“You have to believe in yourself, in your own self-worth. Remember when we were doing your math homework and you would always say, ‘Oh, I’m so bad at math’ or ‘I’m never going to get this’—but you did, didn’t you? You got an A in math this year.” She pulled off the pink visor and put on a bright turquoise one as I stood in front of her like a mannequin. She paused and met my eyes. “As much as I think you’re going to win, you have to believe it yourself to make it happen.” She put her hands on my shoulders and her face was serious as she added, “But not in this color, because it washes you out.” She pulled the turquoise visor off and hung it back up, opting for the soft pink.
We went to the register and Sarah took out the credit card Mom and Dad had given her, paying without even glancing at the price tag. They wanted her to have some independence, a sense of herself as a nineteen-year-old, so they had opened a bank account for her and given her a credit card. I thought about those blank checks she had hidden in the duffel bag behind her desk and tried to convince myself there was a reason they were there. Maybe Mom and Dad had given them to her, for emergencies. Mom had also signed her up for driving lessons, but she hardly needed them. “You’re a natural, like you’ve been doing this for years!” the instructor exclaimed. She could parallel park with one hand on the wheel like the valet guys at the club.
So far I hadn’t seen her abuse the card, but she really enjoyed nice things—one remnant of the old Sarah. The best restaurants, clothes, makeup, shoes. But Mom and Dad seemed to want her to indulge and they never complained. She was making up for lost time, in their eyes, and deserved every comfort after what she had endured.
We went out to the parking lot and climbed into Dad’s Mercedes, the car he didn’t even let Mom drive, and Sarah skillfully backed out and navigated us home, chirping about tomorrow’s match and how I needed to carbo-load at dinner. “I’ve got it!” She hit the steering wheel with her palms. “How about that Italian place that Mom loves so much?”
“Palermo’s?”
“Yeah, let’s do dinner there tonight—pasta, pasta, pasta. And bread—that’s what you need.”
“It’s so fancy, and pricey,” I protested.
She looked over at me, a small smile on her face. “How often does my little sister play a tennis tournament? Come on, I’ll ask Mom when we get home.”
And I knew there was no way Mom would deny Sarah anything she wanted.
I didn’t realize until the next day, when we parked at the club, that my nerves weren’t so much about the tournament but about running into Paula. I knew she had signed up in the older category, so seeing her was unavoidable. I had thought about pretending to be sick and skipping the whole thing, but Sarah was so crazy excited for me, I just couldn’t let her down.
I checked the schedule as soon as we got in to see which court I’d be on, and scanned down the brackets for Paula’s name, but I didn’t see it listed anywhere. Maybe she had chickened out, or she was too embarrassed about the stupid things she had said and done to show up.
I walked out for my first match full of confidence—the relief at not having to see Paula washed over me and I felt invincible on the court. I cleaned up easily, winning 6–1, and hardly broke a sweat.
“I told you pasta was the thing!” Sarah grabbed me as soon as I stepped off the court and wrapped her arms around me. Mom and Dad looked on, smiling politely—I don’t think any of us had grown used to how much Sarah hugged and touched us all now.
I went on to win in the afternoon as well, Sarah’s eyes glued to the courts with an intensity that would rival a personal coach at Wimbledon. This match was closer, 6–4, but I still managed to pull it off and get myself into the semifinals the following weekend.
That night, as we celebrated at home, the dark cloud over my head began to lift. We didn’t have to see Paula or deal with her ever again, I knew that now. She would be heading back up to the university soon, would go on with her life and leave us alone. Once she got over Max dumping her, she would forget all about Sarah, would stop sending me stupid, vague emails. We could all go on with our lives and put Sarah’s years of disappearance behind us.
I told myself that, and I really believed it. Until Monday morning, when the doorbell rang. Dad was already at work, Mom was at the gym with her trainer. I was upstairs getting into my bikini, so Sarah opened the door. I heard voices as I came down, men’s voices. I recognized Detective Donally as soon as I got to the foyer, wearing his full three-piece suit even in the blazing summer sun.
“Hey there.” He looked over at me. “Just the girl we wanted to see.”
“Our parents aren’t here right now,” Sarah said protectively.
“Do you know when they’ll be home?” the detective asked.
“I’m not sure,” Sarah answered fast. “Not until tonight.” That wasn’t true; Mom would be home within the hour.
“Okay then, we’ll stop by later,” Detective Donally said. He squinted his eyes at me, as if studying my face. “You girls have a nice day.” Sarah closed and locked the door behind him, watching through the window as his unmarked Ford pulled out of our driveway.
“What did they want?” I asked her quietly, watching over her shoulder.
“He said they had some questions,” Sarah started to say, “for you.” She turned to me and I saw that her face had gone ashen white. “He said someone involved with the case had come forward with new information.”