Page 2 of The Rebel
“Did you miss me, Volley?” I asked, bending down to pat him. His black and white tail swished, clearly not impressed that I was disturbing his feeding time. Volley had been a gift for Paris after he went through a phase of wanting to give up tennis. He’d lost the final of a U10s tournament and complained that his opponent had cheated, calling balls out when they were clearly in. He promptly declared he was never playing tennis again, threw his racket down and went off crying in a temper tantrum. You’d think Mom and Dad would’ve gone ballistic at him and he would’ve been grounded for such outrageous, sulky behavior.
But no, Mom and Dad agreed the other boy had been cheating, though nothing could be done because the tournament was self-scoring. They had a heated argument with the boy’s parents and kicked up a big fuss with the tournament director but that got them nowhere. Paris refused to play tennis or to go to his coaching lessons for a week, which instigated complete chaos in the Reid household. Paris became unbearable, Mom and Dad were beside themselves, so much that they resorted to bribery.
Paris wanted a puppy, but Mom and Dad said that it was unfair to have a dog if it had to stay home all day on its own, so they compromised and gave into getting a kitten. Cats could entertain themselves during the day when we were at school and work.
With the arrival of Volley, Paris started back at tennis, Mom and Dad were ecstatic, and our lives returned to normal.
Mom came through with her suitcase, emptying her clothes into the washing machine, the phone to her ear. “Okay then sweetie. Miss you. Love you heaps.”
I grimaced, I mean Mom was so cringe—we’d left Paris all of six hours ago and she was gushing about missing him already.
“Hey, can we go sledding tonight? We could go to Oak Brook?” I put the canister back into the cupboard.
“Really? Tonight? Can’t you wait till tomorrow? It’s been a long day and I’ve got a million things to catch up on. Laundry. And I want to pop around to see Dani. Send Paris a photo of Volley. He asked about him,” she paused briefly. “And bring out your dirty clothes.”
I let out a deep sigh, figuring that was a negative, but took my phone from my pocket and bent down to pick up Volley for a selfie. I’d show Paris just how much his cat loved me. I typed on the photo:Home sweet home.Paris replied straight away with the sad face cat emoji.
I hadn’t spent much time with my brother during the two weeks. His days were full on with fitness, coaching, and hitting a million balls. On the one day that he had off, we went out on a fishing charter around the coast. Mom and Dad wanted Paris to relax and have fun. I would have liked to go on a jet ski or surfing, but everything was about Paris and what he wanted to do. And he’d wanted to try fishing. It had been okay, I guess, but not my first choice and hardly exciting.
“Go get your laundry!” Mom growled as I stood there sending a message to my best friend Gabby. She’d posted photos at the cafe earlier, a bunch of girls from our class had been to lunch at Covington Kitchen, or The Kitch as it was known, the most popular cafe in town. And that was another reason I hadn’t wanted to go to Florida, I missed out on so much stuff with my friends and, most importantly, Gabby’s birthday.
“I’m going,” I huffed, taking time to give Volley one last pat. Odd that Gabby hadn’t replied—she usually responded instantly.
I stood in the living room, looking at the wilting Christmas tree. It had been amazing when we decorated it, but it was now a pitiful example of an unloved and unwatered tree, droopy and shedding needles.
“Arghhh,” Mom muttered, coming up behind me. “What a mess. I’ll have to get Dad to take it away. Think we’ll go artificial next year.”
“What? Are you serious?” I sneered, but I was in no mood to argue with her, and grabbing my suitcase, I plodded it up the stairs behind me, prompting Dad to call out, “Pick it up and carry it, Vali. You’ll ruin the wheels!”
Gah, why were both Mom and Dad so grouchy since arriving home?
I lifted up my bag, nearly breaking my wrist as I lugged it to my room. I flopped down on my comfy, familiar bed, picking up a fluffy purple pillow and hugging it. It was nice to be back, stretched out on my four poster bed. It had been a princess bed once, draped in pink curtains, but I’d grown out of that sweet girly stage. I’d had a short obsession with the color green, not just any green, but a rich emerald green. My bed had emerald curtains and an emerald cover and emerald pillows.
I’d finally gotten around to changing it at Halloween. My friends and I had a progressive Halloween party, going to five different houses for food and games. We’d had starters at my house and played Hide ’n’ Seek because we had a big backyard with a tennis court and lots of trees and lawn. Wanting to create an awesome spooky theme, I’d refurbished a black mosquito net into a canopy over my bed and threaded mini skull lights around it. I’d drawn and printed out lots of pictures of spooky things and hung them everywhere, and I’d worn a black skintight skeleton suit which everyone said looked amazing with the commandostyle boots that I’d bought online. I’d dyed my hair purple and Mom hated it, said I looked emo. I’d had to wash it out because hair at Covington Prep had to be ‘of natural coloring,’ but it had been fun to step away from my usual look which was my school uniform during the week, and jeans, hoodies and activewear on the weekends.
Mom had been hounding me for weeks to get rid of the black canopy and the skull lights, and I had switched them up for snowflake lights for Christmas but I’d kept the black net; and not just because I decided I quite liked the edgy and gothic look, but because I knew it peeved her off.
Chapter 2
VALENCIA
Valencia is a town in southeastern Spain, a place Mom and Dad visited on their honeymoon. It was one of their favorite places, right along with Paris. Paris and I used to joke that it was lucky they didn’t love Brussels and Antwerp. Our lives could’ve been a disaster if they had.
They could also have been a lot more different if Mom wasn’t a failed college tennis player who had never made it to the professional tennis circuit. A torn knee ligament which never repaired properly was the reason she never hit the tour and instead became a physical therapist. One with an unrelenting passion to live out her dreams through her children. Yep, from an early age we were introduced to tennis. By the time I picked up my first racket at the age of four, modified for my tiny hand, Paris already had two years on me. I’d loved the game back then, loved following Paris around, and when I actually became good enough to hit with him, it had been the best. Playing mixed doubles with Paris in an Under 10s tournament was one of my best memories ever. I was only eight, and Paris will declare that we won because of him, but I never missed a serve and hit some good volleys over the net. I won four trophies with Paris that summer, but Paris was so good and won all the singles titles that the next year he played in the Under 12 age group. And he got a new partner. I was too small, not strong enough to play with him against the older kids.
Something changed after that. Tennis wasn’t fun if I didn’t play with Paris, and the random boy I got paired up for the mixed doubles—his name was Andrew—was rude to me when Imissed a shot or served a double fault. When we lost, he threw his racket down and shouted that I was useless.
When I came off the court crying, I was scolded for my tears, in contrast to Paris who only got sympathy. I was told I shouldn’t cry after losing—that it was the ultimate in poor sportsmanship. Talk about double standards! That same afternoon, I lost my singles match without winning a game.
I told Mom and Dad that I hated tennis and didn’t want to play anymore. Of course that was out of the question—I couldn’t quit tennis, it was in my blood, my DNA. Tennis was life, according to Mom!
In the next three tournaments, I was knocked out in the first round. Yes, I may have purposely sabotaged my own matches, hitting every ball as hard as I could, like it was a cannon firing, having no regard for all I’d been taught about tactics and placement and patience. I lost the will to compete and win and basically went through each match as quickly as I could, without trying, which was totally against the spirit of the sport.
Mom, especially, was disappointed, well more than disappointed. I was a let down, a failure. Arguments ensued for months as I was forced to continue with my coaching lessons, grudgingly attending, performing badly, moody and volatile at every training.
It was Dad who suggested I take a break, and as horrified as Mom was that I would never become the next tennis sensation, Coach Gardiner relegated me to the social group where I would no longer have to play tournaments. He recommended that they concentrate on Paris—he who had the potential for stardom, who could go far in the sport, who hated losing with a passion. I was relieved that I didn’t have to play competitively, but as Paris won more trophies and got all the attention, I sometimes regretted that I was now a spectator, reduced to sitting on the sidelines.
“Valencia!” Mom’s shrill voice pierced the whole house. “Bring your laundry down. NOW!”
