The Underdogs

 

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For Ollie and the rescues, who inspired this book; Chris, who gave me the space to write it; and Mom, who nurtured my dreams

 

August 4

The day they carried sixteen-year-old Annabel Harper out of the club they had to close the pool area because someone had vomited everywhere. They found the vomit before they found Annabel.

She did not have a hair out of place. Her champagne-blond bob framed her face in two perfect angles, even in death. She would have liked that. Her skin, from her shoulders to her tummy to her long legs, was still flawless and bronzed and a little slippery from the water, not blue or red or pale like you might expect.

They carried her away from the pool, through the women's locker room, into the lobby, and people stood alongside like a receiving line and gawked, but they would not have seen the perfection about her. They would have seen a big lump of dark blue plastic go by. I know because I watched them zip up the body bag.

Seeing Annabel like that was not the worst part of that day. It was Nicholas who got to everyone. He arrived later, as the sun arced higher in the sky and announced it was going to be a scorcher, and he ran to the revolving doors and pushed as hard as he could, shooting out like a bullet onto the pool deck. A detective rushed and grabbed his shoulders, pushed him back, but Nicholas wouldn't go. He was taller than the detective. Younger, fitter.

“What happened? What happened? What happened?”
Nicholas screamed, the question growing louder each time. He was crying and he didn't care who saw. I watched from behind the glass in the hallway that led from the main building to the pool. Nicholas was Annabel's brother, almost like a twin but not. He was older by less than two years, protective and so fond of his baby sister. An equally blond creature who tanned in the summer like he was made for the sun, like it was summer that brought him to life. Nicholas, who was tall and muscular but not bulky—he had the build of a catalog model crossed with a soccer player—always said,
It's okay. We're forever young
. It was so wrong that Annabel would now stay young forever.

I remember Nicholas's face that day, twisted with pain. His voice, feral and telling us he would not be the same person from this moment on. He was this local hero, and so old for his years. Nice to everyone, so composed and mature. Only seventeen. He had saved a little girl's life earlier in the summer. That was quite a story.

I had to turn away when he started wailing. When the detective dragged him from the scene. That's when I saw Lisa Denessen standing alone in the pool's viewing lobby, staring out the big picture windows, a strange look on her face. Half-smile, half-indifference. Or something more sinister; there was no way to be sure exactly what she was thinking.

So much goes on at the club, especially in the summer. There's always something juicy happening among the members, the staff, the aerobics addicts, the tennis people … Oh Lordy, the tennis people
.
They alone could star in their own soap opera:
As the Yellow Ball Turns
.

I remember everything, and I listen. People generally like me around this place. Apparently I'm a pretty nonthreatening figure, and unlike certain others I won't mention, I don't seem to alarm or offend anyone. People have gotten so used to me that sometimes I think I'm like wallpaper in this joint. So I hear and see more than I probably should.

You never would have thought that summer would turn out the way it did, but in retrospect, everything that went on—the betrayal and the tears and the raging hormones—was leading up to something dramatic.

 

After

With the drama unfolding around here faster than Rafael Nadal's serve, I had to find my best friend—
stat
. I knew where Evie would be. I cruised through the main lobby toward Court 5, my head down, hoping no one would stop me for a chat.

I knew pretty much everyone around the club because of who my mom is. She pretty much runs the reception area (some say the whole club), and she speaks her mind. I love her, of course. She takes care of me, and every summer she clears it with the owner so I can hang out here while she works.

I ran down past our little café area, where a bunch of policemen were milling around looking serious and drinking the club's free coffee out of Styrofoam cups. The club is arranged thusly: after you go through the entrance and pass through the main lobby, there are four stairs that lead down to the café—and when I say café, I mean glorified kitchen counter, refrigerator, and creaky, outdated frozen yogurt machine. Our lunch place served snacks, sandwiches, and one flavor of yogurt per month. It wasn't fine dining, but it was enough for members to grab a little sustenance after a workout or a swim, and the owner had small tables throughout the club so people could sit and watch tennis or just relax. The café had a couple of tables and space for the tennis camp lunch buffet to be set up. From there, glass sliding doors led out to the four outdoor courts: Courts 6 to 9. To the right of the glass doors was the green door that led to the indoor courts: Courts 1 to 4. Just off the café was a narrow hallway that connected the rest of the club to Court 5, which was this big, stand-alone concrete structure. I made a beeline down there and through the door that led to Court 5 and the storage rooms tucked behind it.

I found Evie sitting on a crate full of giant mayonnaise jars in her secret room. This was where they stored all the tennis camp lunch items, along with hoppers full of tennis balls. Evie found solace back there, protected by those heavy plastic green curtains separating the room from the tennis court. Her special hangout was messy and low-lit, and smelled of rubber and feet. But on the bright side, she was safe there—technically, no one under eighteen was allowed inside, but Evie had gotten special permission from the club's owner because she was a staff member's kid, and she'd asked nicely.

When I popped my head in the door, Evie was sucking on a coconut Frooti-Freez bar and listening to that song again, the scraggly end of her side braid resting on her right shoulder. Over and over she'd play that song, and I kept waiting for her to get sick of it. It was the biggest hit of the past five summers combined. “Summer Cool” was taking the world by storm. The words were easy:

Summer, summer, summer, yeah yeah yeah

I saw you by the pool and fell in love at first sight

In the summer, summer, summer, cool cool cool

Let's just say the melody was catchier than the lyrics. Which, by the way, Evie had to listen to on a 1980s boom box. If you've never seen one, this antiquated piece of machinery is basically a radio the size of a small bench with two soccer-ball-size speakers whose sound is far less impressive than their size would suggest.

More
Summer, summer, summer, cool cool cool
 … And then the harsh interjection:
You're listening to 98.5, the Zoo!
Evie was the only kid within a thousand miles of the club without an iPod—or a cell phone, for that matter. Luckily, the club's owner didn't allow kids to bring their phones in the club, period, so Evie was just like the rest of them, at least by day.

She caught sight of me and put her book down. “Annabel loves—” She took a deep breath. “Annabel
loved
that song,” she corrected. She reached over and lowered the volume.

Her voice cracked a little, but she didn't cry. She sat back on her crate and I joined her. She was still reading
A Little Princess
, a book in which terrible things happen to a very nice young girl, from what Evie said. Frankly, it sounded a little dark for a summer read. She smiled at me then, but her eyes were sad and, I swear, a duller green than usual because of it. I had to get her out of here. For starters, it was boiling in this place. Evie had a little row of sweat droplets on her upper lip and her face was a nuclear pink. The air-conditioning did
not
reach the storage rooms, and considering this was shaping up to be the hottest summer ever in St. Claire, it was brutal. I really didn't get how Evie could stand it.

Today she was wearing her trademark gray sweatpants again because she was ashamed of her legs, which she had referred to more than once as
pale
,
veiny
,
and
gross
. She was hidden as usual in her dark blue Reebok T-shirt, a men's XL. She sucked the frozen stump of her melting Frooti-Freez and looked thoughtful for a moment.

“It's scary about Annabel, isn't it?” she asked, licking her lips.

I had to agree. Scary, and sad. I had a feeling the whole thing could get out of control if the police didn't find out
immediately
what had happened. I hopped off the crate.
Come with me.
Evie sighed and looked at the door. I didn't blame her for hesitating—I mean, people were dying out there. But we couldn't hide forever. It was time to show Evie the crime scene, and to let her get a load of this detective they'd sent to investigate. I had a feeling we'd be seeing a lot of this strange-looking fellow in the days to come.