Lovely Girls(2)

Alex held out her hand with a flourish, like a game show hostess. She sat on her bed, leaning back against a white-velvet-upholstered headboard, her long legs sprawled in front of her. Her duvet was covered in a cheerful print of oversize red and pink poppies. Alex flipped her braid back over one shoulder and looked uncertainly at the camera.

My therapist, Beatrice, suggested that I do this. Well, my ex-therapist. She’s back in Buffalo, where I used to live before my mother suddenly decided she didn’t want to live there anymore. She sold our house and moved us across the country to Shoreham, Florida. All without ever asking me if I wanted to move. And now I’m about to start my senior year at a strange high school in a strange town where I don’t know a soul.

Alex shook her head and paused to take in a deep, shaky breath.

Where was I? Right, Beatrice. At our very last session, she said that I should start a diary and, you know, write down all the things I’d say to her in a session. But I hate writing, so she suggested that I could do a video diary instead.

I think she’s hoping that this will help me remember what happened that day.

Alex hesitated, fidgeting with the end of her braid.

I’ve always wondered if Beatrice believed me. When I told her that I don’t remember what happened. Maybe she thinks I’ll say things here in this video diary that I wouldn’t say to her. Because no one’s ever going to see this.

But I don’t feel like talking about that day.

Alex stared at the camera, her eyes wide and unfocused. Then she shook her head, as if to cast off a memory.

Although something did happen this morning. Something weird.

I went for a run, even though it was, like, a thousand degrees outside. I can’t believe how freaking hot it is here. It was like running right into a wall of heat. I tried to focus on my music and putting one foot in front of the other. I ran until I wasn’t sure where I was or how far away I was from home. I think I might have pushed it too hard because suddenly I got really dizzy. I stopped and had to brace my hands against my knees while I tried to catch my breath. Then I saw a park up ahead, so I headed there, hoping it would have a water fountain, which it did.

The water was warm and tasted terrible, but I drank it anyway and then splashed some more on my face and neck. I felt a little better, but I figured I should cool down before I ran home. I was looking around for somewhere shady to sit when I heard the sound of a tennis ball being hit. I hadn’t even noticed there were tennis courts in the park. But then I saw them, off to the right of the parking lot. They were painted green and surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. There were some girls about my age playing there, so I sat down on a bench to watch.

There were three of them, although only two of the girls were hitting, baseline to baseline. The third was sitting off to the side of the court, bouncing her racket against the palm of her hand. They were good. Really good, actually.

One of the girls, who was tall and had dark hair, sent a ball flying out of the court. The blonde who was watching them laughed and said, “Jesus, Shae, if you don’t fix whatever the hell is going wrong with your backhand, Coach isn’t going to put you on the lineup.”

The girl called Shae said, “Callie just hit a good shot.”

The blonde smirked at her and said, “No, she didn’t. She pushed the ball like she always does, waiting for you to make a mistake, like you always do. That’s how she beats you every time.”

Callie was obviously the name of the third girl. She had strawberry-blonde hair and freckles. She rolled her eyes and said, “I don’t push the ball, Daphne.”

Daphne—the blonde—just laughed in a mean way and said, “Yes, you do. I don’t blame you. You win by pushing. Well, not against me but against everyone else. You’ll get second court this year for sure.”

By this point, I’d figured out they were obviously all on a tennis team together. There are only a few high schools in town, so it was possible I’d play them at some point. I decided to take a video of them. I don’t know why exactly. It’s a weird habit I have. When I told Beatrice about it, she said that maybe it’s how I process things. That’s why she suggested the video diary.

Anyway, the brunette and the girl with the freckles started hitting again, and I held up my phone and started to record them. I didn’t notice that the blonde who was with them had left the court and walked over to where I was sitting until she was suddenly standing right in front of me.

“What the fuck are you doing? Are you recording my friends?” she asked. She had her arms crossed, and she was glaring down at me, like I was a piece of shit she had stepped in.

I stared up at her, not sure what to say. I mean, I was taking a video of them. But even so, her reaction was so over the top. She was practically yelling at me.

And then she said, “Recording people is weird and creepy and probably illegal. Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

I told her my name and that I’d just moved here. And she snorted and said, “Great, just what we need. Another pervert hanging around the park.”

My face felt even redder and hotter than it had when I was running. I managed to say, “I’m not a pervert. I’m a tennis player. I’m trying out for the team at my new school and was . . .” And then I trailed off. I had been about to say checking out the competition, but that presumed so many things. I didn’t know if I’d ever play these girls. I couldn’t seem to say anything right, and the blonde was just standing there smirking down at me.