlie. “Charlie Anderson is back at school this week,” she says, sipping her mango shake, gingerly broaching the subject.
“That’s great news!” April says, her voice an unnaturally high octave.
I echo the sentiment, murmuring something noncommittal but supportive, my way of giving Romy permission to say more.
“Yeah, I know,” Romy says, letting out a huge sigh.
“Tell them about Grayson,” MC prompts.
Romy pretends to balk, shaking her head, looking down at the table. “I don’t want to make Tessa uncomfortable,” she says.
“It’s okay,” I say, meaning it. “And whatever you say, I’ll keep