Chapter 3

NICK'S HOUSE

After my family drove away, Diana led me back inside.

Nick was still at the Colony. Working. Training other kids. He wouldn't be back until later.

It was just Diana and me.

The house was ranch-style from the outside—low, modern, sleek. Big old trees canopied over it, their branches creating patterns of shade and light across the driveway.

Looking at it, you wouldn't know kids lived there.

No toys scattered around. No backpacks dumped by the door.

No signs of the chaos that usually follows kids. Everything was clean. Ordered. Purposeful.

The only evidence that kids inhabited this space was the row of sneakers positioned neatly outside the back door by the side entrance. Laces tucked in. Each pair exactly where it belonged.

This wasn't a home that happened to have tennis courts nearby.

This was a training facility that happened to have bedrooms attached.

There was a boardwalk in front of the side door. That's where we entered. Not the front door—the side.

I would never use the front door. That was for... I don't know.

Guests? Nick? Jimmy, maybe, coming from his side of the house.

But for us—the girls—the side door was the entrance. It's how you came and went.

Inside, the floors were dark wood. Polished. Everything felt clean and organized in a way that wasn't exactly homey but wasn't cold either.

More like a bachelor pad. Functional. Designed with purpose. "Let me show you around," Diana said.

The Layout

From the side door, there were two hallways.

To the left was the main house—the living room, kitchen, dining room. Nick's master suite was somewhere off that hallway. I'd never see it.

Straight ahead was where we lived. The girls' side.

Diana led me down that hallway. The washer and dryer were immediately on the left. Always running, it seemed.

On top of the dryer sat a set of folded sheets and towels. "Those are for you," Diana said.

To the right was the first bedroom. Diana opened the door.

Two bunk beds. Four dressers—two lined up against the wall and two acting as bookends on one of the bunk beds. A closet.

"This is where you'll be," Diana said. "You can choose which bunk you want—top or bottom."

I looked at the empty bunks. "Bottom," I said.

"Good," Diana said. Four girls in one room.

She showed me the second bedroom next door. Smaller. One bunk bed. A TV on the dresser.

"Two of the older girls are in here," Diana said. At the end of the hallway was the bathroom.

One bathroom. One shower. For six girls.

Diana didn't explain the logistics. That would come later.

The door between the two bedrooms connected them. You could walk through without going into the hallway.

It was efficient. Practical. Like everything else.

"I think Nick said you met Jimmy," Diana said, gesturing vaguely back toward the main area. "He's on the other side of the house. He has his own space. A loft above the game room."

She showed me the kitchen. The dining room. The common areas with their dark wood floors and clean lines.

Then she left me alone in my room.

With my suitcase and my tennis bag and an unmade bed.

Making the Bed

I went back to the dryer and got the sheets and towels.

Carried them to my bunk.

I was standing there, staring at my half-made bed, when the door opened.

Kathleen walked in.

The same player Nick had introduced during the exhibition.

She was older than me. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Tall, with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore tennis clothes—Fila, like everyone seemed to wear here.

She saw me and smiled. "You stayed!"

I nodded.

She looked at my bed. Then at me. "Hospital corners," she said.

Not mean. Just matter-of-fact.

She came over. Showed me how to pull the sheet tight at the corner, fold it over itself, tuck it under the mattress.

"Like this," she said.

I watched.

Then I tried it on the other corner. Better.

"You'll get it," Kathleen said. "Everyone does."

She didn't say anything else about it. Didn't ask how I felt or if I was nervous.

"Did Diana tell you about the shower?" she asked. "No."

"There's a rotation," Kathleen said. "Six girls. One shower. We take turns. First one in gets the hot water. Last one doesn't."

She sat down on the other bottom bunk.

"We rotate every day. So if you're first today, you're last tomor-row. If you're fifth or sixth, there's no hot water. So you move up the next day. It evens out."

She stood up. Started to leave, then turned back. "I need to get my jump rope in."

"Your jump rope?"

"Yeah. You haven't done it before? You know, for footwork." I stared at her blankly.

She picked up the rope from her bag.

"Come on." She tilted her head, gesturing toward the door. "I'll show you."

She started skipping on the balls of her feet. Two feet, then one foot, then two, then one. She got faster and faster.

"Now you try it."

I was okay. Not as fast as her.

"Do this every day and you'll see your footwork getting better." "Cool! Thanks!"

I tried again. Got tangled in the rope.

Kathleen smiled. "Rhythm first. Speed comes later."

She stood there for another minute, watching me figure it out, then nodded.

"You'll get it. Gotta go take my shower. I have to get back to the Colony for dinner. Later, I'll show you where we make our lunches for tomorrow. Brown bag."

"Got it."

"You'll figure it out," Kathleen said. "Everyone does." She didn't treat me like I was too young to be there. She treated me like I belonged.

That mattered more than she probably knew. Then she disappeared into her room next door.

Meeting the Roommates

The other girls came back in waves.

Carling first.

She threw her tennis bag on the floor and put her stuff on the bottom bunk across from mine.

Tall. Blonde. Skinny. Bubbly.

I already knew Carling from tournaments. She'd been around the circuit.

She grinned when she saw me. "Hey, Lisa." "Hey."

She was popping bubble gum. Blew a bubble. Popped it. "Who's your favorite character?" I asked.

"What?"

"In Grease." "Zuko."

I laughed.

And we both started singing and dancing. "Go Grease Lightning—"

Right there in the bedroom.

No explanation needed. Just easy. Like we'd been roommates forever.

Then Petra came in.

Thirteen. Short brown hair. Muscular, with some baby fat still on her. She looked at me but didn't say much.

Just nodded. Put her bag down. Started changing out of her practice clothes.

Quiet. Not friendly. Not unfriendly either. Just... there.

Then Julie walked in.

Thirteen. Long blonde hair. Huge smile. She looked like she was straight out of California—a Barbie doll come to life.

But she was from Massachusetts.

"You must be Lisa," she said, grinning. "I'm Julie."

She dropped her bag in the other room with Kathleen.

"Did you know about the shower?" she asked from the doorway. "Yeah, Kathleen told me."

"It's terrible when it's a cold shower," Julie said, shuddering her shoulders dramatically.

I shrugged. "It's okay." She laughed.

Then she disappeared into her room.

Five girls. Four bunks in my room. One bunk in Kathleen's room.

That's how it started.

First Dinner

It was Sunday, so we had dinner at the house.

They told me during the week, dinner was at Ted's house. He was one of the other instructors.

Jimmy and Kathleen were at the Colony, eating dinner with Nick. They always did.

Diana wasn't around. She was working.

The rest of  us sat around the table. Carling. Petra. Julie.

And me.

Dinner was simple. Chicken. Baked potatoes. Salad. We ate. Talked a little. Mostly just ate.

Then Nick came in.

He looked at our plates as he walked past the table.

"Make sure you clean your plates," he said. "And that means you eat the potato skins."

No problem.

I took a big bite of the baked potato with the skin.

After dinner, we cleared the plates. Loaded the dishwasher. Then we made our lunches for the next day.

Assembly line. Brown paper bags with our names written on them in marker.

Sandwich. Apple. Cookie.

Julie showed me how they did it. Fast. Efficient. The same thing every day.

We put the bags in the refrigerator. Wiped down the counter. And went to bed.

The First Three Weeks

I was the youngest.

But I wasn't alone.

I was used to hitting with older kids. Used to being smaller, lighter, less powerful. Used to working twice as hard to keep up.

The routine became familiar fast.

Wake up at dawn. Make your bed. Hospital corners—I got better at them every day.

Breakfast. Truck. School. Training.

Multiball drills. Beach runs. Footwork circuits. Nick watching. Always watching.

Dinner. Dishes. Lunches. Homework. Shower rotation. Jump rope. Drills.

Over and over.

I learned the systems. The unspoken rules. The way the house worked.

Laundry. Double-checking to make sure I separated my whites from my colored clothing before putting them in the washer.

Beach runs. Learning to run close to the waves when they came in—the wet sand was firmer, easier to run on than the dry sand that pulled at your feet.

Kathleen kept an eye on me. Not hovering. Just... there. Making sure I knew what to do.

Carling made everything lighter. Easier. She'd crack jokes when we were jogging.

Julie was always smiling. Always upbeat. Petra stayed quiet. Distant.

And I got stronger.

My legs were pushing more into the ball when I hit. My fore-hand was changing—slowly, but I could feel it.

Three weeks in, I felt like I knew how this worked. Like I'd found my place.

And then Amy showed up.

Amy Arrives

I was in the bedroom when I heard the commotion.

New suitcases in the hallway. Diana's voice. Footsteps. Then a girl walked in.

Around my age. Maybe younger.

Brown hair with wisps of blonde. Tan. Wearing a Fila shirt and skirt.

She looked at the empty top bunk above mine—the only one

left.

"That's me?" she said, pointing up. I stared at her.

I couldn't believe it.

There was a girl younger than me. "Yep. And I'm Lisa."

"Amy." She dropped her bag and looked around the room.

"This is so much smaller than I thought it would be."

She was from Miami. You could hear it immediately in her voice—the way she said her own name, drawing out the vowels.

"AIM-EE from MY-AM-EE," she'd say later, and somehow it always made me smile.

I stood up. "Did you know about the shower?" Amy looked at me. "What?"

"There's a rotation. Six girls. One shower. You take turns. The first one gets hot water. The last two don't."

Her eyes went wide. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. You rotate every day. So if you're first today, you're last tomorrow."

"That's terrible." "You'll get used to it."

I sounded like Kathleen. Like Carling. Like someone who'd been here forever.

It had only been three weeks.

But I got to show someone around. I got to be the one who knew things. That felt good.

Amy threw her stuff on the top bunk and climbed up to look around.

"We're bunkers!" she said, flopping on the bare mattress.

Then she laughed—loud, bigger than seemed possible for someone her size. The kind of laugh that made you want to laugh too even if you didn't know what was funny.

"How old are you?" I asked. "Nine?"

"Nine? You're younger than me!" "Why, how old are you?"

"Ten."

"Well, that's not that different."

I showed her where the bedsheets were. "We have to make our bed every morning." "We do?"

"Like this. Hospital corners." I showed her the way Kathleen had shown me.

Amy tried. Better.

"You'll get it," I said. "Everyone does." She grinned at me.

And I grinned back.

That night, at dinner, Amy sat next to me. Nick came in, looked at our plates.

"Make sure you clean your plates," he said.

"And that means you eat the potato skins," I added. Amy looked at me.

I took a big bite of my potato with the skin. She did the same.

We were Bunkers now.

The Routine

The room was still dark when my eyes opened. No alarm. Just the internal clock that had already started to form after a week of the same rhythm.

I could hear the other girls breathing. Amy above me. Carling and Petra in the other bunk. Julie and Kathleen in the next room through the connecting door.

I slid out from under the covers.

First thing: clothes. I'd laid them out the night before. Shirt, shorts, socks.

Socks were important.

Amy and I liked to skid on the hardwood floors on the way to the kitchen. You needed socks for that. Good traction, then release. The right momentum to glide across the dark wood and slide to a stop just before you hit the counter.

It was stupid. Fun.

The kind of thing you did when you were ten and living in a house full of other kids who got it.

I made my bed before anyone else stirred. Hospital corners. Tight and flat. No wrinkles.

Breakfast

We all made our own breakfast.

"What's that?" I asked the first morning.

"You never had cinnamon toast?" Kathleen said. "No."

"Here, this is how you do it."

She pulled two slices of bread from the bag. Put them in the toaster.

When they popped up, she grabbed one and spread butter on it

while it was still hot.

"Okay," I said. "Now what?"

"Then just sprinkle some sugar and cinnamon on it," she said.

She showed me. Sugar first. Then cinnamon. The butter melted underneath, making everything stick.

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Simple. The same every day.

We sat at the kitchen table to eat. Not standing. Not scattered around. At the table, together.

Talking. Laughing. Planning the day. This was every morning.

Wake, train, survive, repeat.

By seven-thirty, we were ready for the truck.

The Pick-up School Bus

Larry was always on time.

He'd pull up in the pickup truck with the custom-built bed. Two benches. Roof cover stretched over the top.

Larry would lower the tailgate. "Morning, hop in," he'd say.

Amy, Petra, and I would climb into the back. The boys were already there.

The other girls—Carling, Julie, Kathleen—went to a different school. Or stayed to train. I'm not sure.

School

Eight a.m. to twelve-thirty. No breaks. No recess.

Just sit at your desk and do your work and pay attention. I liked it.

It was simple. Clear. You knew what was expected.

And when it was over, Larry would be waiting. We'd climb back in the truck and head to the courts.

But before we left school each day, we had a half hour to work on our own. Math worksheets spread out in front of us.

One day, Petra slid her worksheet across. Pushed it in front of me.

"Do it," she said. "No."

"I don't want to ask the teacher."

"I will show you, but I'm not going to do it for you." I slid it back.

"Do it," she said. Angrily. I turned away.

The ride back was always louder than the ride there.

After school, we were back in the pickup truck, and Pablo—one of the older kids—would always start singing Escape, the piña colada song. As soon as he hit the first line, we were all in. Loud. Louder than the rumble of the engine. Louder than the wind through the open sides.

He'd belt out the chorus like he was onstage somewhere, and the rest of us followed, shouting the parts we knew, mumbling the parts we didn't.

Amy looked over at me once and grinned. "You're never offkey," she said. "Not once."

I shrugged. I didn't know what she meant. I just sang the way the song went.

People in other cars looked over. Some smiled. Some looked annoyed.

We didn't care.

By the time Pablo switched to Rod Stewart—one of those songs everyone knows even if they pretend they don't—we were practi-cally screaming the chorus out the windows.

When we got to the Colony, Larry would open the tailgate.

I jumped out with two of my racquets—and used one of them as a microphone.

We all did.

Larry would shake his head, but he never told us to stop.

Training

One o'clock to four-thirty.

Boot camp.

That's what it felt like. What it was.

Nick didn't ease us into anything. Didn't build up gradually.

Didn't give us time to adjust.

He just threw us into the deep end and expected us to swim.

Multi-ball groundstroke drills. Forehands. Backhands. Cross-court. Down the line. Over and over until my legs were shaking and my arm felt like it was going to fall off.

Footwork circuits. Agility ladders. Cone drills. Sprints. Beach runs.

Two miles. Three miles. In the soft sand that pulled at your feet and made every step twice as hard.

I weighed seventy-five pounds.

Most of the other girls one hundred to one hundred and twenty-five pounds.

I had to work twice as hard just to keep up.

Serve and return. Repetition. Tactical drills. Situational play.

Nick standing at the side of the court, near the baseline, hands on hips like a drill sergeant.

"Again." "More spin." "Again."

We were beating our brains in every day. That's what it felt like.

Like he was taking us apart and putting us back together. Piece by piece. Stroke by stroke.

And we all looked out for each other.

On beach runs, we ran in groups. We talked when we were out of earshot of the instructors.

We played together. We ran together. We ate together. We had fun together.

There were no rivalries.

No competition between us.

We were family.

And family meant you didn't let each other fall.

Sunstroke

It happened in the third week.

I don't remember the drill. Just the heat.

The sun pressing down. The court radiating it back up. The air so thick it felt like breathing through a wet towel.

I was fine.

And then I wasn't.

My vision went gray at the edges. My legs felt loose and disconnected.

I kept hitting. Kept moving.

And then I was sitting on the bench and I didn't remember getting there.

I got back to the house somehow.

I don't remember the drive. I don't remember who brought me. But I was home.

I went straight to the bathroom. Turned on the shower. Let the water run over me.

When I got out, I looked in the mirror.

I was brown as a berry, as my Granny would say. But my cheeks looked like they were on fire.

Red. Hot. Burning.

I opened the medicine cabinet. Found the Noxzema. Smeared my face with it. Thick. Cool. Left it on.

One of the girls saw me.

"Lisa, you don't look right," she said. We all went to the kitchen.

Someone told Larry that I didn't look right. Larry came over. Looked at me.

I was shivering.

Even though I was hot. Even though my face was on fire. I couldn't stop shivering.

Larry looked at me.

"You have heatstroke," he said.

He opened the freezer. Got out some ice cubes. Wrapped them in a towel.

"Here," he said. "Put this around your neck."

I sat there with the ice against my skin. The Noxzema still on my face.

Shivering.

Nick got home later. Larry pulled him aside.

I could see them talking. Low voices. Larry gesturing toward me. Nick looked over. Nodded.

Then he turned to Amy.

"Go get her sheets and pillow," he said. I just sat there.

Amy went to my room. Came back with my sheets. My pillow. Brought them to Nick's room.

When she came back, Nick said to me, "Come on." I followed him down the hall.

There was a little bed made on the floor of his room. Blankets. Space for my sheets.

"You're sleeping here tonight," Nick said. "Just to make sure you're okay."

I made up my bed. Got in.

I felt bad that Nick felt like he had to have me sleep on the floor. It was silly.

But that's how I felt.

"Now get some sleep," Nick said.

He turned off the light and walked into the living room, shut-ting the door behind him.

In the middle of the night, I woke up. I had to go to the bathroom.

The room was dark except for the light coming through his open bathroom door.

I tiptoed out of the room and down to the back of the house. All of the girls were asleep.

I used the bathroom. Washed my hands.

I tiptoed back through the kitchen, and that's when Nick saw me. He was sitting at the kitchen table.

"What are you doing? Are you okay?" he said. "I had to go to the bathroom."

"But that's why I left the light on."

He ushered me back to my bed and said, "Now get some sleep." In the morning, I felt fine.

And that afternoon, I was back on the court.

The Routine Continues

I learned that Diana was Nick's third wife. They were newlyweds. She was an airline stewardess and wasn't there much. But it didn't matter. The house didn't revolve around her. It didn't revolve around their marriage or any sense of domestic normalcy.

The house revolved around Nick. Around his vision. Around tennis. Always.

Wake up at dawn. Make your bed.

Cinnamon toast. Truck.

School. Training. Dinner.

The same pattern. Over and over. I stopped counting days.

It was just the rhythm now. The routine.

Jump rope. Every day. At least five minutes, sometimes longer—until it was my turn to shower.

And I was getting stronger.

My arm didn't feel like it was going to fall off. I could keep up on the beach runs.

Not easily. But I could do it. And my forehand was changing. Slowly. Incrementally.

But I could feel it.

The way the ball came off the strings. The way my body moved through the shot.

It was starting to feel right.

Grease

Almost every night, Carling and I would go outside on the board-walk and sing songs from Grease.

I was the brunette Sandy to her blonde Danny.

We'd stand out there under the Florida sky, the sound of the canal lapping in the background, and we'd sing.

"Summer lovin', had me a blast—"

Carling would take the Danny parts. I'd take Sandy's.

We knew every word. Every harmony. Every dramatic pause.

Carling and I loved to try and out-do each other—bigger gestures, more dramatic delivery, completely committed to our roles.

She'd throw her arms wide. I'd spin around. She'd drop to one knee. I'd lean back and belt it out.

We'd go through as many songs as we could before we had to go to bed.

"Tell me more, tell me more—" It was stupid. It was fun.

It was one more way we made the house feel like ours.

Sound of Music

One night, the rest of the girls joined in.

All of us were crowded into the smaller bedroom—Kathleen and Julie's room—watching The Sound of Music on the TV.

All six of us crammed in there. Sitting on the beds. On the floor.

Leaning against the wall.

Amy and I were singing along.

We knew all the words. All the songs.

I was staring at the TV when Julie came out of the shower. "Lisa, your turn," Kathleen said.

I turned to Kathleen. "But I want to watch..."

"Rules are rules," she said. I shot a look at Amy.

"Hurry up," Amy said. "Go, go, go."

I looked at the TV. It was going to commercial. "Okay, okay," I said.

And I dashed to the bathroom.

It was the fastest shower I ever took. Soap. Rinse. Out.

Towel. Clothes under my arm. I sprinted back to the bedroom.

Made it just as the commercial ended. Just in time.

I was sopping wet with a towel wrapped around me. And I started singing.

"I am sixteen going on seventeen..." Amy was laughing.

The other girls joined in.

All of us singing. Dancing like fools.

Ted's House

Ted was one of Nick's original instructors. He'd been there from the beginning, teaching alongside Nick, feeding balls, building the system that was starting to spread beyond the Colony.

He was tall, blonde, and handsome. I called him Teddy Bear.

Not to his face, but that's what he was. Gentle. Easy. The kind of coach who made you feel safe when you were on the court with him.

But every night, Ted did something that had nothing to do with tennis.

He cooked dinner for all of us.

He lived in a house about five minutes from Nick's place. A ranch house on the canal.

One-story Florida ranch. Low and wide along the water. Long

lines, low ceilings. Cool tile. Sun-faded walls. Sliding glass doors ran almost the full length of the back of the house, so the canal was never really outside—you were always aware of it, even sitting on the couch.

Out back, there was a narrow strip of lawn and then the seawall. A wooden dock stretched out over the water—weathered planks, gray, with gaps between them where you could see through to the dark water below.

It wasn't flashy. It wasn't new.

It was a house for people who weren't trying to impress anyone. Four teenage boys lived there with Ted.

The rest of us—those of us who lived at Nick's or at one of the other houses where kids stayed—came for dinner.

All fifteen of us. Every single night.

Dinner

We'd finish practice. Shower off the sweat and sunscreen. Pile into cars to drive to Ted's house.

His kitchen was small. His dining room was smaller.

But somehow we all fit—squeezed around the table, sitting on counters, standing with plates balanced in our hands.

It was loud. So loud.

Fifteen kids talking over each other. Laughing. Arguing about who won what match, who choked on what point, who was going to beat who tomorrow.

Forks scraping plates. Chairs scraping floors. Someone always spilling something. Someone always stealing food off someone else's plate.

It felt like family.

Not like my actual family—my real family was quiet, careful, measured.

This was different. This was chaotic and rowdy and nobody was trying to be polite.

Ted would stand at the stove, stirring something or flipping something, yelling over the noise about keeping our elbows off the table or not talking with our mouths full.

But he was smiling. Usually.

He made everything. Chicken. Burgers. Tacos. Casseroles that nobody could identify but everyone ate.

And spaghetti.

He made spaghetti a lot.

That Night

That night started like all the others.

We'd had a brutal practice—hours in the sun, drill after drill, Nick pushing us until our legs shook.

By the time we got to Ted's house, we were starving. The smell hit us as soon as we walked in.

Garlic. Tomato sauce. Bread warming in the oven.

Ted was at the stove with a wooden spoon, stirring a massive pot of spaghetti sauce.

Dinner wasn't ready yet.

The rest of us were in the living room and dining room, sprawled on couches, sitting on the floor, waiting. Amy and I were horsing around.

She made everything feel less serious. Bunker said something.

I don't even remember what. Something stupid. Something that made me laugh so hard I could barely breathe.

I said something back. She laughed.

We were goofing around. Being silly. The way kids are when they're tired and punchy and surrounded by other kids who get it.

And then Ted yelled. Not raised his voice. Yelled.

From the kitchen.

"LISA, I WARNED YOU. KEEP IT DOWN."

His voice cut through all the noise like a knife. Everything stopped.

All the talking. All the laughing. Silence.

I froze.

I couldn't move.

I could see Ted in the kitchen doorway. His face was red. His jaw was tight.

I didn't know what I'd done wrong. My throat closed.

I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.

Nobody else was speaking either. Fifteen kids, and nobody made a sound.

I felt my face get hot. My eyes started to sting. I stood up.

And walked out. Nobody stopped me.

Watching Crabs

I went through the kitchen, out the back door, into the yard.

I walked to the end of the dock and sat down. My legs dangled over the edge.

I wasn't crying.

I was just—frozen. The same way I'd frozen at the table.

The air was warm. The sun was setting, turning everything orange and pink.

The water was still.

I stared down through the gaps in the planks. There were crabs down there.

Small ones. They crawled over the rocks and shells at the bottom, their legs moving in that weird sideways way crabs move.

I watched them.

I didn't think about Ted or the yelling or what I'd done wrong. I just watched the crabs.

I don't know how long I sat there.

Long enough for the sky to go from orange to purple.

Long enough for the noise from inside the house to start up again—muffled voices, laughter, the sound of dishes clattering.

Then I heard footsteps on the dock behind me. I didn't turn around.

The footsteps stopped. Someone sat down next to me. Paul.

He didn't say anything at first. Just sat there. Legs dangling over the edge like mine. Hands in his lap.

We both stared at the water. After a while, he spoke. "You okay?"

I shrugged. More silence.

Then: "You see those crabs?" I nodded.

"They're weird, right? The way they move." I nodded again.

"You ever try to catch one?" "No."

"They're fast. Faster than you think." I didn't say anything.

Paul leaned back on his hands. "Ted didn't mean it." I still didn't say anything.

"He gets like that sometimes. When he's stressed. It's not about you."

"It felt like it was about me." "I know."

More silence.

Then Paul said, "You know what?" "What?"

"Ted told me once that you are one of his favorite students." I looked at him. "Really?"

"Yeah, that's what he said."

Paul picked up a small stone from the dock and tossed it into the water.

It made a soft plop. The crabs scattered. "You gonna come back inside?"

"I don't know." "Dinner's ready." "I'm not hungry." "Liar."

I almost smiled.

Paul tossed another stone. "Amy feels bad."

"She didn't do anything."

"She knows. She still feels bad."

I watched the crabs come back. Crawling over the rocks again like nothing had happened.

"What if he yells again?" "He won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's in there right now feeling like a real ass... I mean jerk." That made me laugh. Just a little.

But it was enough.

Paul stood up. Held out his hand. "Come on."

I looked at his hand. Then I took it.

Back Inside

When we walked back inside, everyone was sitting down to eat. The spaghetti was out. Huge bowls of it. Sauce everywhere. Ted was at the sink washing the pot.

He didn't turn around.

But he said, quietly, "There's spaghetti left if you want some." I didn't answer.

I just sat down at the table.

Amy slid a plate toward me.

She said, "Bunker, I'm sooo sorry. Are you okay?" I picked up my fork.

I ate.

The spaghetti was good. But I barely tasted it.

The Test

The next day at school, we had a pop quiz. Math.

Petra sat next to me. Same desk arrangement as always.

I bent over my paper. Started working through the problems. She nudged me.

"What?" I asked.

"Let me see," she demanded. "No. Stop it. Stop asking me."

I kept my head down and finished the test. She was mad. I could feel her glare.

I did not care. I was tired of her trying to bully me.

Making Lunches

That evening, after dinner, Amy and I were making our lunches for the next day.

It was just the two of us in the kitchen.

Julie had already made her lunch and gone back to the bedrooms. Carling and Kathleen weren't home yet. Nick wasn't home yet either.

Larry was somewhere in the house.

Assembly line. Brown paper bags with our names written on them in marker.

Sandwich. Apple. Cookie. The same thing every day. Then Petra came in.

We were talking about the pop quiz.

How hard it was. Who thought they did well. Who knew they bombed it.

Amy asked Petra how she did.

I don't remember what she said.

I just remember the shift in the air. The way the room went tight.

Then I heard the drawer open.

Not the drawer we'd been using for the butter knives. A different drawer.

I looked up.

Petra was holding a knife.

A paring knife. Sharp. Red handle. She lunged.

The Chase

Behind her, Amy screamed.

"LAAAARRRRRYYYYY! LARRRRRYYYYY! COME QUICK! HEEELLP!"

I ran.

Didn't think. Didn't hesitate.

Just dropped the sandwich I was making and ran.

Out of the kitchen. Down the hallway. Toward the bedroom. I could hear her behind me.

Footsteps pounding. I didn't look back. Just ran.

I burst into the bedroom and dove under my bed. Scrambled as far back against the wall as I could get. Pressed myself flat.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I could see her feet.

Standing at the edge of the bed.

Then she dropped to her hands and knees. I could see her face now.

Staring under the bed at me.

Smiling.

"I am going to get you," she said. Not yelling. Not screaming.

Almost calm. Controlled. Like a promise.

She reached her arm under the bed.

The red-handled paring knife still in her hand. Sweeping it back and forth. Trying to reach me.

I pressed myself further back. As far as I could go.

The sides of the bunk had dressers up against them. She couldn't come at me from the side.

She could only reach from the front. Her arm was maybe thirty inches long.

The bed frame was forty, maybe forty-two inches deep. But it was close.

Too close.

I could see the blade. The red handle. Her hand gripping it.

She kept trying. Sweeping the knife back and forth under the bed.

Then she got down on her stomach.

Flat on the floor. Trying to get closer. Trying to stretch her arm further under the bed.

The knife flicking under the bed. Closer now. Back and forth. And she was cackling.

Cackling.

High. Sharp. Wrong.

I could hear Julie somewhere behind her. "Stop it! Stop it! What are you doing?! Stop it!"

But Petra didn't react. Just kept reaching. Kept cackling. I could hear Amy too.

"Larrrry! She chased Lisa!"

I watched that arm. Watched that red-handled knife.

The blade was so close I could see the edge catching the light. So I started screaming.

Larry

Footsteps. Heavy. Running. "PETRA. STOP. NOW."

Larry's sneakers appeared next to her body on the floor. The knife stopped moving.

His hands grabbed her. Pulled her back. Dragged her out of the room.

Footsteps down the hall. The house went quiet.

I stayed under the bed. Breathing dust. Waiting for my heart to slow.

##### Aftermath

Eventually I crawled out.

Julie stood in the doorway. "You okay?" "Yeah."

My hands were shaking.

We went back to the kitchen. Amy was pale.

We didn't speak. We just finished making our lunches. Wrote our names on the bags. Put them in the fridge. Cleaned the counter.

Went to bed.

When Carling Got Home

Later that night, Carling came into the bedroom. "You okay?"

"Yeah."

"I wish I was there," she said. "I would've hit her with my racquet." She paused.

"Why didn't anyone grab their racquets?" I didn't have an answer.

Before Sleep

That night, before we went to bed, Amy asked, "Are you scared?" "Of what?"

"Of her."

"No."

Amy looked at me.

"She's not going to try anything again," I said. "Otherwise she's going to get kicked out."

Amy nodded, understanding.

Resolution

We all acted like it didn't happen.

I didn't tell my parents.

If I did, they'd pull me out. And I didn't want to leave. So I kept quiet.

And we kept going. But Nick knew.

The next day, he didn't make me go to school.

Instead, he let me sit by the beach. I walked onto the boardwalk and watched the pelicans as they hoped one of the guys fishing would give them a fish.

Then he took me to the Colony Beach for brunch—the famous Colony Beach brunch that everyone talked about. All the fancy food. The beautiful setting.

We sat there. And he didn't make a big deal out of what had happened.

He didn't lecture me or ask me a bunch of questions. He just let me be.

That was his way of protecting me.

Not making a fuss. Not drawing attention to it.

But making sure I knew he was watching. That he cared. That I was safe.

We went back to the routine.

Wake up. Make your bed. Cinnamon toast. Truck. School.

Training.

Petra was still there. Still making her lunch. Still sleeping in the other bunk.

But she didn't look at me. And I didn't look at her.

A few days later, we came home and her bunk was empty. Her things gone.

Nobody explained. She was just gone. And we kept going.

‍

‍