2
A year later
Marc
“You can’t even hitthe ball hard enough to get it back over the net,” I accused her.
“I’m trying!”
It was summer and I was particularly bored, which was the only reason I accepted when Ash asked me to play tennis with her.
This was my second year living with George in the carriage house on the Landen estate. A freaking estate with so much property you couldn’t see the end of it. I’d gone from a shitty apartment that was a step up from the projects, to here. Sometimes I still didn’t understand it. I only knew I didn’t fit in. Not really. So I resented it.
Come fall I would start high school, which was actually ranked as one of the top schools in New Jersey. Because when everyone in town is rich the public school has all the advantages of a private school. I was going to get my own laptop and everything.
I had plans for this year. What I needed to accomplish. I wasn’t any typical kid just starting high school. I needed to be focused on what a fancy school like this could do for me. Because in four more years I wouldn’t be a minor anymore. Four more years and the state couldn’t tell me what to do. My life would be under my control.
This was my second year living near Ashleigh.
Who was always there no matter what I did. Always asking to play or do something. I always said no. Because she was just a kid. Because she was a girl. Because she was annoying in the way she thought we could be best friends, and we couldn’t.
Why couldn’t we be friends?
Because she was a kid, and a girl.
And rich and sheltered and she didn’t know anything about real life. She didn’t even go to school because of her asthma.
“I don’t know why I’m bothering. You can’t even play,” I said, scowling at her.
“One more try,” she said, holding up her finger. “I promise, I’ll get it over the net.”
“I doubt it.”
“You won’t even give me a chance,” she said, stomping her foot in exasperation. Which was actually kind of funny. Ash was always so agreeable to anything when it came to me, right up until she wasn’t.
“Because you suck. You need to get more exercise. It’s bad for you to not be active.”
She stilled then, like she was taking in what I’d told her. I don’t know why I bothered. It wasn’t my business. She could do whatever she wanted. She wasn’t some out-of -shape, fat kid. She was all arms and legs. Nothing but bones and skin, which is why she couldn’t hit a tennis ball hard enough to get it over the net.
“You know why,” she said quietly. I still heard her.
Because of the asthma. It was like her whole life was defined by that one thing. Like she was nothing more than her condition. Or at least her father had convinced her it was true.
“Lots of people have asthma and can still hit a freaking tennis ball.”
That made her mad. She bounced the ball once, twice on the court then swung the racket as hard as she could. The ball almost nailed me in the balls, but I stepped away and delivered a lob back over the net.
She wasn’t fast enough to get to it, and the ball bounced a few times before she picked it up.
“One more try,” she said.
I shook my head and put the racket in the supply chest where the equipment was kept. “You can’t keep up and I’m probably going to hurt you if we keep playing. Nail you in the face with a ball or something. Your dad would be freaking pissed.”
She jogged over to me. Her breath was a little wheezy, but I didn’t think it was too bad. “I can’t get better if I don’t practice,” she pointed out.
“You need to find a friend to play with,” I told her.
“You’re my friend.”
