That's the way the Racquetball Bounces
Chapter One
Thwack! Boing, boing, boing. The little green ball hits my racquet, then the wall, then the floor, then comes back to my racquet, gaining speed. Racquet. Wall. Side wall. Racquet. Wall. Floor. Racquet. Wall. Racquet. Floor.
In my mind, I can hear my Grampa saying, “Good rally, Lynnie. Go on. Try again.” So I pick up the ball, bounce it once, and give my racquet a swing. I envision that I’m on a real racquetball court, and my brother Zachary is playing with me, and Grampa’s watching, cheering us both on, giving us tips on how to improve our game. “Attaboy, Zach… That’s it, Lynnie! Go get him! Hard hit, Zachary… Ready position, Lynn, knees bent!”
The ball comes toward me and I hit it with all my might. It hits the wall, zooms back, and connects with my face. My chin sears with pain and I am unceremoniously tossed back into reality. I am in my basement, and I am alone.
“Lynn!” Mom is calling my name from upstairs. “Time for dinner!”
I sigh. I don’t want to go up for dinner. I just want to play and play and play down here until I fall asleep. I used to like dinner time, back when it was the five of us sitting around the table, eating, laughing, swapping stories, with our dog Peanut begging for scraps beneath the table—one big happy family. But it’s not like that anymore.
“LYNN!”
“Coming.” I trudge upstairs, setting my ball, racquet, and safety goggles down on the bottom step. I can put them away later. It’s not like anyone ever comes down here anymore except me.
Dinner is spaghetti, an old family favorite with a secret sauce recipe passed down by my Nana Suzie. Usually I love spaghetti, but tonight I’m just not in the mood.
I sit down in my usual seat, the one that’s backed up against the wall. At the head of the table, Dad is reading a newspaper. Mom glares at him as she sits down across from me. “Can we at least try to act like a family?”
Dad sighs, folds up the newspaper, and tucks it under his chair. I’m about to remind him that Peanut might steal it and tear it to shreds, when I remember that Peanut is no longer with us. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Okay,” says Mom, with a fake smile on her face. “Lynn, why don’t you say grace tonight.”
“Grace,” I say. I don’t feel much like thanking God for anything at the moment.
Mom frowns. “Lynn… please.”
Mechanically, I bow my head and close my eyes. “Dear God, thank You for this food, please watch over us in all we say and do, in Jesus’ name, amen.”
“And please watch over Zachary and Saga,” Dad adds, and I feel my throat constrict once more.
We eat in silence. The absence of Zachary, and of Peanut, and of poor little Saga, is weighing on us heavily. Zach left in August. Peanut died in November. Saga’s been gone since the beginning of January. It’s almost February now.
Mom breaks the silence by clearing her throat. “Lynn, I was talking on the phone to Grampa and Nana Suzie this morning.”
I nod, not sure why she’s bringing this up, except to break the silence. Grampa and Nana Suzie are Mom’s parents, who live in New York City. We live in a small town called Vincent, Idaho, so we don’t get to see my grandparents all the time, but we try to get together with them a couple times a year. Grampa’s the one who taught me how to play racquetball in the first place. He and his friends run their very own racquetball club. We don’t have any real racquetball clubs here in Vincent. The closest I get is the YMCA a few towns over, only in the case that Mom or Dad has time to take me and the one racquetball court they have is open when I get there. Mostly, I just play in my basement.
“They had… a proposition,” Mom continues. “They wanted to know if you’d be interested in staying with them for a little while.”
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. “Like… for vacation?” Somehow it sounds bigger than that.
Sure enough, Mom shakes her head. “They were thinking of letting you live with them for a couple months. Just so you can… you know. Get away from things.”
“Just me?” I say numbly. “Go live with them?”
“For a couple months,” Mom repeats. “You haven’t been yourself lately, and I don’t think being here is doing you any favors. The three of us—four of us, actually—” she motions, including Dad, “—think it would be helpful to give you a break.”
I haven’t been myself lately because my life has turned into a depressing mess, I think, but I push my spaghetti around on my plate as I toy with the idea. “Why aren’t you guys coming too?”
Mom and Dad exchange glances. “Someone needs to stay here and take care of the house,” Dad speaks up. “Besides, my boss isn’t going to let me take a few months off from work.”
“Why else?” I ask. That isn’t the full reason and I can tell. Are Mom and Dad trying to get rid of me? Now that Zach and Saga are gone, have they decided they don’t want any children at all?
Mom sighs. “Well, to be honest… we all think… well, if it’s just you and them, you maybe won’t feel… the absences as much.”
I bite down hard on the inside of my lip so I won’t start crying. I know what she means. If I’m all the way out in New York City by myself, it’ll be easy to pretend that Zach and Saga and Peanut are all here in Vincent, with Mom and Dad. If Mom and Dad are in New York City with me, that fantasy won’t make sense, because why would we leave half the family behind?
I don’t like where my thoughts are going, so I latch onto something else—the thing Dad said about work. “Would I be going to school there?”
“Yes,” Mom answers. “There’s a nice private school just a block away from the racquetball club. That’s where Grampa says you’d be going.”
A private school. I’m not sure how I feel about this. The school I go to now—the only school I’ve ever been to—is public, but it only has 256 kids in all the grades K-6. I’m pretty sure even a private school in New York City would be bigger than my school here. And would I have to wear a uniform?
“I’m sure Grampa would find time to take you to the racquetball club,” adds Dad.
That hooks me. Practicing in a real court outweighs practicing in my basement by about ten thousand percent. And what if I could practice there every day? Think of how good I’d get!
“How long would I be there again?” I ask.
“We don’t know exactly,” says Mom. “We’ll probably just play it by ear, see how things are going. But definitely no longer than a few months.”
I nod, still processing the idea. Living with my grandparents instead of my parents. Living in a massive city instead of a tiny town. Going to a new school, a private school, with brand-new kids and possibly uniforms. It will be a lot of changes.
But I think Mom’s right—a change is what I need. I need to get away from this house of sadness and worry, away from the memories of loved ones who are no longer here.
“Okay,” I say in a tiny voice. “I’ll go.”
We finish the meal, and Mom calls Grampa and Nana Suzie while I go back down to my “court” to think things over.
Part of me is getting really excited about going to live with my grandparents. Grampa and Nana Suzie are two of my favorite people in the world, and I love New York City, and I really love going to Grampa’s racquetball club and playing with him and his friends.
But this other part of me, this frightened little baby part, is scared. It shouldn’t be. Grampa and Nana Suzie are like my second parents. And I’m not a little kid. I’m eleven years old. I’ll be in junior high next year. I’ve been to sleepovers. I’ve been to summer camp. This should be even better, because I’ll be with my grandparents.
Still. Not seeing my parents for a couple months?
“Lynn!” Mom’s calling again. I sigh heavily, put my stuff down on the bottom step, and go upstairs once more.
“It’s all set,” Mom says when I meet her in the living room. “Grampa and Nana Suzie are so excited to see you. You’ll be leaving on the fifteenth.”
February fifteenth. That’s just a little over two weeks from now.
“Okay,” I say. “Um… should I start packing now?”
Mom laughs. “Heavens, no! Although it might be good to start thinking about what you’re going to bring, just to make sure you’ll be ready.”
I nod, then ask, “May I go back downstairs now?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nine o’clock. Time for bed.”
I sigh as I trudge up to my room. If I had my way, I wouldn’t be going upstairs anymore at all. I’d brush my teeth in the downstairs bathroom and sleep in the basement. Sure, it has a concrete floor and walls, but with my bed down there, it would feel cozy.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and change into my pajamas, then sit on my bed, looking around. Too much stuff. Too many memories. Peanut’s favorite chew toy is still tucked away under my dresser, where I hid it when Mom and Dad started getting rid of all his stuff.
Saga’s toys are still here too. The ones we bought for her and the ones we gave her that used to be mine. And all her cute little-kid books, and even her clothes. I’ll be glad to get away from this place, to not have to look at all that stuff anymore. I’ll play racquetball all day long and try not to think about Peanut or Zachary or Saga.
My eyes cloud up again at that thought. Saga never learned how to play racquetball. We were going to teach her, the next time Grampa and Nana Suzie came to visit. I’d tried teaching her a few times, just how to hold the racquet and hit the ball, but she was more interested in doing her own thing. Grampa would have been able to teach her. He’s a lot more patient than I am.
But he never got the chance.
I shut the light off, crawl under my covers, and cry. I cry for Saga, for all that happened to her, for everything she’s missing. I cry for Zachary, for all that might be happening to him now. For Peanut, who will never again chase a ball or wrestle with me in the front yard. And for me, because I’ve lost my sister, I’ve lost my dog, I might lose my brother, and I will be temporarily losing my parents. Racquetball is great. Living with my grandparents is great.
But I’d rather have my family.
Chapter Two
The day is here. Mom, Dad, and I sit at the kitchen table, eating breakfast. My suitcases and travel bags are all stacked up near the door, as constant reminders that I am leaving. Leaving. Leaving.
We are all silent as we eat. I feel like maybe we should be talking to each other; after all, it is our last breakfast together for a while. But, over the last month and a half, we’ve grown accustomed to eating in silence, only ever speaking to say something like, “Pass the ketchup.”
We finish our breakfast and Dad tells me to check around the house one more time, to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. I briefly scan my room, then double-check my suitcase for all the important stuff: my racquets, court shoes, goggles, clothes, toothbrush, and teddy bear named Winky. I know I’m kind of too old for a teddy bear, but I do sleep with him every night, and I think I’ll especially need him at Grampa and Nana Suzie’s.
We start driving to the airport, and I watch as our house becomes smaller and smaller as we get farther and farther away, until it’s completely gone from view.
“Lynn,” says Mom. “We bought something for you. I think it’ll be useful while you’re at Grampa and Nana Suzie’s.” She hands something to me over the seat.
I take it and look. It’s a cell phone, just a standard off-brand model, small and black. “For me? To keep?” I ask stupidly.
“Yes, it’s for you to keep. We decided we’d feel more comfortable if you had it with you while you’re living away from us.” Something like reassurance enters my head upon these words. So they are a little bit worried about me. They will miss me. For a while I hadn’t been sure.
The two-hour drive to the airport is boring and silent. In the future, I will probably see this as a missed opportunity to say all the things I want to say: I love you, I’ll miss you, et cetera. Or to say all the things I know they want me to say, even if they’re not strictly true: I’m so glad we’re doing this, I’m going to have the best days of my life living there, by the time I come back home I’ll definitely be my good old self again. But if I try to say any of those things, I know the things they don’t want me to say will pop out: I’m a little nervous about being away from you guys for so long, I’m kind of scared of getting on the plane by myself, what if Zach dies in Iran, why couldn’t you stop what happened to Saga, I feel like everyone’s leaving me, I don’t want to be left alone, MOMMY! DADDY! PLEASE DON’T GO!!!!!!!!
So I don’t say anything.
We arrive at the airport, and Mom and Dad help me get my ticket, then go with me to check my bags. After that, it’s the security check, which I’ll have to go through alone.
“Remember, you’re at Gate 2A, which is right around the corner after you go through security,” Dad reminds me. “If you need help, ask an employee. All the information you’ll need is right here on your ticket.”
“Keep that ticket in a safe place,” Mom adds. “It’s a straight flight to LaGuardia, and Grampa or Nana Suzie will be there to pick you up. If you can’t find them, give them a call.”
“And call us whenever you want as well,” says Dad. “Even if it’s the middle of the night. I can’t guarantee we’ll always answer, but we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”
I nod, half wanting to turn around and start heading through security right now so I don’t start crying, the other half wanting to grab onto my parents and hold them here with me forever and ever.
Mom sweeps me into her arms and gives me a long hug, during which I fight to keep the tears at bay. When she releases me, I’m surprised to see tears in her eyes too. I’ve never seen my mother cry before, not when Zach left for his deployment, not during Peanut’s last moments, not even when we lost Saga. But she is crying now. Over me.
Maybe my parents feel the same way I do. Maybe they don’t really want to leave me any more than I want them to.
I pull both of my parents into a hug and let myself cry. I can feel their arms wrap around me, I can feel their love encircling me. We stand there for a long time, just holding each other. Then we all break apart and I see that Dad has been crying too. It’s true. They don’t want to leave me. They just think this is best for me. And maybe it is.
Finally, after a lot of tissues and a few more hugs, we say our last round of goodbyes and I step into the security line.
I make it onto my flight just fine, and pass the four and a half hours of airtime looking out the window, playing games on my phone, and doodling in one of my notebooks. We finally touch down at LaGuardia, an airport I’ve been to numerous times before with my family. I’m able to find my way to the baggage claim without help, and then I only have to ask one person for assistance in getting to the place where Nana Suzie and Grampa said they’d meet me. And suddenly, there they are, right in front of me.
I run to them and they run to me, our arms wrapping around each other. “Oh my goodness, Lynn, you’re so tall, look at you! Just as beautiful as ever,” Nana Suzie gushes.
“Lynnie-bear, I missed you so much,” says Grampa. “How was your flight?”
During the taxi ride to their apartment building, he and Nana Suzie keep me occupied with questions about school and what books I’ve read recently and if I’ve been playing any racquetball lately, and soon the taxi is dropping us off. We ride the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, head down the hall, and step inside.
Things look the same as they always have—yellow walls, tan carpet, family photos hanging everywhere. But I’m seeing everything through new eyes now. This is no longer just Grampa and Nana Suzie’s house. It’s going to be my house for a few months.
My grandparents help me carry my stuff to my room, which is the same room I always sleep in when I’m here. “We’ve changed it up a little, to give you more space,” Nana Suzie tells me. “I thought this setup looked pretty good, but you can rearrange things however you want if you don’t like it.”
The last time I was here, the room had two twin beds in it: one for me, and one for Zachary. It also had a small nightstand with a lamp, and a dresser/bookshelf on the other side of the room. It looks pretty much the same now, except that Zachary’s bed is gone and has been replaced by a desk with a computer. “Your mom and I talked about setting up an email address for you,” Nana Suzie says, catching me looking at it. “I think it’s a great idea. We put the computer in here so you can use it for email and school assignments.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking, Wow, just last week I didn’t have any technology to call my own. Now I have a cell phone AND a computer.
Nana Suzie helps me unpack all my stuff and put it where it goes: my clothes in the drawers, my books and school notebooks on the shelf, my racquetball stuff in the closet, and Winky on the bed. I am going to live here, I think. This is where I live. This is my bedroom.
I sit on my bed and stare out the window. I am so high up. When Zachary and I were little, we used to make up stories about people parachuting from this window down into the streets below. We one time had the brilliant idea of throwing paper airplanes out the window and having races, before Grampa found out what we were up to and put a stop to it.
I watch the miniature people and taxis and buses squirming around on the ground below, until Nana Suzie calls, “Dinnertime!” and I head out to the kitchen.
Dinner at Grampa and Nana Suzie’s house is an entirely different story than dinner at home has been. There is no silence. My grandparents ask me stuff like, “What are some of the places you’d like to go while you’re here?” and, “Did you hear about the kangaroo that jumped higher than the Empire State Building?” (I was totally amazed and skeptical about this, until I found out it was a joke: the Empire State Building can’t jump!) When we are almost done with our meal, Grampa clears his throat. “Okay, Lynn, we’ve got to make some rules here.”
I look up from my third helping of fried rice. “What kind of rules?” I ask warily. I’ve never been much of a fan of rules, except in sports, where rules are just sort of necessary.
“Well, Nana Suzie and I were talking this over, and we’ve decided we’re not going to regulate you on what you can eat, when you go to bed, homework, TV, that kind of stuff. I figure you’re old enough to do that by yourself. What we are going to regulate you on is where you can go.”
“Where I can go?”
“Yes,” says Grampa. “I work at the racquetball club from ten to six each day, and Nana Suzie’s at the bank from eight to five. Your school day starts at nine, and ends at 3:20 or something like that. I’m thinking you and I can take a taxi over to school in the morning, and you can be dropped off, and then I’ll ride over to the club. Does that sound good to you?”
It sounds a bit confusing, actually, all this swirl of numbers and times and places. “Wait,” I say. “Are you talking about tomorrow morning?”
“Oh, no. Tomorrow I’m taking the day off from work, and you won’t be in school yet, so we’re going to spend the day together doing fun stuff. I’m talking about what your schedule will be like once you start school the day after.”
Oh. I hope “fun stuff” includes racquetball. “That sounds good,” I say.
“All right. Well, obviously, from nine to 3:20, you'll be in school, so we won’t have to worry about anything then. But when school gets out, I’ll still be at the Club, and Nana Suzie will still be at the bank. I know you’d be perfectly fine staying here by yourself until we get home, but personally, I don’t feel too comfortable with that idea. So I guess what it boils down to is this: you have the choice of going to the bank after school, or coming to the Club.”
Is that even a serious question? “You mean I have the choice between playing racquetball for three hours or being bored to death at a bank? Hel-lo!”
Grampa and Nana Suzie both chuckle. “We thought you’d say that. So, the club is actually pretty close to your school, but getting there will involve walking the streets on your own. I’ve been debating whether to have you take a taxi…”
“I’ll walk,” I say. It will be good to get my blood flowing before I play racquetball.
“Are you sure? You’ve seen how crowded the streets get.”
I nod. “It’s fine. I’m not scared of crowds.”
“Well, we’ll do a trial run tomorrow just to make sure. We have an appointment to check out your school tomorrow too, let you meet the principal, get a tour and everything, so we’ll do that, then head over to the club and play a few matches.”
I feel myself start to grin. “We get to play racquetball tomorrow? And then I get to come to the Club after school every day?”
“Yep.”
I finish my meal, then help Grampa and Nana Suzie do the dishes, all with a new spring in my step. Maybe Mom was right—maybe living here really will help me bounce back to my old self.
Chapter Three
My happy mood does not last long. First of all, I have trouble falling asleep. I keep hearing the traffic fourteen floors below, and it’s not a sound I’m used to. On top of that, there’s the knowledge that I am not going to see my parents for who knows how long, and the same old butterflies in my stomach about Zach. It was easy to ignore these feelings when I was sitting around the table with Grampa and Nana Suzie, talking about racquetball and enjoying a home-cooked meal, but it’s different now that I am alone in my bedroom, with city lights shining through the window no matter how tightly I draw the blinds. I need darkness when I sleep. And calm, relaxed thoughts. I try to relax myself by thinking about playing racquetball, and it must eventually end up working, because the next thing I know, sunlight is streaming in through the too-thin blinds, and the delicious aroma of bacon is swirling around my nose.
I yawn and stretch, wondering what time it is. A glance at the clock on the nightstand tells me it’s 10:27. Grrrr. I know a lot of kids like sleeping in, but it just irritates me to no end. I feel like I’ve slept half the day away.
I get up and pad down the hall into the kitchen. Grampa is there, cooking bacon, eggs, and hash browns at the stove. My stomach rumbles. I haven’t had a real breakfast in months.
“Morning, sleepyhead!” he says cheerfully. “I was just going to go wake you up when I finished cooking this stuff. How do you feel about a nice breakfast?”
“It looks delicious,” I say, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and pouring myself some orange juice. A few minutes later, Grampa and I are sitting at the table, each with a heaping pile of bacon, eggs, and hash browns, and a glass of orange juice. Grampa prays over the meal, which is something I am not used to—my family usually only says grace at dinnertime. Then we start eating.
“So,” I say, my mouth full of scrambled eggs. “Is Nana Suzie at the bank?”
“Yeah,” says Grampa. “She wanted to get today off, but they wouldn’t let her.”
“Are we still doing the stuff at my new school and then playing racquetball?” I ask.
“You bet!”
We finish our breakfast and then I run into my room to get dressed. I put my racquetball clothes on under a sweatshirt and sweatpants, because I know it’s pretty chilly outside, being February and all. I brush my teeth quickly, wrestle my tangly hair into a ponytail, and race out to the living room, executing a flying jump onto the couch. Pictures and breakables on the coffee tables jiggle.
Since Grampa is apparently not done getting ready yet, I decide to entertain myself looking at the pictures. This turns out to be a big stupid mistake. The first one I see is of me, Zachary, Saga, and Peanut. I recognize it immediately as last year’s Christmas picture—not the most recent December, but the one before that, when I was ten. The four of us are sitting in front of the Christmas tree, smiling. Zach is holding Peanut so he doesn’t run away, and Saga is on my lap, her chubby little two-year-old fingers wrapped around my hand. We all look so content.
“All set and ready to go?” Grampa’s voice startles me. I put the picture down with a bang and try not to cry. It’s so irritating, always feeling like I’m about to cry. I never used to be so much of a crybaby.
I nod, not trusting myself to be able to speak. Grampa turns to put on his coat; I impulsively pick the picture back up and stuff it under the couch. Maybe Grampa and Nana Suzie won’t notice it’s missing and then I won’t have to look at it.
We take a taxi to my new school, which is on the fifth and sixth floors of a skyscraper. We ride the elevator up to the fifth floor and check in with the office, where the principal, a woman named Mrs. Patine, meets us for a tour. Mrs. Patine explains that this school is an “upper elementary school,” for grades four, five, and six, and that each class has between twenty and thirty kids. She also tells us that there are four sixth-grade classes. I do the math in my head and figure out that yes, this 4th through 6th grade private school definitely might be bigger than my old K-6th grade public school.
We get to peek into my classroom, but my teacher, Mrs. Nault, is in the middle of a lesson, so we don’t disturb them. Mrs. Patine shows us the cafeteria, the library, and the small space that’s apparently supposed to serve as a gym, and then our tour is over. “Good-bye, Lynn,” Mrs. Patine says as we’re leaving. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow!”
Grampa and I exit the building and walk down the sidewalk for about five minutes. Pretty soon, the familiar gray building comes into view. “Yay!” I exclaim, running to the door.
“Nope,” says Grampa. “Not so soon. Let’s take the route to and from school a couple times before we go in.”
“But it was so easy!” I protest. It was literally just a straight shot down the sidewalk, only two crosswalks, that’s it.
“Doesn’t matter. If you’re going to be taking this route every day by yourself, I want to feel comfortable that you’ve had sufficient practice.”
“Oh fine,” I say, disappointed. We end up re-tracing the route five times before Grampa agrees we can go in. He almost makes me take the route once by myself, but I groan and grumble and manage to convince him that it’s not necessary.
The Club is on the lowest two stories of an office building— I don’t know how the people on the third floor manage to concentrate with the sound of racquetballs bouncing around and loud music pumping from the workout room. Lined up right in a row are the four racquetball courts, which are so tall that they each span from the floor of the first story to the ceiling of the second story. An open stairway connects the two stories. Downstairs are the workout room, the locker rooms, and the Plexiglas doors that open onto the courts. Upstairs are a snack bar, employee offices, and a long hallway from which you can look down into the courts to watch the games that are being played. The entrance to the Club is also on the second floor, for whatever strange reason.
Grampa and I enter the building and go up the flight of stairs to the reception desk. “Hi, Vicky,” Grampa says to the woman there.
“Hey, Mike,” says Vicky. “Lynn! Good to see you, honey!”
I nod and smile at her. I’ve met most of the people who work at the Club before. I can’t say I remember any of them by name, but a lot of them remember me.
We go down the set of stairs that leads to the rest of the Club, and walk down the hallway. I can see matches going on in the first three courts we pass, and it makes me itch to get out there and start playing. Grampa says hi to the various people we pass. He seems to know everybody.
Finally, we get to the last court, Court Number Four. “This,” he says importantly, “is your court, Lynn. I put up a notice that nobody is allowed to play on this court Monday through Friday from 3:30 to six, unless, of course, they’re playing you.”
I can’t believe it. My own racquetball court, reserved specifically for me? So I don’t have to wait around until one opens up? This is a dream come true!
“I’m going to go change into my racquetball clothes,” Grampa continues. “You can start warming up if you want.”
Boy, do I ever want. I quickly change into my court shoes and pull out my racquet and ball. Then, I step onto the court. A real court! My first real court in over half a year!
I start warming up by just passing the ball to the wall and getting the rebounds. I try to see how long I can keep that up before losing the ball. This gets my body ready to run and strengthens my hand-eye coordination.
Then I practice my shots. I start with some regular forehand ones, then practice backhanded a little. Then I go for all the specialty “kill shots” that I could never do in my basement due to size constraints. I attempt a few rollouts, which are when the ball hits so low on the front wall that it immediately rolls across the floor afterwards, allowing the opponent no chance of retrieving it. Then I switch over to pinch shots, in which I’m aiming for the corner where the front wall and one of the side walls connect. It’s an exercise in precision, because I have to aim really low, but not so low that the ball will end up hitting the floor first. The goal of a pinch shot is for the ball to bounce between the front and side wall, getting stuck in the corner and making it hard for an opponent to retrieve.
I work on other shots after that—passing shots, ceiling shots, drive shots, even the challenging Z-ball, in which I try to zigzag the ball off the front wall and both side walls in such a way that it ends up traveling parallel to the back wall. I’m pretty horrible at the Z-ball, but it’s fun to try.
Grampa comes in a few minutes later, and warms up for a little bit. Then, we play. I start as server, meaning that I stand in the box that’s painted on the floor toward the front of the room. I hit the ball toward the front wall, and then it’s Grampa’s turn to retrieve it, making sure that it only touches the ground once before a hit, and never directly after a hit. Then it’s my turn to do the same thing. If the server messes up, it’s the other person’s turn to serve. If the non-server messes up, their opponent gets a point. Whoever gets to 15 points first wins.
We end up playing five matches—Grampa wins all of them. It takes me a while to get back in the groove, but I can see that I’m rapidly improving. While Grampa beats me 15 to 2 on the first match, he only wins by three points on the last.
“You’ve become quite the good player, Lynn,” he says, panting at the end of the last round.
“Can we play again?” I ask, even though I can tell what the answer’s going to be.
Grampa shakes his head. “Not today. I’m all tuckered out. I’m going to go shower and change. You can keep playing while I do that, though.”
I decide to take a short break before going back to practicing my shots. I sit down on the bench and take a long sip from my water bottle.
As soon as I set the bottle down, I notice someone who wasn’t here before. It’s a boy about my age, with floppy blondish hair and a cocky attitude. I don’t even need to meet him to know this about him. He just feels cocky.
He catches me looking at him and comes over. “D’you play?” he asks, which is pretty ridiculous because I’m sitting right here with my goggles still on, ball and racquet in my hand.
“Yeah,” I say. “Do you?”
He grins. “Heck, I’m a rac’ main-yak! I been playin’ since I was a kid!”
I raise my eyebrows, wondering if I should remind him that he still is a kid.
“My gramps taught me to play when I was no more ‘n four,” he continues, and I decide not to make a remark, because my grampa also taught me to play when I was little.
“You?” he asks. “When’d you learn?”
“Me?” I say scornfully, “I was practically raised on a racquetball court.” Which is kind of true, since I’ve been playing on and off since I was old enough to hold a racquet, but not really.
“Raised on a rac’ court, eh?” the boy in front of me says.
“Well, let’s just see how good ya got. What’cher name, anyhows?” His grammar is completely atrocious.
“Lynn,” I tell him.
“Lynn Syvna? Good to have ya here, Lynn Syvna.”
I can only stare. “How—how did you—my last name isn’t Syvna,” I say, shocked because my grandparents’ last name is Syvna.
Now it’s his turn to look surprised. “Ain’t you Mike Syvna’s granddaughter?”
I don’t ask him how he knew. “Yes, but my last name is Waley. He’s my mother’s father.”
“Oh,” he says. “Waley. Well, that’ll take a bit o’ time a gittin’ used to. ’Cuz I always thought you had the same last name as yer gramps. But okay, Lynn Waley. I believe ya.”
“Why do you have to call me by my last name anyway?” I ask.
He answers, “Aw, everyone get nicknames sooner or later, but before that I just gotta call ‘em by first ’n’ last. I mean, Lynn, that’s so short I can barely say it, but Lynn Waley, that’s a bit more man’geable. Just like me. I’m Jerr. Not Jerry, Jerr. And that don’t sound too good by itself. But my nickname, Jerr the Fox, now, that sound good.”
I stifle a snort. “Jerr the Fox? Why?”
He grins. “Fox ’cuz I’m so slick!”
I roll my eyes. Full of himself, just like I thought.
I decide I have to ask. “Does my grampa have a nickname?”
“Dude, yer gramps is the coolest! Yeah, he got a nickname. Know how he’s bald and likes ta eat a lotta fish?”
“Well, he’s my grampa, so I’d hope I’d know—”
Jerr cuts me off. “So, I named him the Big Salmon!”
I glare at him. “That’s cruel.”
“No it ain’t. He don’t care. I call ‘im that to ‘is face, he just laughs. He don’t care at all.”
“Doesn’t,” I correct him, still glaring. “He doesn’t care at all. But I think he does. That’s a mean nickname.”
“No, it ain’t! I’m tellin’ ya, him and all the other guys here, all of ‘em! They don’t care a bit what I call ‘em!” He grins at me and ‘corrects’ himself, “Doesn’t.”
Me, I just stare in disbelief. I can’t tell if he’s trying to play smart on me or if he really is that dumb.
“Whatever,” I say abruptly, adjusting my goggles and standing up. I am sooo ready for another fast-paced game of racquetball. “Are we going to play or not?”
“Holdjer horses, Lynn Lemon, I ain’t got my racquet yet! Hang on.” He runs over to another bench, leaving me behind, stiff as a poker.
“Lynn Lemon?!?!?!” I call after him.
“Yeah, Lemon ’cuz yer so sour!”
Great. So my parents are two thousand miles away, my brother’s life is in danger with every passing moment, my dog is dead, my little sister is gone forever, and I’m stuck here with this obnoxious, dim-witted showoff who has just pronounced me sour. Life couldn’t be better.
That's the Way the Racquetball Bounces, published by Blobfish Books
Thwack! Boing, boing, boing. The little green ball hits my racquet, then the wall, then the floor, then comes back to my racquet, gaining speed. Racquet. Wall. Side wall. Racquet. Wall. Floor. Racquet. Wall. Racquet. Floor.
In my mind, I can hear my Grampa saying, “Good rally, Lynnie. Go on. Try again.” So I pick up the ball, bounce it once, and give my racquet a swing. I envision that I’m on a real racquetball court, and my brother Zachary is playing with me, and Grampa’s watching, cheering us both on, giving us tips on how to improve our game. “Attaboy, Zach… That’s it, Lynnie! Go get him! Hard hit, Zachary… Ready position, Lynn, knees bent!”
The ball comes toward me and I hit it with all my might. It hits the wall, zooms back, and connects with my face. My chin sears with pain and I am unceremoniously tossed back into reality. I am in my basement, and I am alone.
“Lynn!” Mom is calling my name from upstairs. “Time for dinner!”
I sigh. I don’t want to go up for dinner. I just want to play and play and play down here until I fall asleep. I used to like dinner time, back when it was the five of us sitting around the table, eating, laughing, swapping stories, with our dog Peanut begging for scraps beneath the table—one big happy family. But it’s not like that anymore.
“LYNN!”
“Coming.” I trudge upstairs, setting my ball, racquet, and safety goggles down on the bottom step. I can put them away later. It’s not like anyone ever comes down here anymore except me.
Dinner is spaghetti, an old family favorite with a secret sauce recipe passed down by my Nana Suzie. Usually I love spaghetti, but tonight I’m just not in the mood.
I sit down in my usual seat, the one that’s backed up against the wall. At the head of the table, Dad is reading a newspaper. Mom glares at him as she sits down across from me. “Can we at least try to act like a family?”
Dad sighs, folds up the newspaper, and tucks it under his chair. I’m about to remind him that Peanut might steal it and tear it to shreds, when I remember that Peanut is no longer with us. I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Okay,” says Mom, with a fake smile on her face. “Lynn, why don’t you say grace tonight.”
“Grace,” I say. I don’t feel much like thanking God for anything at the moment.
Mom frowns. “Lynn… please.”
Mechanically, I bow my head and close my eyes. “Dear God, thank You for this food, please watch over us in all we say and do, in Jesus’ name, amen.”
“And please watch over Zachary and Saga,” Dad adds, and I feel my throat constrict once more.
We eat in silence. The absence of Zachary, and of Peanut, and of poor little Saga, is weighing on us heavily. Zach left in August. Peanut died in November. Saga’s been gone since the beginning of January. It’s almost February now.
Mom breaks the silence by clearing her throat. “Lynn, I was talking on the phone to Grampa and Nana Suzie this morning.”
I nod, not sure why she’s bringing this up, except to break the silence. Grampa and Nana Suzie are Mom’s parents, who live in New York City. We live in a small town called Vincent, Idaho, so we don’t get to see my grandparents all the time, but we try to get together with them a couple times a year. Grampa’s the one who taught me how to play racquetball in the first place. He and his friends run their very own racquetball club. We don’t have any real racquetball clubs here in Vincent. The closest I get is the YMCA a few towns over, only in the case that Mom or Dad has time to take me and the one racquetball court they have is open when I get there. Mostly, I just play in my basement.
“They had… a proposition,” Mom continues. “They wanted to know if you’d be interested in staying with them for a little while.”
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. “Like… for vacation?” Somehow it sounds bigger than that.
Sure enough, Mom shakes her head. “They were thinking of letting you live with them for a couple months. Just so you can… you know. Get away from things.”
“Just me?” I say numbly. “Go live with them?”
“For a couple months,” Mom repeats. “You haven’t been yourself lately, and I don’t think being here is doing you any favors. The three of us—four of us, actually—” she motions, including Dad, “—think it would be helpful to give you a break.”
I haven’t been myself lately because my life has turned into a depressing mess, I think, but I push my spaghetti around on my plate as I toy with the idea. “Why aren’t you guys coming too?”
Mom and Dad exchange glances. “Someone needs to stay here and take care of the house,” Dad speaks up. “Besides, my boss isn’t going to let me take a few months off from work.”
“Why else?” I ask. That isn’t the full reason and I can tell. Are Mom and Dad trying to get rid of me? Now that Zach and Saga are gone, have they decided they don’t want any children at all?
Mom sighs. “Well, to be honest… we all think… well, if it’s just you and them, you maybe won’t feel… the absences as much.”
I bite down hard on the inside of my lip so I won’t start crying. I know what she means. If I’m all the way out in New York City by myself, it’ll be easy to pretend that Zach and Saga and Peanut are all here in Vincent, with Mom and Dad. If Mom and Dad are in New York City with me, that fantasy won’t make sense, because why would we leave half the family behind?
I don’t like where my thoughts are going, so I latch onto something else—the thing Dad said about work. “Would I be going to school there?”
“Yes,” Mom answers. “There’s a nice private school just a block away from the racquetball club. That’s where Grampa says you’d be going.”
A private school. I’m not sure how I feel about this. The school I go to now—the only school I’ve ever been to—is public, but it only has 256 kids in all the grades K-6. I’m pretty sure even a private school in New York City would be bigger than my school here. And would I have to wear a uniform?
“I’m sure Grampa would find time to take you to the racquetball club,” adds Dad.
That hooks me. Practicing in a real court outweighs practicing in my basement by about ten thousand percent. And what if I could practice there every day? Think of how good I’d get!
“How long would I be there again?” I ask.
“We don’t know exactly,” says Mom. “We’ll probably just play it by ear, see how things are going. But definitely no longer than a few months.”
I nod, still processing the idea. Living with my grandparents instead of my parents. Living in a massive city instead of a tiny town. Going to a new school, a private school, with brand-new kids and possibly uniforms. It will be a lot of changes.
But I think Mom’s right—a change is what I need. I need to get away from this house of sadness and worry, away from the memories of loved ones who are no longer here.
“Okay,” I say in a tiny voice. “I’ll go.”
We finish the meal, and Mom calls Grampa and Nana Suzie while I go back down to my “court” to think things over.
Part of me is getting really excited about going to live with my grandparents. Grampa and Nana Suzie are two of my favorite people in the world, and I love New York City, and I really love going to Grampa’s racquetball club and playing with him and his friends.
But this other part of me, this frightened little baby part, is scared. It shouldn’t be. Grampa and Nana Suzie are like my second parents. And I’m not a little kid. I’m eleven years old. I’ll be in junior high next year. I’ve been to sleepovers. I’ve been to summer camp. This should be even better, because I’ll be with my grandparents.
Still. Not seeing my parents for a couple months?
“Lynn!” Mom’s calling again. I sigh heavily, put my stuff down on the bottom step, and go upstairs once more.
“It’s all set,” Mom says when I meet her in the living room. “Grampa and Nana Suzie are so excited to see you. You’ll be leaving on the fifteenth.”
February fifteenth. That’s just a little over two weeks from now.
“Okay,” I say. “Um… should I start packing now?”
Mom laughs. “Heavens, no! Although it might be good to start thinking about what you’re going to bring, just to make sure you’ll be ready.”
I nod, then ask, “May I go back downstairs now?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nine o’clock. Time for bed.”
I sigh as I trudge up to my room. If I had my way, I wouldn’t be going upstairs anymore at all. I’d brush my teeth in the downstairs bathroom and sleep in the basement. Sure, it has a concrete floor and walls, but with my bed down there, it would feel cozy.
I brush my teeth, wash my face, and change into my pajamas, then sit on my bed, looking around. Too much stuff. Too many memories. Peanut’s favorite chew toy is still tucked away under my dresser, where I hid it when Mom and Dad started getting rid of all his stuff.
Saga’s toys are still here too. The ones we bought for her and the ones we gave her that used to be mine. And all her cute little-kid books, and even her clothes. I’ll be glad to get away from this place, to not have to look at all that stuff anymore. I’ll play racquetball all day long and try not to think about Peanut or Zachary or Saga.
My eyes cloud up again at that thought. Saga never learned how to play racquetball. We were going to teach her, the next time Grampa and Nana Suzie came to visit. I’d tried teaching her a few times, just how to hold the racquet and hit the ball, but she was more interested in doing her own thing. Grampa would have been able to teach her. He’s a lot more patient than I am.
But he never got the chance.
I shut the light off, crawl under my covers, and cry. I cry for Saga, for all that happened to her, for everything she’s missing. I cry for Zachary, for all that might be happening to him now. For Peanut, who will never again chase a ball or wrestle with me in the front yard. And for me, because I’ve lost my sister, I’ve lost my dog, I might lose my brother, and I will be temporarily losing my parents. Racquetball is great. Living with my grandparents is great.
But I’d rather have my family.
Chapter Two
The day is here. Mom, Dad, and I sit at the kitchen table, eating breakfast. My suitcases and travel bags are all stacked up near the door, as constant reminders that I am leaving. Leaving. Leaving.
We are all silent as we eat. I feel like maybe we should be talking to each other; after all, it is our last breakfast together for a while. But, over the last month and a half, we’ve grown accustomed to eating in silence, only ever speaking to say something like, “Pass the ketchup.”
We finish our breakfast and Dad tells me to check around the house one more time, to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. I briefly scan my room, then double-check my suitcase for all the important stuff: my racquets, court shoes, goggles, clothes, toothbrush, and teddy bear named Winky. I know I’m kind of too old for a teddy bear, but I do sleep with him every night, and I think I’ll especially need him at Grampa and Nana Suzie’s.
We start driving to the airport, and I watch as our house becomes smaller and smaller as we get farther and farther away, until it’s completely gone from view.
“Lynn,” says Mom. “We bought something for you. I think it’ll be useful while you’re at Grampa and Nana Suzie’s.” She hands something to me over the seat.
I take it and look. It’s a cell phone, just a standard off-brand model, small and black. “For me? To keep?” I ask stupidly.
“Yes, it’s for you to keep. We decided we’d feel more comfortable if you had it with you while you’re living away from us.” Something like reassurance enters my head upon these words. So they are a little bit worried about me. They will miss me. For a while I hadn’t been sure.
The two-hour drive to the airport is boring and silent. In the future, I will probably see this as a missed opportunity to say all the things I want to say: I love you, I’ll miss you, et cetera. Or to say all the things I know they want me to say, even if they’re not strictly true: I’m so glad we’re doing this, I’m going to have the best days of my life living there, by the time I come back home I’ll definitely be my good old self again. But if I try to say any of those things, I know the things they don’t want me to say will pop out: I’m a little nervous about being away from you guys for so long, I’m kind of scared of getting on the plane by myself, what if Zach dies in Iran, why couldn’t you stop what happened to Saga, I feel like everyone’s leaving me, I don’t want to be left alone, MOMMY! DADDY! PLEASE DON’T GO!!!!!!!!
So I don’t say anything.
We arrive at the airport, and Mom and Dad help me get my ticket, then go with me to check my bags. After that, it’s the security check, which I’ll have to go through alone.
“Remember, you’re at Gate 2A, which is right around the corner after you go through security,” Dad reminds me. “If you need help, ask an employee. All the information you’ll need is right here on your ticket.”
“Keep that ticket in a safe place,” Mom adds. “It’s a straight flight to LaGuardia, and Grampa or Nana Suzie will be there to pick you up. If you can’t find them, give them a call.”
“And call us whenever you want as well,” says Dad. “Even if it’s the middle of the night. I can’t guarantee we’ll always answer, but we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”
I nod, half wanting to turn around and start heading through security right now so I don’t start crying, the other half wanting to grab onto my parents and hold them here with me forever and ever.
Mom sweeps me into her arms and gives me a long hug, during which I fight to keep the tears at bay. When she releases me, I’m surprised to see tears in her eyes too. I’ve never seen my mother cry before, not when Zach left for his deployment, not during Peanut’s last moments, not even when we lost Saga. But she is crying now. Over me.
Maybe my parents feel the same way I do. Maybe they don’t really want to leave me any more than I want them to.
I pull both of my parents into a hug and let myself cry. I can feel their arms wrap around me, I can feel their love encircling me. We stand there for a long time, just holding each other. Then we all break apart and I see that Dad has been crying too. It’s true. They don’t want to leave me. They just think this is best for me. And maybe it is.
Finally, after a lot of tissues and a few more hugs, we say our last round of goodbyes and I step into the security line.
I make it onto my flight just fine, and pass the four and a half hours of airtime looking out the window, playing games on my phone, and doodling in one of my notebooks. We finally touch down at LaGuardia, an airport I’ve been to numerous times before with my family. I’m able to find my way to the baggage claim without help, and then I only have to ask one person for assistance in getting to the place where Nana Suzie and Grampa said they’d meet me. And suddenly, there they are, right in front of me.
I run to them and they run to me, our arms wrapping around each other. “Oh my goodness, Lynn, you’re so tall, look at you! Just as beautiful as ever,” Nana Suzie gushes.
“Lynnie-bear, I missed you so much,” says Grampa. “How was your flight?”
During the taxi ride to their apartment building, he and Nana Suzie keep me occupied with questions about school and what books I’ve read recently and if I’ve been playing any racquetball lately, and soon the taxi is dropping us off. We ride the elevator up to the fourteenth floor, head down the hall, and step inside.
Things look the same as they always have—yellow walls, tan carpet, family photos hanging everywhere. But I’m seeing everything through new eyes now. This is no longer just Grampa and Nana Suzie’s house. It’s going to be my house for a few months.
My grandparents help me carry my stuff to my room, which is the same room I always sleep in when I’m here. “We’ve changed it up a little, to give you more space,” Nana Suzie tells me. “I thought this setup looked pretty good, but you can rearrange things however you want if you don’t like it.”
The last time I was here, the room had two twin beds in it: one for me, and one for Zachary. It also had a small nightstand with a lamp, and a dresser/bookshelf on the other side of the room. It looks pretty much the same now, except that Zachary’s bed is gone and has been replaced by a desk with a computer. “Your mom and I talked about setting up an email address for you,” Nana Suzie says, catching me looking at it. “I think it’s a great idea. We put the computer in here so you can use it for email and school assignments.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking, Wow, just last week I didn’t have any technology to call my own. Now I have a cell phone AND a computer.
Nana Suzie helps me unpack all my stuff and put it where it goes: my clothes in the drawers, my books and school notebooks on the shelf, my racquetball stuff in the closet, and Winky on the bed. I am going to live here, I think. This is where I live. This is my bedroom.
I sit on my bed and stare out the window. I am so high up. When Zachary and I were little, we used to make up stories about people parachuting from this window down into the streets below. We one time had the brilliant idea of throwing paper airplanes out the window and having races, before Grampa found out what we were up to and put a stop to it.
I watch the miniature people and taxis and buses squirming around on the ground below, until Nana Suzie calls, “Dinnertime!” and I head out to the kitchen.
Dinner at Grampa and Nana Suzie’s house is an entirely different story than dinner at home has been. There is no silence. My grandparents ask me stuff like, “What are some of the places you’d like to go while you’re here?” and, “Did you hear about the kangaroo that jumped higher than the Empire State Building?” (I was totally amazed and skeptical about this, until I found out it was a joke: the Empire State Building can’t jump!) When we are almost done with our meal, Grampa clears his throat. “Okay, Lynn, we’ve got to make some rules here.”
I look up from my third helping of fried rice. “What kind of rules?” I ask warily. I’ve never been much of a fan of rules, except in sports, where rules are just sort of necessary.
“Well, Nana Suzie and I were talking this over, and we’ve decided we’re not going to regulate you on what you can eat, when you go to bed, homework, TV, that kind of stuff. I figure you’re old enough to do that by yourself. What we are going to regulate you on is where you can go.”
“Where I can go?”
“Yes,” says Grampa. “I work at the racquetball club from ten to six each day, and Nana Suzie’s at the bank from eight to five. Your school day starts at nine, and ends at 3:20 or something like that. I’m thinking you and I can take a taxi over to school in the morning, and you can be dropped off, and then I’ll ride over to the club. Does that sound good to you?”
It sounds a bit confusing, actually, all this swirl of numbers and times and places. “Wait,” I say. “Are you talking about tomorrow morning?”
“Oh, no. Tomorrow I’m taking the day off from work, and you won’t be in school yet, so we’re going to spend the day together doing fun stuff. I’m talking about what your schedule will be like once you start school the day after.”
Oh. I hope “fun stuff” includes racquetball. “That sounds good,” I say.
“All right. Well, obviously, from nine to 3:20, you'll be in school, so we won’t have to worry about anything then. But when school gets out, I’ll still be at the Club, and Nana Suzie will still be at the bank. I know you’d be perfectly fine staying here by yourself until we get home, but personally, I don’t feel too comfortable with that idea. So I guess what it boils down to is this: you have the choice of going to the bank after school, or coming to the Club.”
Is that even a serious question? “You mean I have the choice between playing racquetball for three hours or being bored to death at a bank? Hel-lo!”
Grampa and Nana Suzie both chuckle. “We thought you’d say that. So, the club is actually pretty close to your school, but getting there will involve walking the streets on your own. I’ve been debating whether to have you take a taxi…”
“I’ll walk,” I say. It will be good to get my blood flowing before I play racquetball.
“Are you sure? You’ve seen how crowded the streets get.”
I nod. “It’s fine. I’m not scared of crowds.”
“Well, we’ll do a trial run tomorrow just to make sure. We have an appointment to check out your school tomorrow too, let you meet the principal, get a tour and everything, so we’ll do that, then head over to the club and play a few matches.”
I feel myself start to grin. “We get to play racquetball tomorrow? And then I get to come to the Club after school every day?”
“Yep.”
I finish my meal, then help Grampa and Nana Suzie do the dishes, all with a new spring in my step. Maybe Mom was right—maybe living here really will help me bounce back to my old self.
Chapter Three
My happy mood does not last long. First of all, I have trouble falling asleep. I keep hearing the traffic fourteen floors below, and it’s not a sound I’m used to. On top of that, there’s the knowledge that I am not going to see my parents for who knows how long, and the same old butterflies in my stomach about Zach. It was easy to ignore these feelings when I was sitting around the table with Grampa and Nana Suzie, talking about racquetball and enjoying a home-cooked meal, but it’s different now that I am alone in my bedroom, with city lights shining through the window no matter how tightly I draw the blinds. I need darkness when I sleep. And calm, relaxed thoughts. I try to relax myself by thinking about playing racquetball, and it must eventually end up working, because the next thing I know, sunlight is streaming in through the too-thin blinds, and the delicious aroma of bacon is swirling around my nose.
I yawn and stretch, wondering what time it is. A glance at the clock on the nightstand tells me it’s 10:27. Grrrr. I know a lot of kids like sleeping in, but it just irritates me to no end. I feel like I’ve slept half the day away.
I get up and pad down the hall into the kitchen. Grampa is there, cooking bacon, eggs, and hash browns at the stove. My stomach rumbles. I haven’t had a real breakfast in months.
“Morning, sleepyhead!” he says cheerfully. “I was just going to go wake you up when I finished cooking this stuff. How do you feel about a nice breakfast?”
“It looks delicious,” I say, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and pouring myself some orange juice. A few minutes later, Grampa and I are sitting at the table, each with a heaping pile of bacon, eggs, and hash browns, and a glass of orange juice. Grampa prays over the meal, which is something I am not used to—my family usually only says grace at dinnertime. Then we start eating.
“So,” I say, my mouth full of scrambled eggs. “Is Nana Suzie at the bank?”
“Yeah,” says Grampa. “She wanted to get today off, but they wouldn’t let her.”
“Are we still doing the stuff at my new school and then playing racquetball?” I ask.
“You bet!”
We finish our breakfast and then I run into my room to get dressed. I put my racquetball clothes on under a sweatshirt and sweatpants, because I know it’s pretty chilly outside, being February and all. I brush my teeth quickly, wrestle my tangly hair into a ponytail, and race out to the living room, executing a flying jump onto the couch. Pictures and breakables on the coffee tables jiggle.
Since Grampa is apparently not done getting ready yet, I decide to entertain myself looking at the pictures. This turns out to be a big stupid mistake. The first one I see is of me, Zachary, Saga, and Peanut. I recognize it immediately as last year’s Christmas picture—not the most recent December, but the one before that, when I was ten. The four of us are sitting in front of the Christmas tree, smiling. Zach is holding Peanut so he doesn’t run away, and Saga is on my lap, her chubby little two-year-old fingers wrapped around my hand. We all look so content.
“All set and ready to go?” Grampa’s voice startles me. I put the picture down with a bang and try not to cry. It’s so irritating, always feeling like I’m about to cry. I never used to be so much of a crybaby.
I nod, not trusting myself to be able to speak. Grampa turns to put on his coat; I impulsively pick the picture back up and stuff it under the couch. Maybe Grampa and Nana Suzie won’t notice it’s missing and then I won’t have to look at it.
We take a taxi to my new school, which is on the fifth and sixth floors of a skyscraper. We ride the elevator up to the fifth floor and check in with the office, where the principal, a woman named Mrs. Patine, meets us for a tour. Mrs. Patine explains that this school is an “upper elementary school,” for grades four, five, and six, and that each class has between twenty and thirty kids. She also tells us that there are four sixth-grade classes. I do the math in my head and figure out that yes, this 4th through 6th grade private school definitely might be bigger than my old K-6th grade public school.
We get to peek into my classroom, but my teacher, Mrs. Nault, is in the middle of a lesson, so we don’t disturb them. Mrs. Patine shows us the cafeteria, the library, and the small space that’s apparently supposed to serve as a gym, and then our tour is over. “Good-bye, Lynn,” Mrs. Patine says as we’re leaving. “I look forward to seeing you tomorrow!”
Grampa and I exit the building and walk down the sidewalk for about five minutes. Pretty soon, the familiar gray building comes into view. “Yay!” I exclaim, running to the door.
“Nope,” says Grampa. “Not so soon. Let’s take the route to and from school a couple times before we go in.”
“But it was so easy!” I protest. It was literally just a straight shot down the sidewalk, only two crosswalks, that’s it.
“Doesn’t matter. If you’re going to be taking this route every day by yourself, I want to feel comfortable that you’ve had sufficient practice.”
“Oh fine,” I say, disappointed. We end up re-tracing the route five times before Grampa agrees we can go in. He almost makes me take the route once by myself, but I groan and grumble and manage to convince him that it’s not necessary.
The Club is on the lowest two stories of an office building— I don’t know how the people on the third floor manage to concentrate with the sound of racquetballs bouncing around and loud music pumping from the workout room. Lined up right in a row are the four racquetball courts, which are so tall that they each span from the floor of the first story to the ceiling of the second story. An open stairway connects the two stories. Downstairs are the workout room, the locker rooms, and the Plexiglas doors that open onto the courts. Upstairs are a snack bar, employee offices, and a long hallway from which you can look down into the courts to watch the games that are being played. The entrance to the Club is also on the second floor, for whatever strange reason.
Grampa and I enter the building and go up the flight of stairs to the reception desk. “Hi, Vicky,” Grampa says to the woman there.
“Hey, Mike,” says Vicky. “Lynn! Good to see you, honey!”
I nod and smile at her. I’ve met most of the people who work at the Club before. I can’t say I remember any of them by name, but a lot of them remember me.
We go down the set of stairs that leads to the rest of the Club, and walk down the hallway. I can see matches going on in the first three courts we pass, and it makes me itch to get out there and start playing. Grampa says hi to the various people we pass. He seems to know everybody.
Finally, we get to the last court, Court Number Four. “This,” he says importantly, “is your court, Lynn. I put up a notice that nobody is allowed to play on this court Monday through Friday from 3:30 to six, unless, of course, they’re playing you.”
I can’t believe it. My own racquetball court, reserved specifically for me? So I don’t have to wait around until one opens up? This is a dream come true!
“I’m going to go change into my racquetball clothes,” Grampa continues. “You can start warming up if you want.”
Boy, do I ever want. I quickly change into my court shoes and pull out my racquet and ball. Then, I step onto the court. A real court! My first real court in over half a year!
I start warming up by just passing the ball to the wall and getting the rebounds. I try to see how long I can keep that up before losing the ball. This gets my body ready to run and strengthens my hand-eye coordination.
Then I practice my shots. I start with some regular forehand ones, then practice backhanded a little. Then I go for all the specialty “kill shots” that I could never do in my basement due to size constraints. I attempt a few rollouts, which are when the ball hits so low on the front wall that it immediately rolls across the floor afterwards, allowing the opponent no chance of retrieving it. Then I switch over to pinch shots, in which I’m aiming for the corner where the front wall and one of the side walls connect. It’s an exercise in precision, because I have to aim really low, but not so low that the ball will end up hitting the floor first. The goal of a pinch shot is for the ball to bounce between the front and side wall, getting stuck in the corner and making it hard for an opponent to retrieve.
I work on other shots after that—passing shots, ceiling shots, drive shots, even the challenging Z-ball, in which I try to zigzag the ball off the front wall and both side walls in such a way that it ends up traveling parallel to the back wall. I’m pretty horrible at the Z-ball, but it’s fun to try.
Grampa comes in a few minutes later, and warms up for a little bit. Then, we play. I start as server, meaning that I stand in the box that’s painted on the floor toward the front of the room. I hit the ball toward the front wall, and then it’s Grampa’s turn to retrieve it, making sure that it only touches the ground once before a hit, and never directly after a hit. Then it’s my turn to do the same thing. If the server messes up, it’s the other person’s turn to serve. If the non-server messes up, their opponent gets a point. Whoever gets to 15 points first wins.
We end up playing five matches—Grampa wins all of them. It takes me a while to get back in the groove, but I can see that I’m rapidly improving. While Grampa beats me 15 to 2 on the first match, he only wins by three points on the last.
“You’ve become quite the good player, Lynn,” he says, panting at the end of the last round.
“Can we play again?” I ask, even though I can tell what the answer’s going to be.
Grampa shakes his head. “Not today. I’m all tuckered out. I’m going to go shower and change. You can keep playing while I do that, though.”
I decide to take a short break before going back to practicing my shots. I sit down on the bench and take a long sip from my water bottle.
As soon as I set the bottle down, I notice someone who wasn’t here before. It’s a boy about my age, with floppy blondish hair and a cocky attitude. I don’t even need to meet him to know this about him. He just feels cocky.
He catches me looking at him and comes over. “D’you play?” he asks, which is pretty ridiculous because I’m sitting right here with my goggles still on, ball and racquet in my hand.
“Yeah,” I say. “Do you?”
He grins. “Heck, I’m a rac’ main-yak! I been playin’ since I was a kid!”
I raise my eyebrows, wondering if I should remind him that he still is a kid.
“My gramps taught me to play when I was no more ‘n four,” he continues, and I decide not to make a remark, because my grampa also taught me to play when I was little.
“You?” he asks. “When’d you learn?”
“Me?” I say scornfully, “I was practically raised on a racquetball court.” Which is kind of true, since I’ve been playing on and off since I was old enough to hold a racquet, but not really.
“Raised on a rac’ court, eh?” the boy in front of me says.
“Well, let’s just see how good ya got. What’cher name, anyhows?” His grammar is completely atrocious.
“Lynn,” I tell him.
“Lynn Syvna? Good to have ya here, Lynn Syvna.”
I can only stare. “How—how did you—my last name isn’t Syvna,” I say, shocked because my grandparents’ last name is Syvna.
Now it’s his turn to look surprised. “Ain’t you Mike Syvna’s granddaughter?”
I don’t ask him how he knew. “Yes, but my last name is Waley. He’s my mother’s father.”
“Oh,” he says. “Waley. Well, that’ll take a bit o’ time a gittin’ used to. ’Cuz I always thought you had the same last name as yer gramps. But okay, Lynn Waley. I believe ya.”
“Why do you have to call me by my last name anyway?” I ask.
He answers, “Aw, everyone get nicknames sooner or later, but before that I just gotta call ‘em by first ’n’ last. I mean, Lynn, that’s so short I can barely say it, but Lynn Waley, that’s a bit more man’geable. Just like me. I’m Jerr. Not Jerry, Jerr. And that don’t sound too good by itself. But my nickname, Jerr the Fox, now, that sound good.”
I stifle a snort. “Jerr the Fox? Why?”
He grins. “Fox ’cuz I’m so slick!”
I roll my eyes. Full of himself, just like I thought.
I decide I have to ask. “Does my grampa have a nickname?”
“Dude, yer gramps is the coolest! Yeah, he got a nickname. Know how he’s bald and likes ta eat a lotta fish?”
“Well, he’s my grampa, so I’d hope I’d know—”
Jerr cuts me off. “So, I named him the Big Salmon!”
I glare at him. “That’s cruel.”
“No it ain’t. He don’t care. I call ‘im that to ‘is face, he just laughs. He don’t care at all.”
“Doesn’t,” I correct him, still glaring. “He doesn’t care at all. But I think he does. That’s a mean nickname.”
“No, it ain’t! I’m tellin’ ya, him and all the other guys here, all of ‘em! They don’t care a bit what I call ‘em!” He grins at me and ‘corrects’ himself, “Doesn’t.”
Me, I just stare in disbelief. I can’t tell if he’s trying to play smart on me or if he really is that dumb.
“Whatever,” I say abruptly, adjusting my goggles and standing up. I am sooo ready for another fast-paced game of racquetball. “Are we going to play or not?”
“Holdjer horses, Lynn Lemon, I ain’t got my racquet yet! Hang on.” He runs over to another bench, leaving me behind, stiff as a poker.
“Lynn Lemon?!?!?!” I call after him.
“Yeah, Lemon ’cuz yer so sour!”
Great. So my parents are two thousand miles away, my brother’s life is in danger with every passing moment, my dog is dead, my little sister is gone forever, and I’m stuck here with this obnoxious, dim-witted showoff who has just pronounced me sour. Life couldn’t be better.
That's the Way the Racquetball Bounces, published by Blobfish Books
