Open Court by Carol Clippinger Read Free Book Online

women's size eight. Pure bliss, ladies and gentlemen. Pure bliss.”
    “Room enough?”
    “Perfect.”
    Wes looked to my mom. “Mrs. Braxton?” He referred to her, always, for the quantity because she possessed the credit card.
    “Three pair.”
    “I only need two,” I said.
    Sweaty shoes cause blisters, to which I'm prone. Alternating shoes is important so sweat-soaked shoes have a chance to dry before they're worn again (gross, I know). I don't need three pair. I can make do with two.
    “We'll get three.”
    “But I only need—”
    “Three,” she said to Wes. He headed to the stockroom.
    Perfect example of the weird stuff that's been happening.
Three pair!
I used to have to beg for
one
new pair, and now she's ponying up for three pair of WilsonDST 02s at ninety-five dollars a pop, willingly. We argue over
underwear,
but suddenly tennis gear is a necessity, like oxygen or water. It's unsettling.
    Tennis is a hugely expensive sport. Coaches, shoes, tournament entry fees—it adds up. Some out-of-state tournaments require plane tickets
and
hotel stays. Heck, even the gas to get me to the country club my own family can't afford to join costs an easy thousand a year! We scrimp and save any way we can. We never buy three pair!
    “What's next?” my mom asked.
    “Racquets,” I said.
    “Wesley will catch up.”
    Prince. Best stick ever. Great for my game. Two hundred bucks apiece, unstrung. Coach will string them for me later. He likes to do it himself, wants it done right. I grabbed two. This isn't negotiable. Have to have racquets. This racquet. Others mess up my game.
    As I searched for my racquets my mom moved down the aisle to study rows of thick sport socks.
    Wes caught up to me, balancing shoe boxes. “New racquets? I thought you were getting free Prince racquets.”
    I shook my head, indicating my mom's ignorance of the matter. We stepped aside. “I am. But I left my club locker unlocked and my bag got hauled off to the lost and found. My racquets weren't in it when I got it back.My fault, really. And I'm not due another shipment of Prince racquets for a month. I thought I had a spare in my room, but turns out that was the one that sort of broke a few weeks ago,” I said.
    “Broke? How?” he asked. Wes enjoyed scandals.
    “It sort of got slammed into the court after a lousy point. I sort of slammed it.”
    Wes made an O with his mouth. “I see.”
    “For racquet abuse, Coach made me do laps around the court while singing the theme song from
Rocky.
You believe that?”
    “That was harsh of him.”
    “No kidding.”
    My mom rejoined us, holding five pair of Thorlo socks. Eleven bucks a pair. “Are we done?”
    “I need more blister crap.”
    “Don't say ‘crap.’ “
    “Blister stuff.”
    I gathered Blister Band-Aids, Dr. Scholl's Molefoam, Coban tape, and extra Coban tape since I lose it constantly.
    “I'm done.”
    “Step right to the register, ladies. Ill get you squared away.”
    I prepared myself for the strained look on my mom'sface as she handed Wesley her credit card. Never enough money, everything so expensive. A good stick costs two hundred dollars. It's no one's fault. She knows this. I know this. My talent requires equipment; the equipment costs money. So I braced myself for the strain, except this time it wasn't there. A hint of something else rested on her face … it was hope, I think. I'm pretty sure it was hope.

I walked down the street, finding Polly loitering on the barren curb in front of Eve's house. She drank what looked like lemonade out of a clear plastic pitcher. Her lips were bright orange with lip gloss. It made me want to laugh. “What are you sitting out here for? Eve gone?”
    She motioned to the opened garage door. “You'll see.”
    I ambled up the driveway just as Eve came out of the garage. “Hey,” she said. “I just tried to call you. My mom and I are going to the Castle Rock outlet mall. So I can't hang out. Sorry.”
    Her mom stepped out of the house,