The Underdogs (8 page)

Before the boys could come off court, Nicholas turned to his sister and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

“We shall.” She grinned and tucked her arm in his, getting out of Dodge. I think Annabel sensed both boys would run straight to her and she wanted to avoid that scenario.

I loved seeing Annabel and Nicholas together. They were so beautiful, like stars that only got brighter when they collided. They walked through the lobby, turning every head that saw them coming, oblivious, as always, to the effect they had on the common people.

That included the effect they had on Lisa, who was staring after them, her mind working on something that didn't appear to be very nice, and it was pretty obvious why:
she
wanted to be princess of the club. But unfortunately, Annabel was in the way.

 

After

Lisa was supposed to be helping my mom run the front desk, but instead she was sitting there explaining her favorite new smart phone game to Patrick. Because of Gene's insane no-technology-during-club-hours rule, she had to show him on a piece of old-fashioned paper.

“See,” Lisa was saying as Patrick leaned in close, “you slice 'em off.
Whack
.” With her purple pen she slashed a line through what was supposed to be a chicken's neck. Then she scribbled in flourishes around the “chicken,” which looked more like a giant artichoke. “And blood goes everywhere.”

“That's twisted.” Patrick screwed up his face. “Seriously, Lisa.”

“Whatever,” she retorted, eyes at half-mast, leaning into him. Always the flirt. “Talk to me when you're a vegetarian.”

“Lisa,” my mom chimed in from her stool, “don't you have anything better to do than play a disgusting game like Chicken Heads? Like address those envelopes Gene gave you for the membership mailing?”

“Sure,” Lisa said. “But I'd rather hang out with Paddy.” She twirled her hair and rubbed his upper arm.

Patrick, who'd had a fling with Lisa last summer that she never quite got out of her system, pulled away and said, “I gotta go. And don't call me Paddy.”

“Whoa. What's
his
problem?” Lisa squeaked as he slouched off into the lobby.

“What do you
think
his problem is?” Mom quizzed her. “We're all upset, Lisa. You're the only one pretending nothing's happened.”

Lisa shrugged. “I'm as upset as anyone,” she said. “But people are acting like she was this perfect angel when she was—and I'm sorry, but it's true—a
snob
. She thought she was better than everyone else. You're all afraid to say it, but I'm not.”

My mom grimaced while Evie, sitting next to us, was turning purple with anger. “That's not fair, Lisa,” my mom said, tucking some curls behind her left ear. “You ever heard of karma? You keep saying stuff like that and you might find yourself in some trouble of your own. The universe has a way of evening things out.”

Evie glared at Lisa, who was now doodling over the dead chicken-slash-artichoke.

Mom asked, “Have you cried yet? Even once?”

Lisa's pen froze. Then her face morphed from bitter to, well, kind of sad. My mom saw this and closed her eyes for a second. I guess she'd underestimated Lisa, which was funny because Mom also avoided letting her real emotions show around the club. She'd done her crying at home—and there had been a lot of tears for Annabel, and “for all the violence of the world,” as she put it between blowing into her Kleenex.

Lisa said, “I guess not. I guess I'm evil, right? Mean old Lisa. Never as sweet or pretty as the rich St. Claire princesses.”

My mom closed her eyes again. “I'm sorry,” she said. She was surely thinking what I was: Lisa lived in the less affluent Margot, two towns away, and had what Gene called “a troubled home life.” Hers made Evie's situation with Lucky look like a trip to Disneyland. “I'm sure you're grieving in your own way, but you need to be careful about what you say.”

Come to think of it, there hadn't been a lot of dramatic displays of grief around here in the days since Annabel died. Goran would come in with red-rimmed eyes. Nicholas, for his part, hadn't been seen since that first day. Only Gene and Harmony were happy to let the tears flow. Everyone else seemed to be in a state of suspended shock. Also, most of them were irritable as heck—when they weren't terrified about a possible serial killer on the loose. A few members had stopped coming altogether and demanded full refunds, which Gene would refuse, then look up to the heavens and moan that giving back even
half
a year's membership could kill his profit margin.

We sat quietly for a moment—and then suddenly I felt a chill in the air. There was a big-time member walking through the front door. Joe Marbury, fifty-something, ruddy faced, slightly sinister. He was rich, hideously unattractive, and basically leered at every female under forty. He set off my creep-o-meter something fierce.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Marbury,” Lisa said with a big smile. “How are you today?” I guessed she hadn't gotten the memo about how icky Joe Marbury was.

“Special delivery,” he said in his gravelly voice that sounded like he smoked five packs of cigarettes a day. He threw a folded newspaper down on the desk in front of my mom. It was the
St. Claire Bee
, our twice-weekly afternoon paper. My mom gave Joe a tight, fake smile and flicked the rubber band off the paper.

Joe put one meaty palm on the granite and told Lisa in that raspy voice, “I'm hearing members are asking for refunds.” He smirked at my mom. “That's gotta be bad for business.”

I watched my mom's expression as Joe lumbered toward the men's locker room, his khaki pants sagging and revealing a part of his rear end I did not need to see. Anyway, something had dawned on my mom, and on me, and by the look on Evie's face she got it, too. After all, Joe Marbury did a lot of business with another local rich guy: Herbert Harper, Annabel's dad. Only Lisa didn't seem to realize that among the suspects around us, Joe Marbury suddenly felt like an interesting possibility for someone who might've hurt Annabel.

 

After

About ten days after Annabel died, the tennis people got ahold of the new
St. Claire Bee
, and Lisa passed it along to Celia. Their reaction was about as extreme as my mom's had been when she read this week's shocking exclusive half an hour ago.

“Good God,” Celia breathed, the broadsheet newspaper shaking in her hands. “Have you seen this?” she asked Patrick.

A bunch of counselors were lounging at their table in the main lobby while Lucky led the regular camp in suicide sprints on the outdoor courts. The elites were about to head out for drills, but sensed something was afoot. Patrick grabbed the paper out of Celia's hands and everyone went quiet. Goran hugged his tar-black Volcano Onyx racket to his chest, and Will looked at the floor.

Celia, somber and pale, stepped forward. “Read it aloud, Patrick.”

Evie and I, sitting quietly a few feet away on the sofa that faced the tennis courts, were in the dark as much as anyone. My mom had freaked out and run off to show Gene when she saw the story. Patrick took a deep breath and started reading. Serene was sitting next to him looking stricken as he began.

“In the midst of an historic heat wave, local teenager Annabel Harper was laid to rest Tuesday in a private funeral at St. Claire Cemetery. Her family was joined by a handful of mourners, all dressed in black, for the forty-five-minute ceremony.”

Patrick paused to clear his throat. He was trying not to sound choked up, but failing.

“The popular teen, who was voted prom queen at St. Claire High School last year but famously turned down the crown because ‘it objectifies girls,' would have been a junior this year. A source told the
Bee
of the secretive funeral, ‘The Harpers are in shock. They couldn't bear the media circus a public memorial would bring. They want to be left alone to grieve.'”

Patrick brought his fist to his mouth. “Ms. Harper's cause of death is still unknown. Police tell the
Bee
they concluded the autopsy and are waiting for test results.”

Patrick attempted to put on a casual expression, dropped the newspaper on the table, and shrugged. “That's it.” Serene, who'd hung out at the pool with Annabel more than once, wiped away tears.
Tuesday
, the story had said. Yesterday.

Evie hugged me, I think to comfort both of us. So many had loved Annabel. The whole town of St. Claire would be going nuts over this abrupt memorial. Why couldn't we
all
have had a chance to say goodbye? I know a lot of Annabel's club friends had been waiting for the closure of a funeral to make sense of our grief. Now that chance had been taken from us.

“I can't believe it,” Celia said, her voice sticking in her throat. “Why would her family do this? Why?” She shook her head and looked at Goran, but he was no help. His eyes were wide, like he'd just gotten the shock of his life, and he was clutching that racket like it was going to break his ribs.

Will reached out and touched Goran's arm. “Let's play some tennis. We've got Yale coming up. You can do it, buddy. Win it for Annabel.”

I realized then that Patrick had been seething quietly. He said to Goran through gritted teeth, “Well. It looks like you missed your little girlfriend's funeral. Yet again,
you weren't there for her
.” Patrick was shaking, in body and voice.

Patrick and Goran's off-court rivalry had been simmering over the summer, and now it exploded in a cloud of fear and grief and hate and love, all mixed together to make a dangerous brew.

“What are you talking about?” Goran shoved his Volcano at Celia and approached Patrick, who rose from his seat. “You never had a chance with her, man. You killed her.
You
killed her,” Goran cried, his voice cracking.

Patrick's face twisted in rage. “You—
you
—” he shouted at his friend, drops of spit flying from his mouth. “You knew about me and Annabel and you went after her anyway. For all we know,
you're
the killer.”

Patrick lunged at Goran, pushing on his chest with both hands, and then shouts and screams of “Hey! Hey! Save it for the tennis court!” rang out in the lobby as a scuffle ensued. Will stepped in and held Goran back while Celia tried to soothe Patrick. Evie and I stayed low on the sofa, and as I peeked over the cushion, I saw one person off to the side doing something extraordinary: Gene had come upon the drama and was watching with concern, but showed no sign of intervening. Patrick and Goran were staring each other down while being kept apart.

My mom left the desk and came running. She saw Gene and ordered, “Eugene Hanrahan, get a grip on your people! They're out of control.
Do
something!”

Gene, though, was as calm as I'd ever seen him. He had one hand on his chin, and looked thoughtful. “Finally,” he said.

“
Finally
what?” my mom shrieked.

“It's what should've happened days ago,” he said to my mom. To the rest of the lobby, Gene boomed with authority, “Everyone—and I mean everyone—be at the pool at five fifteen today.” A bunch of them swiveled in his direction, surprised to hear his voice from out of nowhere. “Five fifteen on the dot. Spread the word.”

“For what?” Patrick dared to ask, wiping sweat from his brow with his free arm.

“You know for what,” Gene said to the ragtag pack of emotionally overwrought people. “And don't look at me like that. This is happening. Deal with it.”

*   *   *

At precisely five fifteen that evening, people began silently filtering through the pool's revolving door, converging from all over the club. Swimmers emerged dripping from the pool, wrapping themselves in towels. Members were invited, too. The club regulars knew what to do and showed the way to those who didn't. Amid a dusky haze, we formed a tight circle, standing shoulder to shoulder on the lawn. Harmony flipped the music on, handed out tissues to everyone, and fell in between Serene and Celia.

“Welcome,” Gene said, “to the Love Circle.”

Nope, he wasn't kidding. He'd invented the Love Circle two years ago, after he fired the club's twenty-year-veteran racket stringer for embezzling. No one could believe dear old Herman would do such a thing. The staff had started bickering nonstop, so Gene came up with a peacemaking plan. He was mocked mercilessly for his weird idea and for the New Agey music he played, but you know what? Everyone felt better afterward.
The Love Circle, with all of us in it, gives us closure by literally closing the loop on our grief,
he'd explained
.
He told us now, as flutes and harps and strings harmonized with the buzzing cicadas around us, “Funerals are for the living, not the dead. While it is not for us to judge why this poor family chose to keep Annabel's funeral private, it is also important that we have our chance to grieve. She was a part of the club's family, and make no mistake, she is with us now. We miss her, and and we always will. She was a ray of sunshine and we were lucky to have her for as long as we did.”

He took a breath in through his nose and let it out loudly through his mouth. “This is a safe place to grieve. Cry, don't cry, laugh at a special memory you have of her, smile at the thought of knowing her. Only two ground rules: respect everyone in the circle, no matter what, and don't break the chain. Stay connected to one another until I toss the tissue. Now,” he said, closing his eyes and hanging his head, “let us be quiet and think of Annabel.”

Evie stood between Lucky and me, and my mom was on my other side. This was the only funeral for Annabel we'd ever get, and the floodgates opened. Evie, then my mom, then I began crying audibly, while Celia and Serene were flat-out bawling. I sneaked a look at Goran, who was contorting his face every which way so as not to cry, but failed in the end.