Chapter 11

SMU

My mother and I flew into Dallas on a hot August afternoon. The air shimmered off the tarmac as we walked across the jetway. We rented a car, loaded my duffel bags and racquet bag into the trunk, and drove through wide streets lined with mansions and perfectly trimmed hedges. Sprinkler systems ran even in the heat.

Southern Methodist University stretched out in front of us—Georgian red brick buildings with white columns, fountains with water arcing in perfect curves, lawns cut so precisely the lines were visible. Students walked in clusters carrying leather bags. A girl passed wearing pearls. At ten in the morning.

We found McIntyre Hall and parked. Carried everything up to the top floor.

The room was small. Two beds, two desks, one window looking out at the parking lot. My roommate hadn't arrived yet.

"We need to get you some things," my mother said.

We drove to Target. Walked the aisles with a cart, loading it with bathroom supplies—shampoo, soap, towels. Bed sheets. A desk

lamp. Hangers. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Muzak played through the speakers.

At the register, my mother paid with her credit card. We loaded everything into the trunk.

A few weeks earlier in London, we'd stopped at Laura Ashley. They were having a sale. My mother had bought me three dresses—floral prints, fitted at the waist. "You'll need these," she'd said.

Back at the dorm, we made the bed together. Hung my clothes in the closet. The three Laura Ashley dresses went on hangers. Some regular clothes folded into the dresser. My tennis gear stayed packed in the duffel bag—I was flying out tomorrow for the US Open.

I grabbed one small duffel bag and my racquet bag. I was going to miss the first week of classes because I was playing in the US Open.

The US Open

The next morning, my mother and I flew to New York. My father flew from O'Hare. We met at JFK.

The US Open. Courts, matches, heat. I played. Lost. Came back to Dallas a week later.

First Practice

When I returned, I walked through the parking lot filled with BMWs, Porsches, and expensive cars, passed Moody Coliseum, and took a right turn to the bank of tennis courts.

Coach Joan Whitfield was on Court 1, clipboard in hand. Petite, polished, pearls at her neck, red nails flashing. Her hair was softly curled with volume at the crown.

She smiled when she saw me. "Lisa! Welcome. We're so glad to have you."

"Thank you."

"You're going to be a great addition to the team. We saw your results—very impressive."

"Thank you. It's great being here."

She nodded, made a note on her clipboard. "Alright. Heather, you and Tammy, court 1. Lisa, you and Jennifer, court 2. Linda, you and Debby, court 3..."

I turned to go to court 2. "How DARE you!"

I turned to see who she was talking to. "How dare you turn your back on me." "What?" I said.

Her face had changed. The smile was gone. Her jaw was tight, her eyes narrow.

"You don't turn your back on me. Ever. Do you understand?" Her voice rose to an angry shrill. "You think you're something special just because you played the US Open?"

"I'm sorry. I thought we were supposed to go to the courts."

"I don't care what you thought. You show respect. You wait to be dismissed."

I stood there. My racquet bag was heavy on my shoulder.

She stared at me for another few seconds, then turned and walked away.

I didn't move.

A girl appeared beside me. Tall, blonde, ponytail tied back, lipstick carefully applied.

"Don't worry," she said quietly. "She gets that way. Just ignore it."

I nodded.

"I'm Heather," she said. "Lisa."

"I know." She smiled. "Welcome to SMU."

Settling In

My roommate had arrived while I was in New York. She was from Louisiana. She'd decorated her side with photos and a pink comforter. Stuffed animals lined her bed.

The top floor of McIntyre Hall had its own rhythm. Doors

propped open with sneakers. Music leaking from room to room—Prince, Madonna, The Police. Curling irons scattered across beds. Girls doing each other's makeup. The hum of typewriters late at night. Footsteps pacing during study breaks. Phone calls that stretched past midnight.

Practice

The team practiced every afternoon. The girls were great. Great team.

It just seemed like the coach had it out for me.

Tammy said, "Just ignore her—maybe she's going through menopause."

At the end of practice, Heather walked with me back to the dorms. "You settling in okay?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Let me know if you need anything."

Classroom

English 101 was in a lecture hall with fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The professor wrote on the chalkboard, chalk dust drifting down. Students whispered, passed notes.

I sat in the back. Took notes. Tried not to draw attention.

It was the first real classroom I'd been in since eighth grade. At the Academy, I'd taken French, math, and art at the community college. Everything else had been correspondence courses.

The girl next to me leaned over.

"Hola," she said. "Isn't that what you say?" "No."

"You look Hispanic." "I'm not."

"Oh. Well, where are you from? You don't sound Southern." "Indiana."

"You don't sound like you're from Indiana." I didn't answer. Just kept taking notes.

Friends

Not everyone at SMU was like that.

I met Jake in the student center a few weeks in. He was from Nebraska, wearing a Cornhuskers t-shirt, eating a sandwich at a table by himself.

"Mind if I sit?" I asked. "Go ahead."

We didn't talk much at first. Just ate. But he was in my English class, and after a while we started studying together.

"This place is weird," he said one afternoon, looking around at the students in their designer clothes and expensive watches.

"Yeah."

"Everyone's so..." He searched for the word. "Polished." "Yeah."

He grinned. "You're not, though." "Thanks?"

"No, I mean—you're normal. That's a compliment here."

Sarah was from Wisconsin. I met her in the library, both of us reaching for the same book on constitutional law.

"You can have it," she said. "No, you take it."

"We could share it?"

We ended up studying together that night. She was pre-law, planning to go back to Wisconsin after graduation.

"I don't fit in here either," she said quietly. "Everyone's so... I don't know. It's like they're playing a part."

"Yeah."

"But you're on the tennis team, right? That must help." I shrugged. "A little."

The three of us—me, Jake, Sarah—started meeting for lunch a few times a week. Nothing formal. Just a table in the student center where we could eat without feeling like we had to perform.

Marcus was different. ROTC, always in fatigues between classes. We met in speech communications, and he had this way of cutting through the bullshit that I appreciated.

"This place is ridiculous," he said one day, watching a group of fraternity guys walk past in matching polo shirts.

"Yeah."

"But you're surviving." "Trying to."

He nodded. "That's all you can do."

Speech Communications

The assignment was a demonstration speech.

Ten minutes. No notes. Choose an object. Explain a process.

A few students went ahead of me. One guy made a paper airplane. The next showed how to shine your shoes. Then a girl demonstrated how to make hair bows. After each one, the class politely applauded. It was orderly. Predictable.

I was next.

I was wearing an Irish sweater—thick wool, cream-colored—and an Irish cap pulled low on my forehead. I had practiced the accent until it settled into my mouth without effort. Catholic Northern Irish. Tight vowels. A voice trained to stay contained.

I didn't go to the podium. Instead, I dragged the teacher's desk forward and turned it sideways, angling it between me and the class.

"So… hi'ya."

I let the pause stretch. "I'm Lisa."

My voice dropped, closer now.

"I'm here on the Falls Road. And we're waitin'."

The room quieted—not because I asked it to, but because it had to.

"We're always waitin', really. The Brits come through on patrol.

Same time most days. Tanks first. Then the guns."

I rested my hand on the desk, using it like a wall.

"Ya hear 'em before ya see 'em. That's the worst part. The sound comin' down the street, rattlin' the glass, lettin' ya know they're already close."

I glanced toward the windows, not at the class.

"Well," I said lightly, almost conversational now, "we might not have tanks."

I reached down and lifted an empty beer bottle. "But we do have these."

The class laughed.

Relief laughter—the kind that comes when people think they've finally found the joke.

I let it happen. Let it echo. Then I nodded once and lowered my voice again.

"And I'm goin' to show ya," I said, "how somethin' ordinary gets turned into somethin' else."

I didn't rush. I spoke softly, as if explaining something already known. I described it the way people do when they're not inventing, only repeating—my hands moving carefully, demonstrating shape and sequence without spectacle.

"So easy," I murmured at one point, almost to myself. "So easy a child could do it."

The laughter disappeared. Completely. I tilted my head, listening.

"I think I hear 'em."

The door at the back of the classroom opened.

My ROTC friend stepped inside in full uniform—pressed, offi-cial, unmistakable. He didn't speak. He lifted a toy gun and fired it upward. The sound cracked sharply against the cinderblock walls, sudden and wrong.

I dropped behind the desk. Not dramatically. Instinctively.

"Wait," I whispered. "Wait till they're closer." The room had stopped breathing.

A pause.

Then, quietly: "Now."

I stood just long enough to send a stuffed toy sailing through the air. It arced badly—soft, absurd—and landed near the chalkboard with a dull thud.

Silence followed. Heavy, suspended silence.

I stood, removed the cap, and set the bottle back on the desk.

The accent fell away. The desk was just a desk again. My friend exited.

No one moved.

"Thank you, Lisa," the instructor said finally. "Could you stay and see me after class?"

"Sure," I said.

The class ended. Everyone filed out quietly. A few people stared as they passed.

When the door closed, the instructor looked at me. "Well," he said, "I've never seen anything like that." "Oh. Sorry?"

"No—no," he said, waving it off. "Let's just say you've earned yourself an A for the course."

Greek Life

A few weeks later, Heather took me to lunch off campus. We sat in a booth with red vinyl seats, iced tea sweating on the table between us. "It took me a while to adjust too," she said. "They even consider

me a Yankee—I'm from Ohio."

I laughed. "Well, at least you're blonde." She grinned. "There is that."

A sophomore guy invited me to a fraternity formal in October.

I didn't have a dress. Claire Evert—Chris Evert's sister, who was on the team—lent me one of Chris's gowns. Couture from Paris. Black, fitted, off-the-shoulder.

I curled my hair. Tied a bow in it. Put on makeup—foundation, blush, eyeshadow, mascara, lipstick.

I looked in the mirror. I looked good. Put together.

The ballroom glittered. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling. White tablecloths covered every table. A band played in the corner.

My date was waiting. He smiled, handed me a drink, introduced me to his friends.

Everyone was polite. Too polite.

I danced. I smiled. I said the right things.

At the end of the night, my date walked me to the door.

"Thanks for coming," he said. "Yeah. Thanks for inviting me." He smiled. "You were perfect." I didn't know what that meant.

I found out later. The fraternity had a game. Invite the least desirable girl to the formal. Make her the punchline.

That girl was me.

The Fountain

A different fraternity made me a little sister a few weeks after that.

It was fine at first. They were nice enough. Invited me to parties, included me in events.

Then one afternoon, a group of them found me walking across campus.

"Hey, Lisa!" one of them called. I turned.

They were gathered around the fountain in the quad. The big one, with the stone edges and the water spraying up in the center.

"Come here," another one said. I walked over.

Before I could react, two of them grabbed my arms. "Tradition," one of them said, grinning. "All the little sisters get

dunked."

They started pulling me toward the fountain. I planted my feet. "Don't even try it."

"Come on, it's just for fun—" "I said don't."

They stopped. Looked at each other. Then at me. I pulled my arms free. "I'm not doing this."

I turned and walked away.

Behind me, I heard one of them laugh nervously. "Jesus. She's serious."

I didn't look back.

I was the trifecta of what you didn't want to be at SMU: a Yankee, a female athlete, and a minority.

Thirty Days

I was sitting in my dorm room one afternoon when there was a knock on the door.

Coach.

"Can I talk to you?" she asked. "Sure."

She came in, closed the door behind her. Stood with her arms crossed.

"I know you're thinking about transferring," she said. I didn't say anything.

"I want to know where you're going." "I haven't decided anything yet."

"Don't lie to me. I can see it. You're already checked out." I looked at her.

"If you transfer," she said, her voice rising to an angry shrill, "I want to know where. Because if you don't tell me, I'm going to blackball you. I'll make sure no coach in the country wants you."

"If you're going to blackball me," I said, "why would I tell you?" Her face changed. She smiled. Not a nice smile.

She turned and left.

The Call

I found a payphone outside the student center. Used my calling card. Dialed the Academy's 800 number.

The receptionist answered on the second ring.

"Hi, Lisa," she said. Warm. Familiar. She'd recognized my voice immediately.

"Hi."

"Who do you want to talk to?" "Nick."

"He's not on campus." "Is Chip there?"

"He's on the court. Let me get him on the walkie-talkie and bring him over to a phone."

I waited. Listened to the static, the faint sound of balls being hit in the background.

A few minutes later, Chip's voice came on the line. "Hey, how are you?"

"I need some advice."

I explained everything. The coach. The threat. The need to move quietly.

He listened. Didn't interrupt.

"Don't worry," he said when I finished. "Let me make a call." "Thank you."

The next day, the phone in my dorm room rang.

"Wake Forest," a voice said. "It's arranged. You can start there in the fall."

"Thank you."

"Anytime, PARMintwan." The line went dead.

November

The Virginia Slims tournament came to Dallas in November.

I got dressed carefully that morning. One of the Laura Ashley dresses—floral print, fitted at the waist. Jean jacket over it. White Keds. I curled my hair, tied a bow in it. Put on makeup—founda-tion, blush, eyeshadow, mascara, lipstick.

I looked in the mirror. I looked good. Put together. Like I belonged.

I walked to Moody Coliseum. The indoor arena had been turned into a tennis court for the tournament. Banners hung from the rafters: Virginia Slims. Women's Professional Circuit. Bleachers were set up courtside. Spectators filled the stands.

I walked through the entrance. Found the practice courts.

Raffy was there. Terry too. Both of them warming up, hitting groundstrokes. They wore shorts and t-shirts, not tennis whites. Just practice gear.

I stood at the edge of the court. Watched. Raffy turned. Saw me.

Stopped.

Stared.

She walked over. Her racquet hung at her side. "What happened to you?" she asked.

Her voice wasn't mean. It was shocked. Concerned. Like she was looking at someone she didn't recognize.

I opened my mouth to answer. But I didn't know what to say.

Because the truth was, I didn't know what had happened to me either.

WAKE FOREST

Wake Forest wasn't a dream. It wasn't a plan. It was just the next step. Going there meant I was going to college, and I was going through the motions.

I arrived in the fall. Smaller school, quieter than Dallas. The campus was green and shaded, with tall oaks and brick paths that wound between academic buildings. Less polished, less stuck-up. Students carried books instead of portfolios of modeling photos. The air was more academic.

I had my own room in the dorm. The girls were nice. The guys on the teams were nice. Everything was fine.

But for me, it was still just a holding pattern.

The deal was supposed to be that I could train with the men's team. That was the promise. I got along with the coach really well. It gave me hope that I could keep my game alive, that I could stay close to the circuit even if I was stuck in college.

Then, thirty days in, she was fired.

Suddenly I was stranded. Transfers only happen once. I'd already used mine.

Holding Pattern

I tried to adjust, but the program wasn't what I needed.

The practices were lighter. The competition less intense. No

drills. No structure. Just take a can of balls, pick a partner, hit down-the-line, hit cross-court, hit volleys, play a practice match.

I remember asking the new coach—he was from New Zealand

—if he could take a basket of balls and do some drilling with me.

Too busy. Sorry.

"Sure, I understand," I said.

The next day, I went to the indoor tennis center and what did I see—the Kiwi conducting a drilling session with my Kiwi teammate. I played injured. A lot of injuries. My wrists, my ankles—the same problems that had followed me from the Academy. I taped everything myself now, the way Raymond had finally taught me.

Wrapped my own wrists before every match, every practice.

It was hard to stay motivated.

Two years in a row, I was awarded the NCAA Most Outstanding and Inspirational Player. I think it was because I kept playing hurt. They saw me grinding through matches I probably shouldn't have been playing. They called it inspiring.

I called it the only thing I knew how to do.

My tennis career was limping along, and I knew it. I was trying to keep my game alive, but the structure wasn't there.

Life

Wake Forest was different from Dallas. Less social cruelty, less discrimination, less of the "MRS degree" culture.

But it wasn't home either. I had been used to airports, locker rooms, and the rhythm of tournaments. At Wake Forest, the rhythm was lectures, exams, and weekends that stretched into parties I didn't care about.

I had my first serious boyfriend there. Made lifelong friends with some of my floormates, team members, and guys on the soccer team.

I even started to cook Sunday dinner for a bunch of us. The rule was the guys had to clean the dishes.

Life happened.

It just wasn't the life I'd spent ten years training for.

I wasn't building toward Wimbledon anymore. That dream had already slipped. At Wake Forest, I was waiting to graduate.

Graduation

Three years passed. I made it through.

When graduation came, I was happy to see it. But I didn't know what came next. I had a history degree and a body that had been held together by tape for years. I wasn't going to play professional tennis. That door had closed a long time ago.

I drove to Florida. My sister was there, and my mom. I moved into the condo, got a job, paid rent.

But I still didn't have a plan.

I was twenty-one years old, and for the first time since I was ten, I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing.

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