Trophy Son(12)

“Parents are so crazy now. Poor parents want their kids to be pro athletes and make lots of money. Rich parents want their kids to do something artsy and exciting and not for the money instead of the tedious lawyer and doctor jobs that they have and they hate. That way they feel that their riches matter for something.”

I could have talked to Liz all night. Our phone conversation was the altar of my goddess of salvation. She had fought and bled for her freedom to control her schedule, to sneak to the homes of travelling parents and drink beer on weeknights. “Except my parents are rich and they want me to be a pro athlete.”

“Tennis is a country club sport. You’re in a crossover category. There are lots more upper class people with extra money for private coaching. Every guy I’ve ever been friends with has had outside coaching for soccer, lacrosse or tennis. It’s a whole cottage industry, these coaches. Probably what my friends will end up doing for work after college. Your situation is more intense than it was for me and for any of them. You’re different.”

“How so?”

“You actually are gifted.”

It was a nice compliment. I liked hearing her use the word in connection with me. I wasn’t sure if it was also advice. “So you think I keep going with tennis?”

“Maybe you do. It’s hard to be a concert pianist, a NASA scientist or a professional tennis player and also be a functioning social human being. So I don’t know. But you do have a gift.”

The compliment had gotten cloudy. “Ouch.” Liz knew how to sail and to surf, she took road trips with friends, drank beer, smoked pot and cut classes.

“I don’t mean autism,” she said. “I just mean doing other stuff.”

Mom had always said that girls mature faster than boys, that teenage girls can lead teenage boys around on a string. “How is it you know so much?”

“Don’t listen to me. I’m just blathering on. And I’m really not even a very good person.”

That sounded dangerous and attractive. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Maybe I have.”





CHAPTER

8

Liz’s parents were in Bermuda for a long weekend. We’d been dating eight months and she was a high school senior and allowed to look after herself for a few days. I planned to be at her house as much as I could get away.

We would see each other only about once a week but we talked on the phone every night which became part of my calming ritual, like reading a book at bedtime. She liked that she had the power to be therapeutic and she thought of herself as being a part of my team. Sometimes she would sing to me at the end of our call. Our lives had so little in common and that strengthened our bond.

It was October and the fall weather with gentle sun and no humidity had arrived. On Saturday morning I told Dad I was going to drive to Valley Forge Park and jog there. I got in the car and drove directly to Liz’s house, my hands vibrating with excitement, uncertainty. We still hadn’t had sex other than hand-jobs, and I thought this might be the day.

I parked on the street two doors down because I didn’t want the neighbors reporting back to her parents that my car had been in the driveway. Liz and I had agreed on that plan. I walked across her lawn to the front door which was open six inches and I stepped inside.

“Hello?” The living room was dark. I’d been inside the house only once before and didn’t know my way around. “Hello?” I said again.

Still nothing. There was a formal dining room to my left and a living room to my right with the staircase directly ahead. On one side of the staircase was a powder room and on the other a coat closet.

“Liz?” I figured the living room was the best place to start so I turned right.

“Boo!” Liz had flung open the closet door and stepped out wearing her dad’s navy trench coat that was long enough on her to dust the floor.

I jumped and spun in the air. “Jesus.” I had already been on edge.

“A strange man in my house.” She took unnatural pleasure in scaring the wits out of me. It didn’t have the feel of a prank to be mutually enjoyed. It felt more like the thoughtless amusement of burning ants with a magnifying glass.

I smiled. “You shouldn’t leave your door open.”

The next act in her script was more enjoyable. “What are you going to do to me?” She unbuttoned the trench coat and arched her shoulders to let it slide down to her feet. She was wearing a black one-piece thong teddy. She did a three-sixty then walked backwards to me, pressing her ass into me and bent forward to put her hands to her knees.

“I could think of a few things.”

“Bad boy. Breaking and entering. Taking advantage of a girl home alone.”

“Right.”

She straightened, turned and put her hands on my chest. “Then let’s get this over with.”

She dropped to her knees in front of me and yanked my jogging shorts to my feet. She took me in her mouth and began the slow rocking back and forth of her jaw over me, urging on my erection. I was still preoccupied with the earlier peek-a-boo and hadn’t caught up with the transition. Her efforts felt undeniably phenomenal but to no visible effect. It was as though someone had cut the nerve, dammed up the river, closed the valve.

I concentrated, tried to translate those wonderful sensations to an erect state of readiness as a show of my appreciation, but the more I concentrated, the more pressure I felt and the more hopeless things became.