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  “What could have caused this?” she asks. Doc widens her eyes.

  “A nutritional deficiency, most likely.” Rhonda makes another sound. A scoff that reminds me of a Henry snort.

  “That’s ridiculous. We are very nutritionally conscious in our home.”

  The doctor turns to me.

  “Eva, when was the last time you got your period?”

  Silence. A cold ball of panic begins to form in my stomach.

  “I don’t remember.” Rhonda stares at me. She doesn’t answer for me. That’s because she doesn’t have a clue, either. My period is not something that’s been foremost in our minds.

  “Within the last year? Last summer?” the doctor persists. My mind scrolls back. What did I do last summer, and did I have my period? I can’t remember.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. The doctor nods.

  “And when did Eva’s menses begin?”

  “Excuse me?” Rhonda asks.

  “How old was Eva when she first got her period?”

  “Oh, young. So young! She was in fourth grade, only ten years old. But, that’s Eva. She’s always done everything early!” Rhonda’s high-pitched laugh sounds maniacal to me.

  “And Eva, how tall are you?” the doctor asks.

  “Five-one,” I reply.

  “Do you know how much you weigh?” she continues.

  Too much! Too much, you pig! You’re so huge your bones are cracking from the sheer weight.

  “I don’t know. There isn’t a scale at the dorms where I’m staying.”

  Rhonda stands up swiftly.

  “May I ask the purpose of these questions?” she demands.

  “How much did you weigh last time you got on the scale at Mom’s house?” the doctor persists. I hesitate. I can’t make myself say it. The feeling, that dark-to-light feeling, descends on me, and the bees are buzzing again.

  Pig! Elephant! You are disgusting.

  “Stop this! Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?”

  The doctor whirls on Rhonda.

  “If Eva were a dog, you’d have been charged with animal abuse by now,” she says icily. “But because she’s your daughter, I’m going to have to discharge her to your care, where I predict she will continue to starve herself. In your nutritionally conscious home.”

  The doctor takes a step closer to me.

  “When was the last time you ate, hon?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  HENRY

  Mark’s voice feels like a slap. Even a thousand miles away and through a cell phone. I have this overpowering urge to press “end.”

  I’ve just told him I’m playing in Miami this weekend. A junior invitational tournament, the type he has kept me away from. Apparently one of the players had to drop out, and the tournament officials invited Chadwick to fill her spot. After the Dundas performance, the coaches decided there was only one girl to choose: me.

  Predictably, Mark explodes.

  “Who the hell signed off on that?” he demands.

  I’m in my dorm room. Yoly is seated at one of the desks, writing a letter to her family. She looks up. She can hear Mark yell all the way from Jersey.

  “My coach,” I say calmly. “The school. I’m going with a group from Chadwick.”

  Okay, Hen, since when does two equal a group? You and David are the only players going. Plus two coaches. So four. I guess four’s a group?

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got news for them. You don’t have permission to play in semipro tournaments.”

  “Dad, there’s no such thing as semipro. And you guys signed a form giving Chadwick permission for away tournaments.”

  “Bullshit, Henry. I signed no such form.”

  “Well, Mom did. It was with the stuff giving the school permission to use pictures of me on their website.”

  He swears loudly. Yoly doesn’t look up this time, but I see her eyebrows rise.

  “You see, this is the sort of crap I’m talking about! They are exploiting you. Not to mention it’s like an open invitation to predators. I’m calling them, right now. And Henry: you will not, I repeat, not play in that tournament this weekend. Do I make myself clear?”

  “As a bell, Dad,” I reply. My voice is controlled. It gives no hint of the adrenaline-induced rage that makes my hands shake. I press “end.”

  Weeks without Mark, the freedom of No Mark, has softened me. While I was home, I was used to his anger. Ever ready for it. Now, a few weeks into doing my own thing, the taste of the bit in my mouth again is harsh.

  “You okay?” Yoly says softly. I shrug. I throw myself onto my bed.

  “He doesn’t want you to play in the tournament?” she persists.

  “Nope,” I say flatly. She shakes her head.

  “Why not? It’s such an honor. Doesn’t he realize you were singled out?”

  She doesn’t get it. How could she? Yolanda Cruz’s father … her entire family … orbits in a completely different solar system from Planet Mark. She is in the middle of the pack here at camp, and the way her family acts, you’d think she was a Wimbledon champion. They call her every night, telling her how much they miss her, how proud they are of her. You’d think she’d moved to China, and not just gone to some camp up the highway.

  For the first time in my life, I’m envious. Not because I want a huge family. Not because I want to live above a restaurant in a hot, crowded city, although I could get used to Cuban food. Not because I want to get applause for playing mediocre tennis. I envy their simple enjoyment of her. The way they laugh together. I think if she told them she wanted to quit tennis and enter a nose-picking contest, they’d all show up to cheer her on. Armed with boxes of Kleenex.

  I know my parents love me, and miss me. But I wonder if they would be so obsessed with me if I were ordinary.

  “My dad’s complicated,” I begin.

  “All dads are complicated,” she says. “Especially about their daughters.”

  “Yeah, well, Mark’s the President of Complicated,” I say. She frowns.

  “Who’s Mark?”

  “Oh, my dad. I sometimes call him Mark. When I’m annoyed with him. We do that, Eva and I. She calls her mother Rhonda whenever she gets too over-the-top. Which is, like, always.” Yoly gets up from the desk and sits, cross-legged, on her bed.

  “You white girls have no clue about over-the-top,” she declares. “Try living in a Latino family, with Grandma in the apartment next door, and tell me about over-the-top. Try making it through a quinceañera with your sanity intact, and then, maybe, I’ll listen.”

  “Keensy-what?” I ask. Yoly’s eyes grow big.

  “Do not tell me you’ve never heard of a quinceañera.” I shrug. She gives a little scream of shock and horror, and jumps off the bed. She goes over to her dresser, rummages around in the bottom drawer, and pulls out a large manila envelope. She turns to me, holding it tightly against her chest.

  “What I am about to show you stays between us, understand?” she says seriously.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “I mean it, Henry. This is not very … Chadwick.”

  “I promise.” She sits next to me and pulls an eight-by-ten photo from the envelope.

  It’s her. Dressed up like Glinda the Good, the nice witch from The Wizard of Oz. More like, stuffed into a Glinda the Good costume, without the wand. She’s wearing a little diamond tiara in her hair, which is swept up into this high, fancy do. An enormous white dress billows around her. She wears diamond-drop earrings, a diamond necklace, dark red lipstick and plenty of eye makeup. She bears no resemblance to the sweaty, tennis-ball-pounding girl I know.

  “You clean up real nice, Yoly,” I say. She slaps me on the arm, but her face relaxes.

  “This,” she explains, “is the formal photo for my quinceañera. My ‘sweet-fifteen’ birthday party. Like a sweet sixteen, only more. For Latinas, when a girl turns fifteen, it’s like she’s officially a woman.”

  “Sounds cool,” I comment. She doesn’t answer right away. Sh
e looks thoughtful.

  “There are a lot of expectations,” she says carefully. “A lot of traditions. Expenses. It’s like throwing a wedding. There’s a band, a sit-down dinner. Drinks. Clothing. You plan for months, all for this one huge party. My family actually has sponsors to help pay for it. Like, the Gonzalez family who owns the cigar shop down the street from my parents’ restaurant? They sponsored all the soda, beer, rum, you name it. My tía Blanca donated all the flowers. My abuela bought my dress. Do you get the picture?”

  “Uh, it sounds like you’re planning a big, fun party and people are being generous?” I say. Yoly flops backward onto my bed. She stares at the ceiling.

  “They own you, Henry,” she says. “They chain you with their love and generosity. Whether you want it or not, and I never wanted it. I’m a jock, always have been, and I’m not into the whole retro-Cinderella thing. But what do you do when your grandmother says she’s emptied out her bank account and bought you the most beautiful quinces dress in Miami? And she wants you to go to the dress shop to see it and have a fitting? And next thing you know, you’re standing in front of a full-length mirror decked out like a Disney character in a dress two sizes too small?” Yoly is talking faster and faster. She’s approaching a rant.

  “You say, ‘No thanks’?” I suggest. She rolls over and looks squarely at me.

  “You compromise,” she says. “You swallow the urge to say, ‘Sorry, Abuelita, but I’d rather be shot at sunrise than seen in public like this.’ Instead, you tell her she’s the best grandmother in the whole wide world. Which she is, despite her need to parade you out like a Barbie in front of everyone you know, and quite a few you don’t. Then, after she dries her tears from crying over how beautiful you look in your quinces dress, you go to your parents. And tell them the only way on earth you’ll subject yourself to this torture is if they let you go to a really cool tennis camp over the summer.” Yoly smiles at me knowingly.

  “And that’s how you got to Chadwick,” I say.

  “When the Miami Grocers’ Association offered to sponsor the band for my quinces, I told Papi we could hire a DJ instead and ask the grocers to pay for camp. He asked, they agreed, and here I am. Compromise.”

  I look at the picture again. Despite what she says about Barbies, there is radiance in Yolanda’s eyes. She looks overweight and overdressed and overly made up and … happy. She wears a smile I’ve never seen on her at Chadwick.

  “You look beautiful in this picture, Yoly,” I say quietly, handing it back to her.

  She looks at me curiously. Silently, she replaces the picture in its envelope, returns it to the dresser drawer. Returns to the bed and gives my shoulders a squeeze.

  “Can’t you compromise with your father?” she asks kindly.

  She is trying so hard to be nice, but the fact that Yoly cannot possibly get Mark only makes me suddenly miss Eva. Terribly, like a stab of missing. I realize I haven’t spoken to her in days, and I make a mental note to call her, tonight, before lights-out.

  “ ‘Compromise’ is not a word in Mark Lloyd’s vocabulary,” I say grimly. “But listen. I don’t want to be negative. Maybe the Chadwick people will convince him to change his mind when he calls.” Yeah, right. Not in your lifetime, Henry.

  “Well, in that case … I have some big news,” Yoly says brightly. “Guess who’s going to your match this weekend?”

  “Andy Roddick?” I say hopefully.

  “So much better: me. And my mom. And my sister Carolina. I asked Missy if I could come down to watch on Sunday, for the finals, and she got us tickets. And afterward, if you all want, my parents said everybody should come to the restaurant for dinner. We’ll make a real fiesta out of it!”

  “Yoly, you do realize I might get knocked out during the first round Friday night?”

  “Henry, you are going to win this tournament. I feel it in my bones. I feel like this is going to be a very, very big weekend for you.”

  That’s when I surprise myself. I throw my arms around her in a big, grateful hug. It’s all good with Yoly. Positive energy gushing from every pore in her body. Just the sort of karma I need right now. I need to focus on all the good stuff. An exciting tournament. A new girlfriend and dinner out at a real Cuban restaurant. David. Who, it turns out, kisses as well as he plays tennis. Maybe even better.

  “Okay, but promise me one thing: you have to help me order from the menu. The only Cuban food I know is rice and beans. And your mom’s empanada thingies.”

  Yoly sits up straight. She doesn’t need more encouragement.

  “Let me tell you about cerdo asado,” she begins.

  Chapter Twenty

  EVA

  “Yes, she actually used that word! In front of Eva! I have never experienced anything more … thoughtless. Irresponsible.”

  Rhonda is ranting to my father on the phone. I listen from the den, where I recline on the overstuffed couch. My cracked toe is elevated on one of the embroidered pillows strewn there; my head rests on another. They are part of a collection my aunt brought back from her trip to India last year.

  “And then, as if we weren’t upset enough, she ordered an EKG for Eva. Refused to release her until they’d monitored her heart!”

  My family hardly ever takes vacations, let alone zips around the world to an exotic place like India. The last semivacation I remember taking was to Cape Cod, last summer, for a long weekend. We stayed at a little inn, in a town called Wellfleet. I remember on one side of the Cape the ocean was cold, way colder than the Jersey Shore, and on the other side the beach was littered with razor clams.

  Here’s what I don’t remember: getting my period. Not last summer, or last fall either. I vaguely recall that at some point my period was late. Then really late. Then gone. But since I knew I couldn’t possibly be pregnant (I’ve never even kissed a guy), I didn’t bother mentioning it to Rhonda. She continued to stock my bathroom with sanitary pads, and I just kept shoving the unused packs farther and farther into the back of the cabinet under the sink. I wasn’t worried. I mean, it felt like a gift. Especially since I’ve always loathed, hated and despised my period.

  I still remember the first time. I was ten. It was fourth grade, and I got it in school. I had no clue what was happening to me; Rhonda and I still hadn’t had the “becoming a woman” talk, and when I went to the girls’ room after lunch, my underpants were soaked with blood. I was petrified. I figured I had cut myself down there … maybe I sat on a splinter on the playground during recess? … and after I rolled my bloody underwear into a ball and shoved it into the trash can, I ran, crying, to the nurse’s office.

  She was very kind but didn’t enlighten me much. I guess she felt that was a mother’s job, so she called her to pick me up and I left school early. I have to admit, Rhonda did her best, and was very sweet and frank and factual about the whole thing, even though it had totally taken her by surprise as well. I mean, I was ten.

  But the fact is all the signs were there. My mother should have noticed. Should have prepared me.

  Our family doctor gave it a name: early-onset puberty. When a girl grows faster and develops earlier than the growth chart says she should. It explained a lot. I was the class giant in second grade. I had pubic hair in third grade. I had breasts in fourth grade. I had jerky boys staring at me and whispering. I had cramps. More than anything, I had the feeling that I was the biggest, fattest, hugest elephant on the face of the earth. I was a little girl stuck in a woman’s body, and I wished there were something, anything, I could do to change it.

  Rhonda continues ranting.

  “Well, I want a second opinion, and tomorrow we are going to speak to a reputable doctor.” Pause. “Yes, of course I called the school. They’ve been very nice.” Pause. “She’s relaxing on the couch right now.”

  Relaxing. There’s an interesting word for how I feel. All floaty and light. The painkillers the hospital prescribed have turned me into cotton candy. I look like I occupy space, but in fact, I’m mostly air. This
is good stuff. My thoughts belong to someone else; my mother’s voice emerges from a dream. Which is fortunate. Because reality sucks.

  Basically, I’m out. Bye-bye, New York School of Dance. At least for this summer. The doc says I need to take a month off for my toe to heal completely, and while the rational side of me thinks that is just not a big deal, the catastrophizing side of me knows it’s the end of my career. All those years of ballet lessons and classes, all those summers when the schedule and the budget didn’t allow for a vacation … for nothing. Madame will forget me like yesterday’s headache. The Three Musketeers will probably help them move my stuff out of the dorm.…

  I can’t think about them. I can’t think about what they’re doing right now. Because if I start looking at my watch and imagining pointe class proceeding without me, I may start crying so hard that I’ll never stop.

  My mother’s voice is suddenly close. She’s carried the phone into the living room.

  “She’s right here. I’ll put her on.” She holds it toward me. “It’s Dad.”

  Inconveniently enough, my father is in Chicago on business. Quite a bummer, because the only thing that stands between me and a complete Rhonda-freak-out-fest is my father’s low-keyed presence. The man doesn’t have a pulse, and is very, very good at hugs. As my hand reaches out in drug-induced slow motion for the phone, I suddenly feel an overpowering need to hear his voice, to close my eyes and curl up against him here on the couch and feel the low rumble in his chest as he speaks.

  “Daddy?” I say, and to my astonishment, my voice breaks. Something inside my chest splits open, and I’m not floating anymore; I’m drifting, cut loose in space, and there’s no air to breathe, no sound, nothing to tether me. I’m so lost.

  “Honey, everything is going to be okay,” I hear him say. He sounds solid. Grounded and sure. I want him to hold on to me, keep me from disappearing.

  “Okay,” I say quietly. Tears slide down my cheeks.

  “We love you, Eva,” he says firmly. I look up at my mother. Her mouth forms a determined line.