“You!” April shouts as I, once again, stretch to make contact, this time with an awkward backhand that somehow manages to place the ball on the other side of the net.
MC hits a high forehand volley back to April, who returns with a topspin forehand of her own. My heart races as Romy s half volley sends the ball back to me, and I return it with a lucky lob deep in MC’s court.
And so on and so on until the point culminates in a dramatic, close-to-the-net, reflex-volley exhibition, finally ending when MC gets her racket over the ball, smashing it directly into me.
Hammer Time.
“Game, set, match!” she yells jubilantly.
I force a smile as we all walk to the sidelines, where we gulp from our water bottles and rehash the last point—or at least MC rehashes it. Then she turns to me and mentions that they are looking for a new team member.
“Would you be interested?” she asks while April beams, proud of her latest project—to remake me into one of the glamour girls of Wellesley.
“Yeah,” I say, thinking that I could get used to this life, a thought I have again after we shower, reconvene, and indulge in an après-tennis lunch at the juice bar, sipping protein shakes and commencing rigorous girl talk. We cover shoes and jewelry, Botox and plastic surgery, our diet and exercise regimes (or lack thereof), and our nannies, babysitters, and housekeepers. The conversation is mostly shallow and mindless, but I enjoy every minute of it, loving the utter escapism, akin to opening a tabloid magazine. I sheepishly admit to myself that I also like the feeling of belonging, of being included in their elite clique. It occurs to me that I haven’t had a true group of friends since Cate and I joined a sorority in college, perhaps because I typically prefer one-on-one friendships, but more likely because I have a family now. It also occurs to me that Nick would scoff if he could hear the Cliff’s Notes of our conversation—which, in turn, makes me feel defensive and all the more resentful.
Perhaps for this reason, I am unfazed when Romy finally gets down to the subject of Charlie. “Charlie Anderson is back at school this week,” she says, sipping her mango shake, gingerly broaching the subject.
“That’s great news!” April says, her voice an unnaturally high octave.
I echo the sentiment, murmuring something noncommittal but supportive, my way of giving Romy permission to say more.
“Yeah, I know,” Romy says, letting out a huge sigh.
“Tell them about Grayson,” MC prompts.
Romy pretends to balk, shaking her head, looking down at the table. “I don’t want to make Tessa uncomfortable,” she says.
“It’s okay,” I say, meaning it. “And whatever you say, I’ll keep it to myself.”
She flashes me a small, grateful smile, and says, “Grayson’s having a rough time at school,” she says. “He’s still going through post-traumatic stress syndrome and I think seeing Charlie again has brought back a lot of bad memories.”
“That must be hard,” I say, feeling genuinely sympathetic. “And on top of that,” Romy says. “Charlie’s not being very nice to Grayson.”
“Really?” I say, surprised to hear this—and still a bit skeptical of the source.
“Well, it’s not that he’s being mean, per se. He’s just. . . ignoring him. They aren’t nearly as close as they once were . . .”
I nod, thinking of Ruby’s class, how the mean-girl syndrome has already begun, the popularity dynamic shifting on a weekly basis as the girls recast their silent votes for four-year-old queen bee status and realign accordingly. So far Ruby has managed to dwell somewhere in the middle—not a victim, not the predator. It is where I always managed to linger, and where I hope she stays, too. “Maybe he’s just shy?” I say. “Or self-conscious.”
“Maybe,” Romy says. “He is wearing a mask—as I’m sure you know.”
I shake my head and say, “No. Nick and I really haven’t talked about the case.”
Romy says, “Well, in any event, I think Charlie being back just makes Grayson feel worse . . . Maybe even a little guilty since it happened at his party.”
“He shouldn’t feel guilty,” I say, which is clearly the truth.
“And neither should you,” April says to Romy.
I nod, although I’m not sure I’m willing to go this far in the analysis.
“Have you run into her again? Valerie Anderson?” MC asks. “Since that day at the hospital?”
“No. Fortunately,” Romy says, biting her lower lip, appearing lost in thought. She shakes her head. “I just don’t understand that woman.”
“I don’t, either,” April says.
Romy’s face brightens as she turns to me. “Did April tell you we saw your cute husband at the hospital? What a doll.”
I nod and smile, relieved that I don’t have to weigh in on the issue of Romy’s accountability and corresponding guilt.
“I love a man in scrubs,” she says.
“Yeah. I used to feel that way,” I say, cynicism creeping into my voice.
“What happened?” Romy asks, smiling.