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flawless facial bone structure. And even though this killer competitive thing bothers her, she couldn’t change it any more than she could rearrange her own skeletal system.
    Mark drops us off at the registration building and goes to park.
    Inside the tennis center the line for the women’s room snakes out the door and into the hallway. We get behind some gaggle of little girls in matching Fila dresses. They share a three-pack of Reese’s peanut butter cups, breaking them intobits, licking melted chocolate off their fingers. They do this while reading a sheet of paper taped to the wall.
    I move in close to see what’s so interesting.
    It’s the day’s lineup: who’s playing whom, and where. I try to read over their shoulders, to find Henry’s name in the 16-and-Unders. One of the gagglers lets out a little scream.
    “Oh my god! The bitch is here!”
    It’s weird to hear a girl who might be all of ten years old say “bitch.”
    “Who? What are you talking about?” the others ask.
    “This really mean girl,” she replies, pressing her finger to a name on the paper. “She’s not in our division. She’s older. My sister knows who she is.”
    “What’s she do that’s so mean?” one asks.
    “Mind games,” the girl explains. “Like, she calls people for footfaulting even though you
know
she can’t see that far. She questions calls. She bounces the ball, like, twenty times before serving; then, on the next serve, she’ll do it real fast. Junk like that.”
    “My coach says you have to ignore that sort of stuff,” says one.
    “Yeah, but this girl won’t let you ignore her,” the other replies. “She
talks
to you. My sister said if you make a mistake, like hit it out? She pretends to feel all sorry, ask if you feel all right … you know, make out like you’re some loser. It makes you really angry, and next thing you know, you’re making all these mistakes.”
    “God, I hate that,” sighs one.
    “She’s not even that good, you know?” The gaggle has rounded the corner passing from the hallway into the restroom proper. “My sister says her strokes are okay, but she wins all these matches by making her opponents mess up.”
    The restroom door closes on their conversation. I can finally get a good look at the paper. My eyes scan rapidly down the list.
    I find Henry halfway down the sheet. Court three, eleven o’clock. It’s not easy to read ’cause there’s a chocolate fingerprint smudge right on Henry’s name.
    Our eyes meet, and she doesn’t have to say a single word. She’s been listening to the whole thing, bladder distress and all. Her blue eyes are cloudy with some emotion I don’t recognize, and I don’t know what to say, or how to reassure her.
    Except to simply be here.

Chapter Five
HENRY
    H alfway through my first set of the day, it’s clear: I’m unbeatable today.
    I know it when I toss the ball overhead for the serve and it looms as big as the moon, each thread of fuzzy yellow sharp, distinct. The racket head lasers through the air, and the ball explodes. I don’t have to look: I imagine the target, and Wilson, Dunlop and Penn obey. I am in the zone of tennis dreams, and my opponent has lost ten consecutive points.
    The audience, which started out politely clapping, grows silent. They came to watch a game, not a massacre. “Go, Brenda!” a voice calls when we switch sides. My opponent turns to the voice and miserably shakes her head. People begin to leave, to pack up and search for a real match on a different court.
    Meanwhile, I concede nothing. Not a single shot. Unsmiling, silent, I claim what belongs to me. This game is mine. And I dare anyone to say I’m just “okay.”
    Even Dad looks subdued when it’s over. He, Mom and Evajoin me courtside as I’m zipping my racket into its case. I have bageled Brenda in just under one hour.
    “Geez, could you at least have tossed her a
point?
” Eva says, throwing her arms around me and giving my shoulders a tight squeeze.