True Places(45)
Reid’s relationship with his father hadn’t deteriorated gradually. Reid could remember the exact day. He had been twelve, and his father had enrolled him in a summer tennis program at the club. Reid protested. He preferred baseball and reading. Tennis was nerve-racking. He held his breath the entire time the racket was in his hand, terrified the ball would go out or into the net, which it always did eventually. He couldn’t get over the inescapable fact that he could hit a dozen or more great shots in a single rally and still lose the point. And after that point was another. On and on and on.
But his father was adamant. “Your forehand will be so strong from baseball. You’ll see.”
Reid had no choice but to give in. And he did try—he wasn’t a quitter—but that didn’t add up to much. Many of the boys played year-round, and some who didn’t were more talented and motivated than he was. Reid performed well in the drills. His father was right about his forehand, and Reid had a long reach at the net. But when it came to playing for points, the weight of the matches bore down on him. He concentrated on not losing badly, which wasn’t the same as trying to win. His father monitored his performance, stopping by to chat with the coaches and showing up at random times. Reid became irritated. He felt he’d done what his father wanted. He was wasting twelve hours a week at tennis camp, but for his father, it wasn’t enough.
Reid sat out the midsummer tournament, feigning illness, but found no way to avoid the competition at the summer’s end. It was single-elimination format. He’d won his first match, beating a kid who wanted to be there less than he did. His father was so overjoyed it made Reid want to drill a forehand into his father’s stomach. Reid’s opponent for the second match that afternoon was a boy Reid knew he could beat if he tried. But something in him turned sour. His father stayed to watch, even though it was midweek and he should have been at work. That caused the sourness inside Reid to harden into a rank mass, the way a dead animal becomes a vile piece of flattened leather. He threw the match but he did it slowly, playing well at first, then losing his edge, finally faltering completely. He ended the match on his service game with four double faults, then shook his opponent’s hand and walked off the court.
His father practically assaulted him. “What the hell happened?”
“I didn’t need to win.”
“What do you mean? You had that match.”
Reid shrugged. “What difference does it make?”
Blood rushed to his father’s face, and it frightened Reid. His father was pretty even tempered. “What difference? You have everything. You have every privilege imaginable. You don’t have the right to throw things away, to be mediocre.”
Reid felt his own cheeks redden. He raised his arm to wipe his forehead on the sleeve of his polo shirt.
His father snatched his arm out of the air.
Reid yanked his arm back. “What? It’s just tennis.” But even as he said it, he knew it was a weak defense, although he wasn’t sure why.
“‘Just tennis.’ You won’t get anywhere with that sort of thinking.”
“Maybe I don’t want to get anywhere.”
His father laughed and shook his head. “You don’t know it yet, but you’ll find out. If you don’t have ambition, Reid, you’re not a man. You’re not anything.”
Reid glared at his father. Irritation and confusion and pure emotion he didn’t know how to define roiled inside him. He walked away, dropping his tennis bag at his father’s feet. Later, in his room, he scratched through his father’s words, pulling at them like rubber bands binding him. And much later, when his anger subsided, he explored the idea that his father was wrong, that it was possible to be a man, a good man, perhaps better than his father, with no ambition at all.
Now, in his room, Reid returned his attention to the snake, and to Iris, who was looking out the window and frowning.
“What?” Reid said, curious as much as frustrated.
“Why is Vishnu still here? He healed a long time ago.”
Reid opened his mouth to explain, but what could he say? That having a snake was cool? That he got perverse enjoyment from knowing his father didn’t want it here?
“Tell you what, Iris.” He crossed to his desk and picked up his laptop. “Let’s go downstairs where the Wi-Fi is stronger, and maybe we can look for a good place to set Vishnu free.”
Brynn came downstairs on the hunt for ice cream. On her way through the living room, she spotted Reid’s head sticking out over the back of the couch. It had been forever since they’d hung out, just the two of them. Either she or Reid—or both—were too busy nursing a wound from a run-in or a slight, or just feeling that their mom or dad had favored the other. Maybe their parents should’ve had three kids so it’d be harder to feel singled out, or alone.
She decided she’d test the waters, see if Reid could manage not to be a self-righteous jerk for a change.
“Hey, you want some ice cream?” Brynn came around the couch. Shit. The Stray was curled up in the corner of the couch. She was such a runt, Brynn hadn’t seen her. Reid was scrolling around a map on his laptop. Iris closed her eyes when the image moved. Unbelievable.
“Sounds good.” Reid gave a guarded look and said to Iris, “Want some?”
Iris untangled herself. She had this creepy way of tucking her arms and legs around her body, all elbows and head, like a chick stuffed inside a shell, big eyed and wet. “Okay.”