Page 86 of Summer After Summer

“Can you do that?” Charlotte says. Are you good enough? is what she’s asking.

“Yes,” I say with confidence because even if I can’t, it’s what I’m going to do. “I can.”

“So that’s the plan,” I say to Fred that night. “I spoke to Matt, and he’s agreed to come on as my coach. I’ll call the school tomorrow.”

We’re out on the lawn near the summer house. We slipped away from the cocktail party that’s going on as if nothing was happening, like one of those doomed parties in The Great Gatsby, a book I’ve always despised.

Fred listened while I spoke, not saying anything, but now, finally, he does. “Can you give me a couple of days?”

“For what?”

“To come up with a better plan.”

Our backs are up against the building, our legs splayed out in front of us. Fred’s shorts are paint stained. He’s been repainting his aunt’s porch this last week.

“Plan for what?”

“For you. For us.”

I don’t say anything because his hurt is evident in his voice. “I have to do it, Fred.”

“Let me see, okay? Can you wait a day or two to call the school?”

“Yes, okay.”

I want to say more, but I can’t get the words out. I don’t ask how we’re going to stay together with me out on tour. At the ranking I’m going to start at, I’ll be leading a wanderer’s life, chasing an alchemy of points and prize money and whatever tournament will take me. Fred can’t come with me. I won’t let him give up his life for mine.

“Thank you.” He picks up my hand and kisses it. “I’m sorry about all of this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but I can be sorry anyway.”

I lean against him. “I thought we’d have more time.”

“We will,” Fred says with confidence, but his hand in mine is shaking.

“So, here’s the plan,” Fred says an anxious two nights later, a day that’s close enough to September that I can see it on the calendar without having to flip the page. “You’ll transfer to my school. I can pay for our housing because I was going to be in an apartment anyway. The team will take you—they’ll be more than happy to match your scholarship. Once you graduate next year, you can turn pro, if that’s what you want. But this way, you can finish your degree and we can be together. What do you think?” Fred looks at me nervously, but his voice doesn’t hold any doubt.

We’re in my bedroom. It’s late, near midnight. I can hear the crickets outside, grinding their legs in the grass, making that high-pitched whine, and the waves crashing into shore, that metronome beat that never goes away.

“You spoke to your school?”

“Yes, the tennis coach. He knew who you were.”

“Okay.”

“Are you mad?”

“I don’t know, Fred. This is a lot.”

“Too much?”

“I wish you’d talked to me before you arranged everything.”

He hangs his head. “You didn’t talk to me before you decided to go pro.”

“You’re right.” I reach for him. “Come here.”

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