Time slows. I sense everything. My breath is fast but steady, my callused palm in its familiar curve around the racquet’s handle. I stare the ball down—unblinking, undeterred—and count the nanoseconds. Ready. Eager. Calculating. Finally, with a ferocious forehand stroke, I let out a grunt and connect strings to ball. I can almost hear the poor thing wailing in frustration as it sails away from me. Mary Shea, my training partner across the net, darts into position to volley it back.
In moments like these, when I’m in the zone, my hair slick with sweat and my muscles thrumming, the only things that exist are the ball, the net, and the court, and the symbiotic relationship my body has with each. It doesn’t matter if I’m playing against Mary, or our coach, Bob, or no one at all except a steadfast, bruised wall. The rest of the planet tunes out to a distant static; my own thoughts dim to the lowest volume on the dial. On the court, there is no problem that isn’t solved by hard work and determination.
Mary and I keep the volley going. It’s our third set, match point; advantage, me. If I score the next point, I win. I imagine I’m on the hard court at Arthur Ashe Stadium, going head-to-head with Serena Williams in the finals of the US Open, the audience half cheering, half holding their breaths in suspense.
Someday, I vow, I’ll be there.
Mary returns the ball close to the net, but I meet it easily and smash it—hard—back to her side. She shrieks as she dives for it, but she’s too far away. The little yellow sphere bounces to the ground, unobstructed.
“Yes!” I shout on the last of my air, lifting my racquet high in triumph.
“Very nice, both of you,” Bob calls from his trusty portable camping chair by the net post, where he’s jotting in his notebook.
“Damn, girl,” Mary says, holding her hand out to me. Even though it’s just a practice match, we always shake before and after.
“You too,” I say, gripping her sweaty palm across the net. “That might have been one of our best matches ever.”
She shrugs. “Would’ve been better if I’d won.”
I roll my eyes, out of routine more than irritation. Typical Mary. She likes to work hard and stretch her limits, which you’d think would mean she accepts that losing sometimes is part of the game. No point in practicing with an evenly matched opponent if you care only about winning. But no. She wants it all, every time.
It can be hard watching Mary, the girl who has all the money and resources and support in the world, go off and play in pro tournaments, earning ranking points and making a name for herself on the circuit. Meanwhile, most days, I’m at the local rec center in my middle-of-nowhere town in western New York State, hitting balls against a racquetball wall, my shoes squeaking against the wood floor, my teeth clenched in determination.
Mary and I head over to the bench where our stuff is. Her chestnut hair is still pinned into its usual severe bun on the top of her head, with only the tiniest flyaways at her temples to hint at physical exertion. I don’t know how she does it. By the end of a killer match, my wavy, shoulder-length blond hair is always spilling out of its ponytail—more a stinky, tangled rat’s nest than anything else. My pale skin is blotchy and absolutely dripping with sweat; Mary’s tan skin is smooth and glistening like a lake on a sunny morning.
I wipe my forehead and neck with my towel and take a long chug of water. I’m packing up my gear when Bob comes over. His apple cheeks are red and shiny, matching his bald head. Everything about Bob Nelson is round and glowing. He was a pro player from 1979 to 1985 and doesn’t let me get away with not giving my best every single day.
“For the winner.” He holds out a small, individually wrapped square of dark chocolate. I laugh and pop it in my mouth. Food is fuel and strength and brainpower, so I try to be very careful about what I put in my body. I actually prefer lean proteins, dark, leafy greens, and whole grains to junk food—one reason of many why the kids at school and I seem to be from different planets. But I can never pass up one of Bob’s little prizes. I figure if I bust my butt for a couple hours first, the few extra grams of refined sugar are acceptable. “You’ve made quite a bit of progress on your two-handed backhand, Dara. I’m impressed.”
“Thanks!” I say, relieved. I’ve been working on that stroke a lot lately on the racquetball court.
He claps me on the shoulder. “Listen. You took lots of risks today, kept up great momentum. I’ve never seen you this confident on the court. It’s time to get out there.”
“Really?” Suddenly, I seem to have gotten a second wind. I could dance around the court right now. I know what he means by “out there.” Bob wants me to go pro. And so do I. High school ended a week ago. It’s time to start making my dreams a reality.
Since the moment I could walk, maybe even before that, tennis has been my sole focus. I’ll never forget sitting in the little seat compartment of a shopping cart at Target, pointing to a child-sized red plastic racquet and wailing at the top of my lungs until my mom grudgingly agreed to buy it. Since then, everything else—schoolwork, social life, everything—has taken a back seat to my training. It’s part of me.
Because of tennis, I’ve never been to a pizza party or kissed a boy. Because of tennis, my relationship with my mother has been stretched, taxed, strained.
Because of tennis, I know what it feels like to be proud. Because of tennis, I have an answer when people ask me who I am, despite all the other blank spaces in my life.
It was all my choice, every time, the good and the bad. And now I can finally go after a professional tennis career.
Almost.
The one thing I don’t have is money. And this sport requires a lot of it. Tennis club memberships are expensive, and so are training sessions. As it is, I have to drive an hour and a half each way, every Tuesday and Friday, to Rochester, because that’s where the nearest tennis center is located—and where Bob and Mary live. I’ve won a little money in the few regional junior circuit tournaments I’ve been able to play in, and earned some more at my part-time job at the juice stand at the mall. But I’ve spent every dime on coaching and equipment. Bob cuts me a break on his fee because I always double up my sessions with Mary. She trains with him six days a week—four one-on-one sessions, and two with me. This has been our system for the past few years, and I’m equal parts grateful and jealous.
Going pro is even pricier. When you’re starting out, the tournaments don’t pay much. The prize pools usually total around $10,000—and that’s split among the top few finishers. So even if you win, you’re not earning a real living. Plus you have to pay for travel, accommodations, equipment, your trainer, and so on. It adds up fast. A lot of players, like Mary, are bankrolled by family money. That’s not an option for me. My mom is a nurse. She works hard, taking overtime shifts at all hours of the day and night to ensure we make ends meet, but her paycheck isn’t huge. And I have no dad to speak of, no extended family, no one else to ask.
“There’s an upcoming ITF women’s tournament in Toronto,” Bob continues. “Mary’s playing in it.”
“I know,” I say. The International Tennis Federation circuit is where a professional tennis career begins. Ideally, I’d travel to as many tournaments as possible—in the US and beyond—put my nose to the grindstone, and start earning ranking points. I’ll work my way up to the Women’s Tennis Association 125K Series, continue earning points, and then, if all goes according to plan, eventually advance to the WTA Tour. That’s the big one, the one where I could someday see Serena’s face staring back at me from across the net. “There’s also one before that in Buffalo, a few in Florida, and one in Charlottesville, Virginia.” I can recite the ITF schedule by heart. I should be signing up for as many as possible.
Bob nods. “I understand finances are a concern …” He lowers his voice. I don’t know why; Mary is perfectly aware of my situation. She’s even alluded to being happy about it, on occasion. Because she knows if she had to play me—really play me, in a real match—she’d lose there too. “But starting slow is better than not starting at all. If there’s any way you could make it happen, I think you should begin with the Toronto one in August. It’s got a bigger prize pool than the others, so if you did well—which I’m confident you would—it could get you off to a great start.”
“That would be amazing.”
He levels me with his gaze. “Otherwise, Dara, what’s the point of all this?” He waves a hand around us.
His words punch the air out of me far more effectively than two hours of running around the court did. It was easier to pretend I had plenty of time to figure things out when school was still in session. But I need to make a move. Now. Or the Marys of the world are going to pass me by and Bob will have to move on to more serious players.
Toronto, Canada. It’s only a three-hour drive from home, but it might as well be the moon. I’ve never been out of the country; I’ve barely even left this little pocket of upstate New York. Seeing what else is out there has always been on my to-do list, but so far it hasn’t been an option.
Mary’s dad arrives then, and Bob excuses himself to give Mr. Shea the rundown on today’s session.
I take a quick shower in the tennis center’s swanky locker room, run a comb through my hair, and throw on a clean pair of leggings and a tank top. My body feels good—clean, and tired in the best way—but as I leave the building, my head is murky with half plans.
“Hey,” a familiar voice says, and I look up to see my friend Sam jogging down the sidewalk toward me. His camera bounces against his chest.
My face muscles relax instantly. Sam Alapati and I have been best friends since Mom and I moved into the house next to his in Francis, New York, when I was three. Apart from my mom, he’s the most important person in my life. It didn’t take long for the kids at school to grow impatient with my training schedule and stop inviting me to things. And I’m not sure if Mary would be my friend if not for tennis. But Sam’s different. He exists in his own realm.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him.
“I spent the morning at the Eastman Museum, and then I remembered that you’re in the city on Tuesdays too. But I guess I’m too late to get to watch you play.”
“You watch me hit balls in the backyard all the time,” I say.
“That’s not the same.”
“True.”
Mary comes out of the building then with her dad.
“See you next time, Dara,” Mr. Shea says. He’s a really nice guy. Genuinely proud of his daughter, and willing to give her whatever she needs to achieve her goals—and I don’t just mean financially. He and Ms. Shea are always at Mary’s tournaments, cheering her on from the stands.
“Yup, see ya,” I say.
Mary lays eyes on Sam and automatically smoothes the two stray hairs back into her bun. “Oh, hi, Sam! I didn’t know you were here!”
I resist the urge to make barf sounds. Sam is cute, I guess, with his dark-brown skin, messy brown hair, and easy smile, but I don’t see him that way. He and Mary met a couple months ago at a junior tournament—the last time Sam saw me play. I never knew Mary was the gushing type until I saw her fall all over herself to meet him. She didn’t seem to care that he’d brought his then-girlfriend, Sarah Quick.
Sam broke up with Sarah just before graduation, because, he said, it was pointless for them to keep pretending like everything was normal when they were about to go to college in different states. Secretly, I was happy. Because now he and I get to spend the summer together, Sarah-free.
But I wonder if Sam will pick up what Mary’s offering, now that he’s single.
“Hi, Mary, how are you?” he says politely, and I know immediately that I’m safe from having to spend the last summer before he goes away to school watching him make out with my best frenemy.
“I’m doing well! I have five tournaments lined up for the summer already.”
Sam’s eyes dart to me in sympathy and then back to her. “That’s really cool. I’m sure you’ll do great.”
She beams. “Are you headed to college in the fall?”
He nods. “Massachusetts College of Art and Design.” His dream photography school. They chat about that for a minute, and as I watch them talk, these two people who are about to get everything they’ve ever wanted, the sudden need to get out of here takes hold of me.
“Did you drive in, Sam?” I interrupt.
He shakes his head. “Bus.”
I make a “follow me” gesture with my head. “Car’s parked around the corner. We should get going if we want to beat rush-hour traffic.”
“Okay,” he says. “Bye, Mary. Bye, Mary’s dad.”
We get in the car, and as I drive, Sam scrolls through the photos he took at the museum.
“What do you think about me signing up for a pro tournament in Canada?” I ask after a few miles, cutting into the silence and mundaneness of this well-traveled road.
He looks up from his camera. “Really?”
“Yeah, Bob brought it up today. He thinks I’m ready.”
“Dara! That’s awesome!” Sam knows how important Bob’s opinion is to me. But it only takes half a beat for him to catch on to my lack of enthusiasm. “Aren’t you excited?”
I glance at him. “Of course I’m excited. You know how long I’ve been working toward this.”
“I do.”
“But …”
He knows. “Yeah.” He clicks off his camera, then asks quietly, “Have you mentioned it to Mellie?”
“Not yet.” What his question really means: How are you going to get your mom to agree to it? Because it’s not just the money issue that makes this a touchy subject for her. Mom’s never been excited or invested in my career. When I try to share news about progress I’ve made in a training session, she says minimally encouraging things with no real emphasis behind them, or just changes the subject completely. It’s not a good feeling, knowing the person closest to you doesn’t support the thing most important to you.
“Any suggestions on how to bring it up?” I ask Sam. This conversation about Toronto is going to be crucial—I have to figure out how to get her on my side, not drive the wedge in further. And Sam knows my mom almost as well as I do. His mom, Niya, is best friends with my mom.
“Ease into the subject casually, you know?” Sam suggests. “Don’t give her a chance to put up her defenses …”
While Sam thinks, sometimes out loud, sometimes not, I exit the highway and drive past all the totally thrilling, all-too-familiar Francis landmarks. Two churches and a temple. The few vegetable-covered tables in the parking lot of Dr. Fred’s dentist office—our version of a farmer’s market. The two-pump gas station. The McDonald’s.
“What if you ask her about getting a passport?” Sam asks finally. “You’ll need one if you’re going to Canada. And it won’t be like, ‘Oh hey, Mom, let’s talk about tennis.’ ”
“A passport,” I repeat, mulling it over. It’s not a bad idea. I will need one—for this tournament and hopefully other international ones in the future. “She won’t be able to disagree that I should have one in case of emergencies or whatever, right?”
He nods.
“How do you even get a passport? Do you need to go into city hall or something?” I ask.
“I think you can do it at the post office. I remember I had to bring my birth certificate.”
Which means I’ll need to track down my birth certificate. When I went to apply for my learner’s permit, the DMV lady asked for it, but we hadn’t brought it with us, so Mom signed some sort of “statement of identity” thing for me instead. Still, she must have my birth certificate somewhere.
“Okay, so I start with telling her I need a passport, and then, once the discussion is going well, I’ll veer into the specifics of the Toronto tournament.” I elbow Sam. “You’re so smart.”
He smiles. “Aren’t you glad I mooched a ride off you now?”
I laugh.
When I pull into my driveway, Sam unclicks his seat belt and opens the door. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I say, but make no move to get out of the car. I watch as he crosses the lawn to his house, scanning through his photos once more. He doesn’t watch where he’s going, but there’s no need—we could both do the path between our houses blindfolded.
I bat my fingertips against the steering wheel a few quick times in an attempt to get fired up. Then I get out of the car and jog up to our little yellow house.
“Heya,” Mom calls from the kitchen when I swing open the squeaky screen door. “How was practice?”
I drop my bag in the foyer and round the corner. She’s in her light-pink scrubs, her brown hair in a swingy ponytail, sitting at the kitchen table clipping coupons from the grocery store circular. I can’t believe paper coupons are still a thing—you’d think they’d have moved to apps with scannable bar codes or something by now. But Mom loves searching through the papers, finding good sales, and organizing her coupons in her Velcro coupon pouch.
“It was really good,” I say. Normally, I’m happy when she asks about practice, but today I kind of wish she hadn’t, so I could have started with the passport stuff like Sam and I planned.
“Glad to hear it.” She doesn’t pause in her task.
A sealed package rests on the counter. I recognize the box immediately, and it’s like a railroad switch—the only thing that could get me to veer onto a different track right now.
“Hot Sauce King!” I cry. I grab the box and bring it to the table.
That gets Mom to put her scissors down. Her eyes light up. “I was waiting for you to open it. What do you think—wait until fajita night tomorrow, or taste test now?”
“Taste test now!” I grab the scissors and slice through the packing tape. Mom gets up and grabs six teaspoons from the silverware drawer. A deep respect and admiration for spicy food is one quality Mom and I share unreservedly. A few times a year we order new hot sauces online and have a tasting party.
There are three bottles inside: Knock-You-on-Your-Butt Spicy Sauce, Fire Mouth Habanero, and Chef José’s What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger. I’ve been wanting to try that last one for a long time. Mom and I make quick work of opening the bottles and pouring a small amount of each into the teaspoons. When they’ve all been doled out, we each pick up the Knock-You-on-Your-Butt and face off like we’re going to thumb wrestle.
“Ready?” she asks.
“I was born ready.”
“One, two, three!”
We spoon the sauce into our mouths. My eyes immediately water, and Mom forces herself to swallow before breaking into a surprised cough.
“Holy crap,” I croak.
“That’s a nine at least,” she says, taking a giant gulp of water. Rookie move—water doesn’t do much to cool your mouth in times like these. Laughing, I go to the fridge and pour us each a big glass of almond milk.
I take a sip, smack my lips, and say, “Eight.” We always rank the sauces on a scale of one to ten.
When our palates have sufficiently recovered, we move on to the Fire Mouth Habanero. We both agree this one is probably about a five, though someone with a weaker constitution would probably give these all a ten. The What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger is way more up my alley—I give it a nine; Mom a ten. I don’t know why I love the sensation that my taste buds are burning a fiery death, but I do.
“We’re ordering more of that one next time,” I say, tossing the spoons in the dishwasher.
“Definitely.” She slips her coupon pouch into her purse, grabs her insulated lunch bag from its hook on the pantry door, and starts pulling sandwich fixings from the fridge—a telltale sign she’s about to start a shift. She works in the ER and doesn’t always get to take an official dinner break. “So, Niya was telling me about this new movie she and Ramesh just watched. It’s a documentary about a guy who had to get his leg amputated, but kept it—in a grill, of all places. And then the grill was sold, and the new owner found the leg and refused to give it back.” She grins over her shoulder. “We should watch that one night next week if you’re free.”
“Sure,” I say. “Maybe Monday after I get home from the juice stand?”
“Works for me.”
It’s easy, hanging out with her like this. Our relationship is like a coin, and these are what I call “heads-side” moments. Both our schedules are nuts and we don’t always spend as much time together as we’d like, but we do make sure to set aside time for our traditions. Puzzles together on the front porch when the weather is nice, Netflix on lazy nights, going out to restaurants for special occasions and ordering the spiciest things on the menu, occasional homemade dinners with Sam and his family. I know if I’m ever in trouble, Mom will be there for me. We’re a team. Not quite a doubles team, where everything one of us does depends on the other, but more like singles players representing the same country in the Olympics. A team in which the members operate independently, but with a shared goal.
But I know the second I broach the topic of the passport and Toronto, the coin is going to flip. And the tails side is a completely different story. A wall goes up between me and Mom, and we might both still be competing in the Olympics, but we’re bitter rivals. Sometimes this happens when the subject of the past comes up—she doesn’t like talking about her family or where she came from, and she always shuts down in those moments. But the main thing that sends the wall up is tennis.
Mom has absolutely no faith that my tennis career is going to happen. For a long time, she humored me, and drove me to practice as if it were just another mom job like doctor’s office visits and parent-teacher conferences. But lately, any time the subject of my going pro comes up, she goes on the offensive, saying it’s too expensive or unrealistic. I actually think she’s hoping I’ll fail so she’ll be able to insist I go to college in a year. She had to go to work right after high school, and she wants me to have the education, the opportunities, she never had. And yes, in lots of ways, it makes sense to play tennis at the collegiate level. Mom would be happy I was “continuing my academic career,” and I’d be happy to have regular sessions on the court. The school could finance a lot of my tennis expenses. Plenty of pros played in college. It’s a viable path to the majors for sure.
Except for the tiny fact that it doesn’t feel right. I’ve never been a very dedicated student—I don’t think I ever got higher than a B– in anything except phys ed. The court was always my classroom; training was my brand of studying. Commencement never meant a beginning—it meant the end of my biggest distraction. While Sam and most of the other kids in our year were obsessing over transcripts and portfolios and letters of recommendation this past fall, I didn’t apply to a single college. I’m done with school and can finally focus on the important stuff. So why on earth would I go back?
I grab an apple from the basket on the windowsill, spin it around to remove the stem, and watch Mom as she drops a handful of baby carrots into a baggie. I don’t want to flip the coin; I don’t want this good moment to come to an end. But I have to. It’s too important. I take a deep breath and segue into the line I’d practiced in the car with Sam: “I’m going to apply for a passport next week. Would you mind digging up my birth certificate when you get a chance? I’ll need it for the application.”
Like a sponge being zapped of its moisture, Mom’s entire body goes rigid. The baggie of baby carrots slips from her fingers to the counter. One of the little orange nubs rolls into the sink.
Really? Already? I didn’t even mention the word tennis. “What’s wrong?” I ask, the lingering hot sauce on my tongue turning sour.
“Nothing.” She turns to face me. Her expression is hard to read—unlined, but oddly tense. If I didn’t have so much practice spotting and analyzing abrupt actions in short bursts of time, I’d miss the swift lick of her lips, the extra beat she takes to make sure there’s no emotion in her voice. “What do you need a passport for?”
“Well …” I take a realigning moment of my own. Forget the ease-her-into-it strategy. Just say it. “Now that school’s over, Bob and I agree it’s time to start entering pro tournaments. I know we’ve talked about how it’s not possible, but I think I need to make it possible. The only way I’m ever going to reach the majors is if I start earning ranking points now. I can’t stay in Francis forever.”
“Most eighteen-year-olds go off to college when they want to get away from their hometown,” Mom says under her breath. I ignore it.
“I know money is tight. But I’ll take more shifts at work, and then use that money for travel. I’ll subsidize it with credit cards if I have to. The most important thing is playing, getting the experience, getting my name out there, and getting ranked.”
The corners of her mouth have turned down.
I keep going. “There are some tournaments in the States coming up, but Bob said it would be smart to begin with the one in Toronto in August.” I pause briefly. “That’s where the passport comes in.”
She takes the apple from where I abandoned it on the table and carefully puts it back in its basket. Everything in its place.
“What do you think?” I ask finally.
She looks at me. A flash of sadness floods her eyes, but then it quickly subsides, like the changes of a tide sped up on a time-lapse video. “I don’t see how it can work, Dara.”
My heart drops. This is so unfair. Why can’t she even try to see it from my point of view? “Why not?” I ask flatly.
“First of all, how are you going to both take on more shifts at the juice stand and travel so much? There are only so many hours in the day. Believe me, I know.”
“Well, I won’t be traveling all the time. Each tournament is only six days. I could—”
“Secondly, please don’t put any of this on your credit card. Those bills accumulate faster than you can imagine. And the interest rates are outrageous. I’ve worked very hard to keep us out of debt. Credit cards are for—”
“Emergencies only,” I mumble. “Yeah, I know.” This is not the first time I’ve heard this speech. But doesn’t she understand that this feels like an emergency to me?
She checks the clock on the microwave. “I have to go.” She grabs her lunch bag, but stops before leaving the kitchen and pulls me into a hug. I don’t back away, but I don’t relax into it, either. “I’m proud of you, Dara. We just need to be more … realistic.” She ruffles my hair and leaves the room.
No. She doesn’t get to just shut me down like this. She doesn’t get to pretend like she cares and then walk out the door, leaving me stuck and alone. Not again.
I run after her. “Can I at least have my birth certificate so I can get my passport? Maybe I do have to come up with a better plan, but when I do, I want to be ready to go.”
Her hand is on the screen door latch, and she only turns halfway back. She doesn’t look me in the eye. “I’m sorry, I don’t know where it is.” With that, she leaves.