The Underdogs (7 page)

 

Before

This year's pool party was going south—and fast. The full can of beer Celia attempted to gently lob to Lucky missed badly and thwapped a staff member smack on the side of his head. As my mother attended to him on one side of the pool, I saw Harmony frantically pushing through the revolving door to get back into the pool area, his party face deflated.

His eyes darted around, and then he beckoned silently for Lucky to follow him. I ran to Evie, who was watching Lucky with concern.

“What's happening?” she asked no one in particular. Then she said to me, “Stay by me, Chels. Something's going on.”

She was hugging herself as if it were freezing, though it had to be at least eighty degrees. Lucky and Harmony raced to the men's locker room, quickly disappearing from view. Everyone else was focused on the injured staffer. My mom was calling for a first-aid kit, and Lisa was wondering loudly if we needed an ambulance.

“He's gonna be okay,” I heard my mom say. “But he'll need stitches. I'll drive him to Margot General. So where the heck is Lucky? I need him to bring Chelsea home with him so I can take this guy to the ER.”

Evie smiled at me. We were having a sleepover! I loved staying at Evie and Lucky's. There weren't a lot of rules at their two-bedroom bungalow in St. Claire. It was a nice break from my mom, who had rules all over the place, including taped to the refrigerator. Half of them were rules for herself like,
Buy diet soda
and
Lose five pounds.

By now someone had turned off the music and the party was pretty much over. I looked at a few of the kids on the grass and saw Lisa staring at the pool hallway like she was really mad at it.
Ah
. I then saw the kerfuffle through the glass in that pool hallway. There were three very upset-looking males: Lucky, shaking his head and gesturing; Harmony, gripping Patrick by the shoulder, getting in his face about whatever was going on; and Patrick …
wow
. Patrick was as pale as his tennis sneakers. Lucky finally threw up his arms, said something to Harmony, and took off, jogging back toward the pool door. Lucky headed straight for our bench, grabbed his guitar—not five feet from Evie and me—shouted a general goodbye to everyone, and took off, lost in thought. His bandanna was still firmly on and his head was down. Evie looked shell-shocked, paralyzed, as if she expected him to come back and get her. As if maybe he was just putting the guitar in his rickety Oldsmobile Cutlass and would be right back.

My mom saw him leave and shouted in disbelief, “You've got to be
kidding
me.” She yelled over to Evie, “Sorry, kid, but your dad needs a good talking-to. This is
not
acceptable parenting.”

My mom asked Harmony to drive the injured guy to the hospital, and Evie and I had our sleepover with my mom's tedious rules firmly in place. But hey, at least we were safe at home, tucked into bed together.

The events of that night started a lot of rumors, but as far as I knew at the time, only Patrick was aware of what had really happened. All we knew was that none of us saw Annabel that night—but some were adamant that she was in that locker room with Patrick.

 

After

Patrick was suitably indignant at the detective's blunt accusation. “I would never—
never
—lay my hands on a girl! How could you even say that?”

He jumped out of his chair and banged the wall with his fist. Ashlock stayed put.

“Hey,” Ashlock said. “I get it, kid. I do. I'm only following the evidence. Why don't you tell me your side? Did she lead you on? Pretend to like you? That would've made anyone mad.”

Patrick ran his hands down his face, rubbing his eyes and his cheeks and his mouth.

“Tell me how this girl ended up in the women's locker room crying and bruised, with you in there with her.”

Evie looked shocked. She blew some hair out of her eyes and mouthed to me,
Bruised?
I was as confused as she was. Who had Ashlock heard this from?

Patrick, suddenly looking exhausted, collapsed on his seat and put his head between his knees before looking up at Ashlock. “It wasn't like that,” he said. “You've got everything wrong.”

“I'm all ears,” Ashlock said before ratcheting up his tone. “But don't lie to me again. If what you tell me doesn't match what I already know, we're going to have a problem.”

The great and charismatic Patrick literally gulped. I'd been watching Ashlock for a few days now, and I loved how he played good cop
and
bad cop. He didn't need a partner.

“Literally the only thing that happened was I saw her in the pool hallway during the summer kickoff party, and then I went to talk to her, but she was gone by the time I got inside.”

“Interesting,” Ashlock said. “Because my information is that you followed Annabel around like a lost puppy, but she wasn't interested.”

Patrick glared, drained his Gatorade, and slammed the empty bottle down on the desk. “First, she
did
like me. Okay? We'd kind of dated earlier in the month. We were both at the club late one night—I'd been working out and she'd been soaking in the hot tub. We got to chatting in the lobby. We talked for hours, Detective. We had a connection. So I asked her out, and she agreed to go to the movies with me.”

“Except the date never happened, did it, Patrick?”

More glaring from the suspect. “We could never find a night when we were both free—that's it. We still talked all the time.” The smile was back.
All girls adore me,
it was saying.
All the time.

There was a pause, and then Ashlock said provocatively, “I'm not so sure about that, Patrick. I think you were obsessed with her.”

Silence, then Patrick sighed. Finally, he admitted, “Okay. I had spoken to her earlier that day, and she told me she was going to be at the club late working out. I invited her to the party, but she didn't want to go. She said it wasn't her style.”

Whoa.
Evie poked me. I don't know what Patrick thought he was doing, but everyone knew Annabel didn't work out. Ever.

Patrick threw up his hands. “That girl was an enigma. She says she doesn't want to go to the party, and yet I catch a glimpse of her peeking out of the women's locker room, checking out the action.”

“Wait a minute,” Ashlock said. “She wasn't a staff member. How could she have been there if, as you say, the party didn't start until after the club closed?”

“Easy. She was one of the people Gene gave a key to.”

Ashlock cleared his throat, to stall I thought. I exchanged glances with Evie. I don't think any of us knew about Annabel's key. “Why were you so upset that night, Patrick? Something must have happened to get you riled up.”

Patrick snapped, “I was upset because she blew me off, okay? Happy now? She totally dissed me and I was … annoyed. That's it. There's always another girl, Detective.”

I imagined Ashlock rolling his eyes. “Fine, Patrick. So tell me: Who do you think we should be looking at for this?”

Patrick looked startled. Ashlock did the silent routine again. I pictured him skeptical this time, raising his eyebrows as he leveled one of those cool gazes at Patrick.

“Well,” Patrick said finally, “I don't want to get anyone in trouble, but … you should be talking to Goran Vanek. He had a major crush on that girl.”

Evie squinted at me.
What the heck?
I had the same exact reaction, because one thing was clear: Patrick was lying his butt off. Why was Ashlock letting him get away with such a weak explanation? What was his game?

 

Before

“Isn't he beautiful?” Lisa swooned one day in late June, elbowing my mom. They'd stopped in the lobby to watch the action on Court 1 on their way back from grabbing some coffee at the café.

Goran had one arm in the air, biceps curled, fist shaking in victory. He'd just hit a winner down the line that his opponent and best friend, Patrick, barely got a look at. My mom was way too old to moon over Goran, but Serene, nursing a can of cranberry juice with other elites taking a break, admitted of Goran's legendary backhand, “That Missile is pretty hot.”

Serene, an exotic beauty with thick, jet-black hair Evie coveted, had some hot shots of her own, notably her serve, which was one of the fastest on the girls' tennis circuit and better than many of the boys'. Tennis is a great equalizer for age and gender—girls beat boys in the sport all the time. In fact, Serene had beaten Patrick in a practice set last winter.

Not everyone was impressed with the clash of our two tennis titans. Nicholas and Harmony walked by on their way to their afternoon lifeguard shifts at the pool, and Nicholas guffawed. “Please. Tennis is for weaklings.”

“Try competing in a hundred-meter butterfly.
That
'
s
athleticism,” Harmony agreed.

Evie and I were standing alongside my mom and Lisa by the plate-glass windows overlooking the courts. Annabel walked into the lobby then, and with everyone focusing on the tennis match, she caught my eye and sidled up to me. “Hey, Chelsea.” She smiled, giving me a hug. I felt the dog charm on her necklace gently knock me in the eye as she embraced me. She gave Evie a squeeze on the shoulder before turning to her brother, who had made yet another anti-tennis crack.

“Stop it, you two,” Annabel said to Nicholas and Harmony. “There's enough testosterone to go around. Why must you boys make everything a competition?”

Goran and Patrick whaling the ball at each other was always quite a sight. They'd had an intense-but-friendly rivalry practically since the day Goran stepped off the plane from the Czech Republic with his bowl cut and orange pants six years ago. Legend has it (i.e., Gene's version of the story) that Goran's parents brought him to the club for a tennis evaluation even before they signed him up for school.

Celia, sitting with Serene and hearing Annabel behind her, turned and said, “Hey, girl. What happened to you Friday night? I thought you were coming out with us.”

Annabel opened her mouth and stuttered something like,
I—I, um, I was—um … I—

“She had a
daaattte
,” Nicholas interrupted. He worked his eyebrows like Groucho Marx and looked at his sister. “But she won't say who the mystery man is.”

Celia said, “Ooh. New guy? You'll have to tell me
everything
when these clowns aren't around,” then went back to watching the tennis match. “He's looking good,” Celia observed of Goran. “I bet he makes number one by Yale.”

Ah, the Yale Championships. The big end-of-summer event in Connecticut included boys' and girls' competitions in every age group, and whoever won their tournament almost always rocketed to number one in New England. As for Celia, she'd been teaching more than playing lately, so she was expected to stay put at number five in the eighteen-and-unders. And she was right—Goran had been training like a madman and was in fine form. He was clad in full Volcano gear again today because they were his sponsor. Far as I could tell, this meant the company shipped him all the newest stuff for free before it was even in stores, including these oddly shiny sneakers he'd been sporting lately.

Oof.
Goran aced Patrick, and Patrick fell into the court's side netting trying to get to it. Goran, with his white shorts and jaunty ice-blue T-shirt, tendrils of sweaty hair clinging to his neck, jumped up and down in place. He jabbed an index finger in Patrick's general direction and yelled loud enough for us all to hear, “Try again, loser!”

Then Goran focused his eyes on one person behind the glass, a girl standing there in jean shorts topped off with a fitted turquoise top and matching flip-flops, her cream crocheted beach bag slung over her shoulder. Annabel. The energy was zinging between the two of them. I saw Evie's face fall and thought,
Who did they think they were kidding?

By the time Patrick bounced back on his feet, he glanced at the crowd, too, then shot a look straight at Annabel, holding his arms out and mouthing,
I'm letting him win.
She smiled and shook her head
.

Meanwhile,
oof
was right. Patrick's tennis wasn't beautiful, not by a long shot.
I have to work ten times harder than Goran to get the same result,
he'd been acknowledging matter-of-factly for years. Goran, on the other hand, swaggered onto the court and his body naturally knew what to do, like he'd been born with a tennis racket in his hand. But the difference in their talent hadn't mattered. They had a bromance for the centuries, and I hoped their mutual attraction to Annabel wouldn't come between them.

Goran and Patrick always practiced together after school and spent weekends at tournaments around New England. Through it all, Patrick helped Goran learn English. They'd come off the court for frozen yogurt and Gatorade, draping themselves over their table next to the TV and talking loudly about boy things. Goran had always kept his love life outside the club, which only added to his air of mystery. Until now.

*   *   *

The lobby fell silent at match point. Goran dove for a ball and flicked it back to Patrick, who watched the ball fly over his head, then ran back toward the curtain and performed a backward through-the-legs shot that sailed over the net. The lobby was in an uproar as Goran went for it, set up, and whaled the ball—straight into the net. It was Patrick's game, set, and match, and Goran ran and leapt over the net like a racehorse, and the two sweaty players embraced in a quick hug. Goran rubbed his palm hard on Patrick's head, and the lobby went wild. Annabel cheered the loudest, with Lisa a close second. I noticed Gene was now hanging in the background, smiling as his flock filled his club with laughter.