Page 53 of The Tomboy

I picked up my phone, a shiver making its way up my spine, curious about what Addison had read. Millie hadn’t sent me a copy of her article yet, something she’d promised to do. I hadn’t heard from her or seen her around school, other than photography class. I presumed she hadn’t finished writing it yet.

Grace’s head peeked over at me. “Don’t listen to anything Addi says,” she whispered, confirming to me that everyone had heard.

“Where do you get a copy of the Covington Times?” I asked.

“It’s only printed once a month,” Grace said.

“Well, what’s the article Addison’s talking about,” I asked in an urgent whisper.

“Online, maybe? They update it weekly. Go to the school’s website and look under The Times.” Grace’s thumbs were flying over her screen. “There’s a sports section, so scroll down.”

I wasn’t as fast as Grace, or rather my old phone wasn’t. The title wasServing up tennis,the byline Millie Conway, Reporter and Addison O’Day, Web Editor. It was accompanied by several photos, one of the whole team where, as the tallest, I stood at the back in the middle. Another was an action shot of me serving, and there was one of 1040 Fox Avenue.

As I got to the part about my victory at Bloomingfield, I heard Grace’s sharp gasp. I skimmed faster, detached as I read about ‘Taylor’s daily journey to Covington Heights.’

But my heart hurt anyway.

Because I now understood a lot of things. Not living in Covington made you an outsider. At Covington Prep, where you liveddidmatter. And it was now as clear as day—it didn’t take a genius to know why Max Saunders hadn’t wanted to play tennis with me.

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Grace had said notto worry about Addison’s snarky comments, but it wasn’t the reason I played so terribly in my singles. I couldn’t seem to do the one thing I’d been taught in over eleven years of coaching—to let go. One point at a time. Blocking out everything. Focusing only on the point being played.

Imprinted in my mind was Max looking embarrassed about finding out I lived at 1040 Fox Avenue, of saying he didn’t want to play tennis with me. And now, knowing that the whole school knew, or at least the ones who read The Times online, I couldn’t put it behind me. Even with Dad waving his fist in the air and standing up and clapping overhead. I was in a tennis funk. Not since we learnt Mom’s second lot of treatment wasn’t working, had I played so poorly. That quarter final match should have been an easy win for me—I’d beaten my opponent only a few weeks before, yet on that day I couldn’t serve, I couldn’t hit a ball within the lines and my feet wouldn’t move.

The same thing was happening here. The Hastings High number one was a good player, and I tried hard to make a comeback, but in tennis, time always runs out, and I lost 6-3, 7-5. But she didn’t beat me; I beat me.

Dad made me put on my jacket as if keeping warm was the answer to my bad play. “What happened out there? Are you feeling all right, Tay? Do you want me to get you a Gatorade?”

“I’ve got some,” I mumbled, sitting on the seat next to him, glad he was on the top row on his own. “I was terrible.”

“You couldn’t get your serve going?”

I shook my head, sipping on my water bottle. My double faults had been high. Six of them. Luckily Max wasn’t there to take statistics. Maybe he’d told Clay he didn’t want to do it anymore. Not after finding out where I lived.

“Don’t worry,” Dad said, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. “It’s just one game. You’re allowed a bad day.”

My chin quivered. Mom would never have said that. Mom was the opposite. She would have made me go and practice my serve, said that I had to work harder. Hearing Dad say it was okay to lose opened the floodgate of tears. And that was exactly what I shouldn’t do—cry after a loss. It was the epitome of poor sportsmanship, Mom used to say. Emotions should never get the better of you. You had to be a brick, a rock, an iceberg. No one liked a sore loser, a crybaby.

And I was being one.

I remembered back to the Under 10s tournament, playing Emma Kovac in the quarterfinal. We umpired ourselves and Emma cheated. Her line calls were blatantly wrong, calling shots out when they were clearly in. She ended up winning, and I ran to Mom, crying. Yet I was the one who got into trouble, I was a complete embarrassment. Mom said I must never, ever cry after losing. Worse than losing was crying after losing.

“Mom would be so mad with me,” I sniffled, burrowing into his embrace.

Dad pulled me in closer, letting my head rest on his chest. “Well, I’m here now, baby,” he whispered. He didn’t tell me to stop crying. He kissed the top of my head and recalled the first point in the fourth game when I hit a brilliant drop shot. Then he raved about my two-handed volley, an exquisite shot. And my wide serve that kicked up high.

I wiped my tear-stained cheeks on Dad’s shirt, my heart returning to its normal beat. But only for a moment. Bianca was making her way up the stand. I stayed tightly in Dad’s arms, ready for her rant about my defeat, how I’d let the Maroons down, the whole team.

“Hello Bianca,” Dad said, appeasing the situation with a cheery smile.

“Hi. Mr. Frank,” she replied hesitantly.

“Good win for you,” Dad said.

“Thank you,” Bianca said. She had won a hard fought match and I should’ve congratulated her, but I...didn’t. “Uh, hard luck, Taylor,” she said, sitting on the step below us. “Uh, Taylor, I’ve spoken to Mrs. Stephens and she thinks it’ll be a good idea for you and me to play together in the doubles.”

My eyes widened, but my mouth remained closed. I had no words. Of all people, why would she want to play with me, the pleb from across the river, the loser with bloodshot eyes? Unless she was going to sabotage me somehow, trip me up, injure me and claim back the number one position.

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