Page 53 of The Rebel
I had approximately seven seconds to pull myself together, the time it would take me to reach Jazmyn’s table.
“Oh look,” Jazmyn said, holding her phone screen out for me to see. “We’re going to meet up at lunch to sort out the weekend. I might be a bit late though. I’ve got to see Miss Beauchamp for choir.”
“Uh huh,” I said, nodding as I read through the last few messages. Aaron had said he could take his car, as did Gabby. But strangely, that wasn’t my most pressing issue—no, as I lifted my eyes, two tables away, Jade was holding out a chair for a girlwith long blonde hair, her perfect single braid hanging down her back. I frowned as she laughed, and then he laughed and sat down next to her. She pulled out her phone and he leaned in, their heads close together.
My chest tightened, my heart palpitating but for an entirely different reason now. A few minutes ago, Jade’s smile had set a gentle fluttering of butterflies in my stomach, but with his smile now directed at the other girl, they’d transformed into a swarm of raging hornets.
I decided to blame the cheeseburger and fries for the downward descent the day took. The poor breakfast decision and the illogical hate aimed at the blonde girl whose name I didn’t know, was followed by playing badminton in our PE class. Badminton was not a sport I enjoyed, despite it being a racket sport. In theory, I should have been fairly decent, its concept similar to tennis—hand and eye coordination to hit across a net. But the narrow, small racket head and the silly light shuttlecock were a source of constant frustration and the tennis grip I’d grown up with was useless in this sport. I was unable to adapt and consequently played poorly.
It didn’t help that a group of senior students were officiating our games as part of their curriculum. I was made to feel even more incompetent as I lost all but one game.
But when I didn’t think the day could get worse, the text came from Mom that Paris had lost his first round match to the Bulgarian boy, 6-2, 6-2.
I was stunned, the scoreline suggesting it wasn’t even a close battle. In Paris’s words, that would be considered a thrashing. My heart plummeted in a way that overwhelmed me, imagining how disappointed he’d be. Dazed, I needed a moment to reflect on this information. A loss in the first round was devastating and Paris’s confidence would be knocked back. It would be like the end of the world to him, especially as he was expected to win.
Forgoing the cafeteria, I slipped outside into the drab day and walked around to the pergola which was between the school block and the boarding school hostels. I needed a time-out, not only to message Mom, but to absorb this news, because it was totally unexpected and shocking. Mom’s reply was brief, which indicated that she was upset. All she said was that the other boy played very well and that Paris had a doubles match later.
I pondered whether I should text Paris, thinking carefully about what to write. I didn’t want to agitate him more—he would be brutal enough on himself. My brother trained so hard and he’d dreamed of this his whole life, so losing in the first round of this tournament would feel like a failure. I needed to encourage and motivate him. Because I hadn’t seen the game, I didn’t know what area of his play had let him down, but I had to be positive.
Hey Paris, you got this! Move on to the next tournament. Remember the basics. Fight for every point. Your serve is your weapon, stick to your game plan. I believe in you. Love you.
As I typed the words, it hit me that I truly did want Paris to succeed, that I did believe in him. Oh yeah, sometimes I got annoyed and hated my brother for all the fuss and attention he got, but this loss was weighing on me as heavily as if it were my own.As if I’d failed.
My life was so entwined in his that his pain was mine.
To cheer him up, I signed it, VxV. It was my Vali and Volley signature, but I actually hadn’t used it for a while. When Paris first got Volley, we called him his good luck charm because he went on a winning streak. Paris’s game no longer relied on luck now, but I would send him some photos of Volley to spur him on. As for my little coaching advice, those were the things I remembered from Coach Gardiner. No, they hadn’t worked on me, but the sentiment was right.
My stomach churned in despair as I watched my screen, willing for him to answer, wishing I could be there for him.Those thoughts of wanting him to fail now felt shameful; I realized I wanted the best for my brother. I loved him dearly, even though sometimes I didn’t show it.
His reply came back short and sharp:Played like s**t, shouldn’t be here.
Tears immediately welled in the corners of my eyes and without thinking, I clicked on his number, listening for the ring tone.
“Pick up Paris,” I said aloud, jigging up and down on the spot to keep warm. “Pick up!”
He was definitely in a mood, answering with an abrupt, “What?”
But I was unperturbed. “Hey, it was one match, you’ll do better at the next tournament,” I said.
“One match that I should have won.” His voice was a hollow shell of the boy who’d been the cover model for the Junior Tennis magazine and interviewed by ESPN. “I was useless. I couldn’t hit a ball.”
“Was it the courts?” I asked. “You know you haven’t had much experience playing indoors.”
"I couldn’t time the ball. I was shanking shots.”
“Well, it takes a while to adjust to different conditions. How did the ball bounce?”
“Fast but low,” Paris said.
“Okay,” I said, sounding like a tennis professional. “You like fast courts. They suit your game.”
“Yeah,” Paris said. “It was just different though. There was this echoing sound in the stadium and my shoes were squeaking on the surface and...I don’t know, maybe I freaked a bit.” His frustration was evident. “Geez, Vali, I should’ve beaten this dude. His second serve was so slow and I just ended up hitting it into the net every time.”
“Well, you know what you used to say to me all the time,” I said.
“No. What did I say?” Paris asked flatly, like he had no idea of the words ingrained in my brain.
“You used to tell me to get the ball into play. That I didn’t have to hit a winner straight away. To be patient and wait for the right ball.”
