Issue date:
July 17-19, 1998

Aces

By Jen Schuchman

Grand prize winner
"Aces," by Jen Schuchman
Finalists stories, 1998
"Lake Tanganika," by Sarah Biber.
"Onward," by Brandon Christian.
"The Blond-Haired Chinese Girl," by Silvia Li.
"Heat Stored up for the Winter," by Kristen C. Roupenian.
"They call me Lágrima," by Betty Wong.
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1997 Student Fiction Contest Winners
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hick Fourth of July heat lingers over the old tennis courts like the fireworks smoke in Pauley's yard last night, and Eve is late for our lesson.

I slurp the last chunk of grape Popsicle off the stick and pull two more strings out of my racket before dragging myself onto the cracked, weed-infested court for warm-ups. I've known Eve for 10 years -- since first grade, when I threw an eraser at her and gave her an asthma attack -- and she has never been reliable.

The irony hits me while I am practicing my serves against the graffiti-ed brick wall. Eve actually wants to compete at Wimbledon someday, but she never shows up for lessons. I, on the other hand, would rather spend my summer next door at Pauley's, staying up all night with his brother, Jake, and Jake's co-workers from Quick-e-mart. I want to sit in Pauley's kitchen and watch him beat me in poker 10 times in a row. I want to read the books on Jake's college reading list.

But no. According to my father's code of conduct, future tennis prodigy, media sweetheart and Wheaties spokesgirl Lainie Sherman doesn't have time for "frivolous activities not related to her self-promotion."

ve's a no-show again, and I am banging serves against a fluorescent pink obscenity. The words pound in my head until I am furious and indignant and ready for a fight. I repack my gym bag and leave my chain-link prison.

The sun is high over the library, and I turn down the alley behind Eve's house. If she's sunbathing I'll ... . I can see her now in her little khaki shorts and crisp white T-shirt stretched out on her professionally manicured lawn. She'd better not be, I think, or she'll be wearing my racket as a necklace.

I am hellbent as I storm into her yard. She's crouched in the opposite corner, studying the roots of a wilted rosebush. Or searching for a lost contact, a favorite excuse when she's losing a match. "Eve?"

No response.

"Hello? It's Saturday, and I'm so tired of you standing me up. Do you think I enjoy hauling myself out of bed at 7:30 only to play with a brick wall? You know I don't even like tennis, yet you're here sipping drinks with little umbrellas working on your tan --"

She turns and it makes my own eyes throb. The deep purpleness of it, stretching from her eyebrow to her jaw line. She knows I am staring at it. "I fell."

"God. Do you want me to go to the emergency room with you, or ...?" Wrapped around her wrist is a black-and-blue bracelet, the perfect handprint of someone who didn't want his secrets told. She flinches as I step toward her. "Evie, who did this?"

Her lip is split and blood dribbles down her chin and onto the T-shirt. Wrinkled and gray, not crisp and white. "I fell."

When we were little, Eve and Pauley and I used to pretend we were older and act out what we hoped our lives would be like. Pauley was usually a fireman or a rock star. I was a doctor or a teacher. But Eve was the best. Dressing up in her sister's clothes, Eve was the rich movie starlet with red lipstick and plastic Cracker Jack rings. She was the greatest pretender of all.

"What?" she challenges. "Lainie, I'm sorry I didn't show. Just go home or something."

I can't pry myself away from the right side of her face. And I can't let this go. "Where did you fall?"

"Down the steps." Without a second thought.

I will only serve one more. "Were you walking on your face? Evie, you're lying. C'mon."

"God, I fell. OK? I'm going to the beach with my family this week, so I guess I'll see you next weekend." Her eyes kick me out of the yard. And I go, knowing that the last place Eve should be is home.

eception is infectious. Pauley has offered every opportunity, yet I can't tell him what's wrong. It's not mine to know, let alone share. Even when Pauley and Jake were joking about falling off their deck, I answered, "There seems to be a lot of that going around." I guess I hoped they would catch it, ask me, "What the hell does that mean?" They didn't.

But I have a knack for bending the truth enough to fool myself for a few hours. And tonight will be like every other July night: joy-riding with Pauley and Jake and Pauley's friend with the big hands and lisp, inevitably ending with me sitting in the back seat with a guy whose name I don't know. A virtual stranger who leaves too soon. And as the car door slams I will remember that I am only 16. I will remember that I am better than this, that I have tennis lessons tomorrow morning. My life is all backhands and back doors.

Tonight is different -- a subtle difference, like a slight spin on a serve that sends the ball flying out of the court and into traffic. Tonight that stranger is Pauley, and I am the one who climbs out the back door and leaves with only one shoe.

aybe it's pathetic. Or compulsive. Or even sad. But I end up at the tennis courts, my least favorite place. The place that has stolen my weekends and pitted me against my own father. And not knowing what to do, I sit down in the middle of the courts, holding my shoe and rationalizing the tornado of events that ripped through my day.

The air is still thick, but the concrete sends chills through my bare legs. I should have worn jeans. But I had to look good for the boys. That's what normal girls want, right? And for a moment I want to run to Eve's house and ask her. Her mother would invite me in and we would tiptoe past Eve's father "sleeping" on the couch. Eve should not have to tiptoe around him.

hen I glance up through my tears, I see my other shoe dangling in front of my face. At the other end of the shoelace, Pauley looks afraid. Sitting down, he silently produces a deck of cards from his pocket and deals. Under the buzzing watch of the streetlights, we play two hands, speaking only of the game. He wins both times.

And then Eve is there, too, standing over us, a butterfly Band-Aid across her cheekbone.

"I lied." She folds herself onto the ground. "I didn't fall. And we aren't going on vacation; we're moving out."

We sit in a triangle, not touching, like a séance. We are trying to contact all the things we've lost. But the silence fades like the darkness into dawn.

The streetlights flicker out, and Pauley deals again. "Aces are wild," he says. We pick up our cards and place our bets.