Page 78 of The Rebel
“Really?” Mom gasped in astonishment. “You’re going to blame the bananas for your lack of footwork? Paris, a banana is a banana. It didn’t make you lose!” She rolled her eyes in utter bewilderment as if she couldn’t believe the excuses I was offering, then pointed to her head. “It’s what’s up here. That’s what wins games.”
“Shhhhh,” Dad interrupted with a gentle and diplomatic hush. “Let’s just talk in normal voices, eh? Don’t want to upset our neighbors.”
Mom and I quietened but the stare-off continued. Usually I valued her analysis of the game, pointing out all the things I’d done wrong—or well—but I was beating myself up enough as it was. I knew I’d been stuck behind the baseline, which meant none of my shots had any penetration and my opponent had been able to hit winners. And after my serve was broken in the second set, I had yielded to what I referred to aspatter tennis,just keeping balls in play, not hitting through the ball, desperate to stay in the point, not my natural game.
“Tomorrow’s another day,” Dad noted.
Mom huffed and picked up her laptop, sighing in annoyance, exasperation, disgust—probably all of the above. I went over to the kitchen, opening the pantry door and perusing the contents. I’d downed a small energy bar and a protein shake in the locker room but I needed something more substantial now. Something comforting, like a peanut butter sandwich.
“Where’s the peanut butter?” I asked, placing the loaf of bread on the counter.
“Peanut butter?” Dad asked. “I don’t think we have any. We didn’t bring it from France.”
“Well, you went shopping yesterday, didn’t you?”
“There’s cans of tuna there,” Mom called. “Make a tuna sandwich.”
“I don’t feel like a tuna sandwich,” I drawled through gritted teeth, my frustration levels rising. How was I supposed to perform at my optimum when I didn’t have the proper recovery food?
“Hey, we’ll be going out for dinner—,” Dad started to say but Mom drew in a sharp and loud inhale and exclaimed, “Oh my goodness! Look at this.”
Dad raced over to the couch where she was sitting and I took a plain slice of bread and stuffed it in my mouth—yeah, mainly as a show of petulance. If I choked on it, it would be their fault.
“I got an email from Principal Portman. Vali’s art work has been selected for the spring exhibition.”
I stood behind the couch, peering over their shoulders at the laptop. Mom clicked a file and a picture filled the screen, a picture of me in a service motion. I crouched lower and squinted. Mom clicked another key and there was a picture of me swinginga forehand, another of me in ready position, one of me sitting on my chair between games, the racket resting between my legs.
“These are remarkable,” Dad said, as Mom clicked back and forth on the drawings. “Truly amazing. Are these from Florida?” He pointed to the one of me on the seat which looked exactly like the academy courts.
“Wow,” Mom breathed. “These are fabulous.” She turned to Dad. “She never said anything when I was talking to her earlier.”
My throat hitched as I swallowed down the thick, stodgy piece of bread—note to self, do not eat plain bread to try to prove a point.
“She never showed me these,” Dad said, taking the laptop onto his knee to study the picture of me in ready position more closely.
“Is that from the US Open?” I asked, leaning over and pointing to the stands in the background. “That’s some crazy detail.”
“Did you know she could draw like this?” Mom asked Dad.
Dad shook his head. “She always brushes me aside and closes her pad when I try to take a peek.”
“But why didn’t she tell me she got selected?” Mom pondered, like she was angry about it. “I was literally talking to her earlier today so she knew about it. What else has that girl been hiding?”
Mom took the laptop back from Dad.
“You know what?” I said, standing up to my full height again, stretching out my back in the process. Fatigue was starting to set in and I hadn’t done a full stretching session or had a massage. After a victory, these were mandatory, but in defeat, they’d been overlooked.
Mom noticed me wince and ordered me to get the stretching bands. She gave the laptop back to Dad and laid the yoga mat on the floor, shifting aside the small coffee table. I sat on the matand leaned my head toward my knees—I knew the routine. But with my hamstrings slowly releasing, my mind was on one thing only—my sister.
I had begged Mom to come to Florida for Christmas. Yeah, getting invited to the Juan Duran Academy had been a privilege and I was excited to be there, but the thought of not having Mom and Dad and Valencia there with me over Christmas had been unsettling. We’d never been apart for Christmas. Mom and Dad had been reluctant—they’d made plans already, a lot of Christmas and New Year parties to attend, and they wanted me to focus on my training and not be distracted. But I said I needed them. I trained better when they were close, when they were around.
“Breathe,” Mom directed, “and...release.”
But I didn’t budge. I stayed with my forehead touching my knees, and not because I was stuck or cramping. When Mom had said Valencia wasn’t coming to Europe, I had tried to persuade her to change her mind. But she was adamant that Vali’s schooling was more important and I didn’t need the distraction. The thing is, Vali had never been a distraction. I had actually cried about it, in private of course.
“Release,” Mom repeated. “Let’s go into an adductor stretch.”
I liked order, that was it. I liked a routine and certainty and things to be precise. Sameness. Regularity. That’s how I was. Some called me pedantic, or OCD, but I performed best when I had my family around me. Mom, Dad...Valencia.
