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“What do you think all these appointments are about?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “What do your parents say?”

  “I don’t know. Ask them.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Relentless. The woman must’ve completed her residency interrogating prisoners. I look at the clock. Only ten minutes have ticked by.

  “They think I need help,” I say. Then stop.

  “What sort of help?” Wendy presses.

  “Eating help,” I say reluctantly. Wendy bobs her head, a slight, encouraging nod.

  Oh god, look at those thunder thighs squeezed into that chair! She wears those dresses to hide her big lard butt. This is the sort of woman who stows a twelve-pack of Twinkies in her bottom desk drawer. Why would you tell her anything?

  “Some emergency-room doctor in New York told them I’m too thin,” I finally say. “They’ve completely overreacted.”

  “Do you think you’re too thin, Eva?”

  “No. I’ve just said, everyone’s overreacting.”

  Wendy picks up a manila folder from her desk and flips it open.

  “I’m looking at a memo your family doctor faxed to me. He says at your last weigh-in they determined that you are only at seventy-three percent of the minimum healthy weight for someone your age and height. He says blood work indicates that your electrolyte balance is off. An EKG shows that you have an irregular, slow heartbeat. A bone-density scan reveals osteopenia, which means your bones are thinning, probably caused by a calcium deficiency. Your mother reports that after you shower the tub is full of your hair. You’ve stopped menstruating, which is what happens when the percentage of fat on your body drops below healthy levels. Eva, this doesn’t look like an overreaction. It looks like a very serious condition.”

  My god, why won’t these people let up! Dough Girl here doesn’t know the first thing about health. Look at her! Even her ankles are fat.

  “Wendy, I’m a dancer. Guys lift me. I leap. The aim is to appear light, to bound across the stage effortlessly. Have you ever seen a graceful elephant bounding effortlessly?”

  “Healthy ballerinas menstruate,” Wendy replies evenly. “They are not bald. Their toes don’t crack during lessons.” I throw myself back into the cushions in frustration.

  “Listen, I eat, okay?” I half shout. “Maybe not dripping, bloody steaks and buckets of Häagen-Dazs, but I eat good, healthy food. Everyone is threatening me and saying I have to gain a couple of pounds, and I’ve agreed to gain a couple of pounds. What more do you want from me?”

  “We want you to accept that there is a larger problem here that goes beyond gaining a few pounds, and we want you to accept help,” Wendy responds instantly.

  “What problem? What’s the larger problem?” I fire back at her.

  “Eva, you have an eating disorder.”

  “That’s bullshit. That’s overreacting crap you got from my mother, and I’m not going to sit here and listen to it.”

  “That’s a diagnosis from several different doctors. And it was the last thing your mother wanted to hear.”

  “Are you my therapist, or hers?” I demand.

  “I’d like to be yours. But you need to speak to me. Honestly.”

  Oh, moo. Go moo, you big cow. Let me tell you something, Wendy-girl: no one is honest. And if they tell you they are … they’re lying.

  I get up. A bit too quickly. The room goes from dark to bright, and the jackhammer inside my rib cage springs into action again. I grasp the back of the chair to steady myself, take one slow deep breath. Then I toss a little “honesty” at Wendy.

  “You want to know what was in my closet? It was garbage. Garbage that my parents were trying to make me eat. They know I like steamed vegetables, grains, beans. But instead they slather everything in fatty oils and cheese. So yeah, I dumped the gross food in the bag, hid it and unfortunately forgot all about it. Now you know. What are you going to do? Go tattle to my parents?” I stare, hard, into Wendy’s wide, watery eyes.

  “I told you: what’s said in this room stays here,” she answers. “But Eva, I’m really, really proud of you for coming clean with me.” She smiles the smuggest, most self-satisfied smile I’ve ever seen.

  So they know about the closet. It’s okay. They don’t know about your pockets, do they? Half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich fit nicely in your pocket yesterday, compressed neatly into that paper napkin. Bet you can get a sandwich and a half in there tomorrow.

  I might burst into tears at this very moment. Time to exit, stage left.

  As I concentrate on walking out the door, Wendy says one last thing to me.

  “I’ll see you next week, Eva.”

  Hand on knob, I pivot to face her.

  “Whatever. It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  HENRY

  “So, how rich are you?”

  He doesn’t look at me. Concentration intact, he keeps his eyes on the road, and the four lanes of Greater Fort Lauderdale drivers weaving aggressively down I-95 south toward Miami. I can read his expression, though. Amused and puzzled at the same time. Interested. David Ross loves a challenge, and I keep him slightly off balance.

  “What makes you think I’m rich?” he asks back. “I told you: this isn’t my car.”

  I’ve reclined the passenger side seat of the Cayenne slightly. I close my eyes and lean into the luxury of an all-leather interior, breathing deeply, loving the way it smells. Not just a new-car smell. A quality scent. Still, if I weren’t wearing a formal dress and heels right now, I’d be tempted to prop my feet on the dashboard, a move that horrifies David.

  “I know,” I say, opening my eyes. “And it’s not your baggy-shorts style that gives you away. Although I must say, you have potential. Especially tonight.” I turn to feast my eyes once again. He’s wearing a black Armani tux. He will turn heads at the quinces, no question.

  He takes his right hand off the steering wheel and slides it behind my neck, massaging the place where my hairline begins. I press my lips against his forearm, the crisp white of his dress shirt. The jacket hangs neatly on a hook in the back.

  “So how did you sniff out my millions?” he asks teasingly. I consider for a minute.

  “For one thing, you own that tux. Even the richest guys at my school don’t own tuxes. They rent them for prom.” He nods. He’s humoring me.

  “And?” he prompts.

  “Secondly, you never talk about money. It’s like air to you. Open your wallet and pull out a few bills.” He shrugs.

  “Maybe I’m just not materialistic,” he says. “It’s boring to talk about money. I mean, isn’t it more interesting to talk about … tennis?”

  I raise one eyebrow and gaze at him skeptically, which makes him laugh.

  “Okay, what else?” he asks.

  “This is the dead giveaway,” I say. “You are way too comfortable in high-end, boutique-y stores to be a nonrich guy. Like when you took me to Mizner Park to shop for this dress? I was completely intimidated by the sales staff. You acted like you owned the place.”

  “I’m just a self-confident guy,” he says smoothly. He removes his hand from my neck and places it on my knee. It begins migrating north, slipping beneath the skirt of my dress.

  I grasp it firmly and return it to the steering wheel.

  “Less confidence, more driving,” I say. “Remember: arrive alive.”

  He sighs, but not unhappily. This is a familiar dance. We keep skating to the edge of some unspoken, invisible boundary. The game intrigues him. At least for now.

  “Sorry, but you still haven’t made your case,” he says. “I’m just your average middle-class jock trying to become a rich and famous professional athlete.”

  I shake my head.

  “I have one more piece of evidence,” I declare.

  “Shoot,” he says.

  “You don’t have a sponsor,” I say simply. “Your family is footing the bill for this
outrageously expensive school.” He frowns. A real frown.

  “How do you know that?” he asks.

  “Lacey told me,” I reply, but I’m not liking the expression on his face. As if I’ve strayed into forbidden territory.

  “Why are you asking the secretary at the front office about me?” he says. He’s mad. Not just annoyed: mad.

  “Actually, I was asking her about me. My sponsor. It just … came up … about you. I asked. She answered. I’m sorry. Are you upset with me?” I’m having a hard time believing that I’ve done something wrong.

  David doesn’t answer right away. All the teasing playfulness has left his expression.

  “No, I’m not upset with you,” he finally says. “But I am upset with Lacey. She shouldn’t tell anyone how I pay for Chadwick. My family has been scrupulous about protecting my amateur status. Controlling information about money is very important.”

  “David, I’m not going to go blabbing your business.…”

  “It’s not about you, Henry,” he says abruptly. “It’s about whether Lacey talks to anyone else. Who just happens to wander in and ask.”

  We’re both quiet now. The assassin side of David has reared its head. Scrupulous-about-protecting-my-amateur-status. Anyone-who-just-happens-to-wander-in-and-ask. I forget, sometimes, how serious he … and his family … are about his tennis.

  I don’t have a very clear sense of David’s family. I know his parents are married and he has a younger brother and sister. But he rarely talks about them. He rarely talks about where he grew up. Friends from home, climbing trees, a favorite pet: not a word. And when he does mention his family, it’s almost … corporate. Like he’s some enterprise, some research and development project into which they’ve invested eighteen years’ worth of time and money.

  It’s such a contrast to Yoly. I feel as if I know every Cruz intimately, from her notoriously cheap uncle Eddie who didn’t want to rent a tux tonight, to her floozy of a cousin Marta, who was threatening to come to the quinces with the no-good-boyfriend-that-everyone-hates instead of her mother’s-best-friend’s-son who just finished his first year at college.

  When I mentioned to Yoly how David hardly ever talks about family or growing up, her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Sure he does, Henry,” she said.

  “When?” I demanded. “Except for tennis, his past is practically nonexistent.”

  “His past is tennis,” Yoly replied. “He grew up on a court. When he wasn’t homeschooled in order to make time for his lessons, he went to private schools that were mostly little-kid tennis camps. You know this, Henry. You’re the one who told me.”

  She was right, of course. If he didn’t talk about childhood friends, it was because he hadn’t had many. If he didn’t talk about playing or climbing trees, it was because he hadn’t. He hadn’t ever really been a little boy.

  He’d been a prodigy.

  Sitting beside him now, beautiful in his white dress shirt, I try to imagine what sort of little boy he might have been. I think he was sweet. I think he was probably very serious.

  I wonder if he was lonely.

  “I’m sorry, David,” I say quietly. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

  His lips press themselves into a firm line, but he lays one hand, palm up, in my lap. I place mine inside his, and we weave our fingers together.

  “Why were you asking about your sponsor?” he finally asks.

  “Oh, no big reason, really,” I reply casually. “Someone just told me it’s good manners to write a note thanking your sponsor, so I was getting an address.”

  David slides Enrique’s CD into the player, and as we fly through the concrete jungle of Greater Miami sprawl, pink light slanting off the glass windows of high-rises, the sun migrating west, we don’t talk much. I’m thinking that’s okay. We’re comfortable with just being.

  So … why don’t I tell him? Why can’t I talk to David about the sick, cold stone that formed in my stomach the other day when Peg Lacey cheerfully pulled my sponsorship folder and showed me, on the Philmont Corporation letterhead, Ray Giordano’s signature, confirming that their company would cover all my expenses for summer camp at Chadwick?

  I lean back in the seat and let the music and cold air from the blowers wash over me. I replay the old story in my head. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. It’s like picking at a scab. Playing with a loose tooth hanging by a thread.

  * * *

  On Tuesdays and Thursdays I had lessons with Ray, on our court out back.

  It was the best part of my week.

  Tennis with my father had, at that point, become such a battle of wills that I was starting to hate our practice sessions. The sound of the ball machine made my skin crawl. Mark’s constant barking orders summoned a monstrous rage in me. I would fantasize about pegging him with an overhead. I would imagine the look on his face if I hurled my racket over the fence, swore and stomped off the court.

  Of course, I never did any of that. Because despite resenting him to the point of violence, deep down I loved the game. I needed it. They needed it. Something positive to point to from their ruin of a marriage: the brilliant daughter-athlete.

  So Mom made some calls and found Ray. It was a huge relief to work with somebody who didn’t take my missed shots personally. He was fun and encouraging and intense. I would walk off the court dripping with sweat, but never tired. He convinced me that I was an awesome tennis player; he convinced me that he genuinely liked me and enjoyed our time together.

  And, as Eva and I agreed, he was cute. For a grown-up. A little younger than my father, he was tennis-pro lean and perpetually tan. I didn’t mind when he stood behind me, his chest brushing lightly against my shoulder blades, his hands wrapped firmly around my wrists, shadowing the form I needed to perfect for my serve.

  One afternoon, a lesson day, I had early dismissal from school. I must have forgotten to remind my mother, because when I walked in the front door and called out, “Mom, I’m home!” the house was silent. I climbed the stairs to my room, tossed my backpack on the floor and flopped onto the bed.

  That’s when I heard murmuring. It sounded like a radio playing next door, but then I realized it was a conversation, coming from our backyard patio. I got up and looked out my window, which opened onto the back of the house.

  Mom and Ray were seated at one of the round metal café tables she had bought the summer before. She had her arms stretched out in front of her; Ray held both her hands in his. He was leaning forward, and as he spoke, his head bobbed with the force of each word. Mom stared dully down at their hands. Occasionally I’d see her nod in assent.

  I stepped back from the glass as if it were hot. I remember the sharp intake of my own breath, the thrum of blood pounding in my ears. Then I ran. I pounded down the stairs, threw the front door open and raced outside. It felt good to pound the pavement with my heels.

  He liked my mom. This whole “wow-you’re-so-great-at-tennis” thing he did with me? A big act to get near her. And her? It didn’t matter that my dad was difficult. Didn’t matter that he never made her laugh anymore, that they went to a marriage counselor, that they bought patio furniture but never seemed to have friends to invite over. They were married. We were a family.

  She wasn’t supposed to hold hands with my tennis coach.

  I returned home hours later, only moments before my father pulled in to the driveway. Mom was pacing in the living room.

  “Henry,” she said when I entered, her face pale and strained. “Where have you been?”

  “What do you care?” I snapped. Shock on her face. I never spoke to her that way. Both of us could hear the electric garage door engage. Mark was pulling in.

  “Your father’s home,” she said, nervously stating the obvious.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. I won’t say anything,” I said curtly. I couldn’t look at her. I folded my arms across my chest and stared at the carpet.

  “Excuse me? Say anything about what? Do you realize y
ou had a lesson with Ray this afternoon?” She looked dumbfounded.

  For one moment, doubt flooded over me. This was no act here. My mother really had no clue why I was upset.

  Then again … she didn’t realize I’d seen them. She thought their little secret was intact.

  “I’m going to my room,” I mumbled, and tore up the stairs. Just before I closed my door, I heard the jangle of my father’s keys as he tossed them onto their usual place on the kitchen counter. Heard his hearty greeting to my mother.

  I didn’t return downstairs until she called me for dinner. Dad was already seated at the dining-room table.

  “Hey, there’s my girl!” he said pleasantly. “How was your day?”

  “Fine.” I avoided his eyes. I pulled out my chair and sat. Pasta steamed on my plate.

  “D’you have your lesson with Ray today?” he asked. Mom stood behind him. She was carrying her own dish to the table. Instinctively, I looked at her. She stared back, hard, and gave a short, barely perceptible nod.

  “Yeah, it was fine,” I said. I picked up my fork and a big spoon. I tried to concentrate on twirling spaghetti into easy-to-swallow nests.

  “What did you work on?” Dad continued.

  My throat constricted. I couldn’t eat. I carefully placed my fork and spoon down.

  “How would you feel if I said I don’t want to take lessons with Ray anymore?” This flush of crimson crept up my mother’s neck and spread to her cheeks.

  “I thought you liked this guy,” Dad said suspiciously. I shrugged.

  “Yeah, I like him fine. But the drills are getting sort of repetitive. I don’t see why we have to pay him when I could just work with you.”

  My mother had become a statue. With these huge, unblinking eyes, she stared at the plate she held.

  “That’s quite a different tune than you were singing last week,” he commented. “Last week I heard Ray Giordano was better than sliced bread.”

  “Yeah, well this week he’s toast,” I quipped. I tried to laugh, but it didn’t quite come off. Mark’s eyes narrowed.

  “What’s really going on?” he said. I shrugged.

  “Nothing. I’m just not sure this is such a good fit anymore.” He glanced at Mom.