Mosaic - Jeri Taylor [15]
She swung Kathryn's arm through an exaggerated stroke. "You're hitting the ball up, and that's why so many of them are going out. Turn your hand back this way just a little." Coach Cameron rotated Kathryn's hand slightly to the left. "That should level out the stroke."
It felt awful. How could she hit the ball at all? Her hand clutched the racquet like a claw, foreign and unnatural. She practiced a stroke and felt as though her arm were some new appendage she'd never used before. "I can't do it this way," she protested, but Coach Cameron wasn't about to accept that. "It feels strange because you got used to the other way. It'll take a while before this grip feels natural." Kathryn didn't reply, but marched stoically back to the baseline. As she did, she saw something that made her mood even blacker: Hobbes Johnson, arriving early for the lesson he took right after hers. That's all she needed, jerky Hobbes Johnson to see her make a fool of herself. He was a year or two older than she, thinner than the scarecrows that stood in the cornfields, upper teeth protruding slightly, dark hair unruly under his tennis cap. Nobody wore a tennis cap, it was the dumbest thing in the world, but it was just what you'd expect from him. "Hi, Kath!" he called out, waving at her. She didn't answer. She hated being called Kath. No one called her that except this toad. And he was too ignorant to realize she was ignoring him, and smiled broadly at her. She turned and waited for Coach Cameron to start hitting balls to her, trying to get the feel of the new and uncomfortable grip change. The first ball she hit into the net. The second hit the ground in front of the net. She could feel Hobbes's eyes burrowing into her from behind. She was humiliated.
"Try squeezing the handle of the racquet as you make impact," called out Coach Cameron. Kathryn did, and hit the ball wildly to the left. She tried again and missed it entirely.
"I can't do this!" she wailed, and threw down her racquet. She'd have done anything to be allowed to stop right there. But Coach Cameron wasn't about to let her off the hook. "You have five minutes left in your lesson, Kathryn. And we're going to use them. Now-keep your eye on the ball. was In the next five minutes, she managed to hit maybe ten balls over the net. The others went wildly astray. By the time Coach Cameron called an end to it, Kathryn's eyes were beginning to sting with tears of frustration. She couldn't look at Hobbes. She walked toward her tennis bag, eyes on the ground.
"Hobbes," said Coach Cameron, "I have to go inside for a few minutes. Maybe you could warm up with Kathryn?"
"Sure," Hobbes said agreeably, and Coach Cameron walked away from them and toward the office of the tennis facility. Kathryn kept her face down and opened her racquet cover, sticking the racquet inside. Perspiration dripped from her; she was hot and angry. She thought of the cold juice waiting for her at home.
"Don't you want to hit some?" asked Hobbes, the disappointment in his voice not hidden.
"I hate this game," said Kathryn emphatically. "I don't know why my parents want me to play it. It's a waste of time. I'd rather be playing Parrises Squares."
"Your parents are traditionalists, like mine. That's why we live in the agricultural community. That's why we go to the school we do." Only Hobbes would use a word like "traditionalist," Kathryn thought. He was such a vulk that he didn't realize his grownup vocabulary sounded ridiculous. She began stuffing her things into her tennis bag. "I don't see why that means I have to learn to play tennis. It's a ridiculous game."
"I think it's fun."
"You can hit the ball across the net."
"I couldn't two years ago."
She looked up at him. Hobbes played so well she'd assumed it came naturally to him,