Prose

Sweating a little, but still a little bit awake in the humid air, I walk down to the parking lot, my too-small sneakers squishing the muddy, sloppy ground beneath my feet. Avoiding the larger puddles, I stare down at the dark green grass, and the mud revealing itself with a dull, shimmering glow, from the reflection of the sun. It’s kind of hot, so I walk in a way that wind can kind of graze my neck. It feels okay.
“That was terrible,” I say. “Wasn’t it?”
I look up at my mom, half hoping she would reassure me and tell me it was at least a little better than last time. Encouragement isn’t too bad, you know?
And plus, I did try a bit more than last time.
But my mom apparently doesn’t agree.
“That was terrible,” she says. And that’s just the start. I can tell.
“It was a waste of time! Do you really want to continue this? I mean, you’re terrible at it.”
I concentrate on the movement of the blades of grass. They’re all swishing this way and that. I step on one of the swinging glass blades, which makes a rather large slopping sound.
“Yes,” I say. If I’m going to do any sport, it’s rather I continue this than any other—I’ve failed at any sport I’ve tried. At least I’ve started this one. No use starting another.
She sighs.
I concentrate on the concrete, now. The grass and mud are behind me. I lightly drag my racket on the ground, and then lift it up again. Long arms, my dad said. Good for tennis.
Good for tennis, all made up. God forbid, I’m not good for any sport.
We’re at the car, and my mom’s blabbing on about my pathetic skills. My brother slips into the car, and sits right down in his seat, which is right next to the car door. His feet are luxuriously laid out in front of him, meaning I have to pass through by shoving his feet to the side.
Which is what I do. A glare is what I get.
All the while, my mom is yakking on, while opening the car door, slipping in, closing the door, inserting the key, and putting on her seat belt.
When she’s all ready, she sighs for the second time. “I mean, you were good that other week, it was at least a bit better, but now your form is terrible! It’s atrocious!”
“Okay, okay,” I say.
I think to myself. I know I am sensitive. There’s no use avoiding that. But I will not cry.
Sensitive me has tears in her eyes. But she’s not crying.
I swallow a coming lump, so it goes back down before it can lodge itself in my throat.
“…And geez, you swing this way and that! Do you even think when you’re playing? After last last week, I thought you’d improve a bit, but it’s exactly like it was! I rant on, you get mad…”
I think to myself, But I’m not going to cry this time.
All the while, the car is lining up to get out of the tennis place.
“…You just have to swing! Don’t you listen to the teachers? I mean, don’t you think about turning around and using your hip, or stepping in? Why do you just sit there and swing the racket like there’s a fly? I mean…”
I know it’s no use listening to her ramble on. It’s always the same. She repeats it all, but in different insulting ways. So I open the window, as far as it can go, which, thanks to the ‘safety features’ of the car, is only halfway. I tie my hair back with the hair band, and close my eyes halfway, leaning my head on the window.
I can only catch a few words, now. It’s so much peaceful here. The air roaring in my ears is much better than the words of my mother.
“…Need a private tutor…. Waste of time… can’t even do this… never will improve… never do well… so bad at it…”
The car stops at a red light, and suddenly I hear the words cutting clear into the air again.
“What do you think when you’re playing? Do you think about the form at all? I don’t think you think at all. Do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
And I actually did, you know. I stood there, telling myself that I would not go through another teary session in the car again, another yell-y car ride, so I stood there, telling myself to step in with the right foot (the correct sort of right), and to swing through, at least hit it in.
And I didn’t exactly hit it that bad. I mean, it went in sometimes. Which, according to my terrible sporting abilities, wasn’t all that terrible.
But of course, being the oldest and also the worst, things were not always bright when you compared yourself to the others. Didn’t really notice this much, even, until my mom told me last last week how disgusting I was at tennis.
“I mean, you’re the oldest! And the worst! Aren’t you embarrassed? You’re old enough to think through the moves, and you’re not like a baby, who doesn’t really understand and who doesn’t care much about how they play! Right now, you can’t just learn for fun!”
The light turns green, signaling the wind to return to my ears.
I close my eyes and concentrate on the roaring of the wind, filling my ears and brain.
I can just make out that my mom is now turning to reassuring herself, mostly, about how it’s okay, and that I just have to practice my form a hundred times a day, and that it’s normal, being so bad at it.
“The Avengers,” I read to myself. That’s what’s on the movie theaters now. We pass the cinema, and I try to leave some of my thoughts behind, but my mom’s throwing more at me just as I try. I listen to the rustling of the winds, finding its way into my left ear, which is cool from all the air. I read the commercial signs posted near the road, read the restaurants and supermarkets flashing by. The world is so fast. And I’m too slow.