drug. Gives you lots of energy. I just know he’s going to try to slip you some speed.
How do you know, Philly?
He gave it to me.
Sure enough, at the nationals in Chicago my father gives me a pill. Hold out your hand, he says. This will help you. Take it.
He puts a pill on my palm. Tiny. White. Round.
I swallow the pill and feel OK. Not much different. Slightly more alert. But I pretend to feel very different. My opponent, an older kid, poses no challenge, and still I carry him, drag out points, hand him several games. I make the match look tougher than it is. Walking off the court I tell my father I don’t feel right, I want to pass out, and he looks guilty.
OK, he says, rubbing his hand across his face, that’s not good. We won’t try that again.
I phone Philly after the tournament and tell him about the pill.
He says, I fucking knew it!
I did just what you told me to do, Philly, and it worked.
My brother sounds the way I imagine a father is supposed to sound. Proud of me and scared for me at the same time. When I return from nationals I grab him and hug him and we spend my first night home locked in our room, whispering across the white line, cherishing our rare victory over Pops.
A short time later I play an older opponent and beat him. It’s a practice match, no big deal, and I’m much better than the opponent, but once again I carry him, drag out points, make the match look tougher than it is, just as I did in Chicago. Walking off Court 7 at Cambridge—the same court on which I beat Mr. Brown--I feel devastated, because my opponent looks devastated. I should have tanked all the way. I hate losing, but I hate winning this time because the defeated opponent is Philly. Does this devastated feeling prove I don’t have the killer instinct? Confused, sad, I wish I could find that old guy, Rudy, or the other Rudy before him, and ask them what it all means.
I’M PLAYING A TOURNAMENT at the Las Vegas Country Club, vying for a chance to go to the state championship. My opponent is a kid named Roddy Parks. The first thing I notice about him is that he too has a unique father. Mr. Parks wears a ring with an ant frozen inside a large gumdrop of yellow amber. Before the match starts, I ask him about it.
You see, Andre, when the world ends in a nuclear holocaust, ants will be the only things that survive. So I’m planning for my spirit to go into an ant.
Roddy is thirteen, two years older than I, and big for his age, with a military crew cut. But he looks beatable. Right away I see holes in his game, weaknesses. Then, somehow, he fills in the holes, papers over the weaknesses. He wins the first set.
I talk to myself, tell myself to suck it up, dig in. I take the second set.
Bearing down now, I play smarter, quicker. I feel the finish line. Roddy is mine, he’s toast. What kind of name is Roddy anyway? But a few points slip away, and now Roddy is raising his arms above his head, he’s won the third set, 7-5, and the match. I look into the stands for my father, and he’s staring down, concerned. Not angry—concerned. I’m concerned too, but damned angry also, sick with self-loathing. I wish I were the frozen ant in Mr. Parks’s ring.
I’m saying hateful things to myself as I pack my tennis bag. Out of nowhere a boy appears and interrupts my rant.
Hey, he says, don’t sweat it. You didn’t play your best today.
I look up. The boy is slightly older than I, a head taller, wearing an expression that I don’t like. There’s something different about his face. His nose and mouth are out of alignment. And, the capper, he’s wearing a fruity shirt with a little man playing polo? I want no part of him.
Who the fuck are you? I say.
Perry Rogers.
I turn back to my tennis bag.
He won’t take a hint. He drones on about how I didn’t have my best game, how much better I am than Roddy, how I’ll beat Roddy the next time, blah, blah. He’s trying to be nice, I guess, but he’s coming off like a know-it-all, like some kind of Björn Borg Jr., so I stand and pointedly do an about-face. The last thing I need is a consolation speech, which is more pointless than a consolation trophy, especially from a kid with a man playing polo on his chest. Slinging my tennis bag over my shoulder I tell him: What the fuck do you know about tennis?
Later I feel bad. I shouldn’t have been so harsh. Then I find out the kid is a tennis player, that he was competing in the same tournament. I also hear he’s got a crush on my sister Tami, which is undoubtedly why he talked to me in the first place. Trying to get close to Tami.
But if I feel guilty, Perry is pissed. Word spreads along the Vegas teenager grapevine: Watch your back. Perry is gunning for you. He’s telling everyone that you disrespected him, and the next time he sees you, he’s going to kick your ass.
WEEKS LATER TAMI SAYS the whole gang is going to see a horror flick, all the older kids, and she asks if I want to go along.
That Perry kid going?
Maybe.
Yeah, I’ll go.
I love horror movies. And I have a plan.
Our mother drives us to the theater early so we can buy popcorn and licorice and find the perfect seats, dead center, middle row. I always sit dead center, middle row. Best seats in the house. I put Tami to my left and save the seat to my right. Sure enough, here comes Preppy Perry. I jump to my feet and wave. Hey Perry! Over here!
He turns, squints. I can see he’s caught off guard by my friendliness. He’s trying to analyze the situation, weigh his response. Then he smiles, visibly releases whatever anger he’s been holding. He saunters down the aisle and slides down our row, throwing himself into the seat next to me.
Hey Tami, he says across me.
Hey Perry.
Hey Andre.
Hey Perry.
Just as the lights go down and the first coming attraction starts we give each other a look.
Peace?
Peace.
The movie is Visiting Hours. It’s about a psycho who stalks a lady journalist, sneaks into her house, kills her maid, then for some reason puts on lipstick and pops out when the lady journalist comes home. She fights free, and somehow gets to a hospital, where she thinks she’s safe, but of course the psycho is hiding in the hospital, trying to find the lady journalist’s room, killing everyone who gets in his way. Cheesy, but satisfyingly creepy.
When scared, I react like a cat thrown into a room full of dogs. I freeze, don’t move a muscle. But Perry apparently is the high-strung type. As the suspense builds, he twitches and fidgets and spills soda on himself. Every time the killer jumps out of a closet, Perry jumps out of his seat. Several times I turn to Tami and roll my eyes. I don’t tease Perry about his reaction, however. I don’t
