And so Trent got himself into a little trouble about nineteen years ago, and he ended up burning his mortal body (his second, if I’ve got the count right). I used to ask him what happened, and he’d go silent. At first, I thought he was trying to hide the fact that he’d done something shady, but then I realized he actually didn’t remember—all his memories had died with his old body and haven’t returned yet. Or rather, hadn’t returned as of the beginning of this summer, although by early June that situation had changed.
In fact, that’s when everything changed, but that’s getting ahead of the story.
• • •
So here we are, in our second summer on the East End. Molly and I ended up liking the place so much that it was pretty much taken for granted that we’d come out and stay with Ingrid and her mortal husband, Matt, and their two kids, Jo and Henry, as soon as school let out. Except this year, only Molly was going to be crashing at Ingrid’s cute but kind of small beach house (only 3,000 square feet), while I was going to stay with Trent in Fair Haven, his family’s grand home on Gardiners Island, just off the coast of North Hampton. You could drop Ingrid and Matt’s house in Fair Haven’s ballroom and still throw a raging party for a hundred of your closest friends in the space left over.
Dad sort of raised his eyebrow at the whole thing, but I raised my own back and that was that. This is the man who used to give us cereal for dinner and left us with a succession of girlfriends over the years.
The day everything began to happen, however, I was over at Ingrid’s house to watch the French Open final on TV. I know what you’re thinking. Tennis. Who watches tennis except for old British people and wannabe Anglophiles? And I’m not even a tennis fan. That’s Molly. (Or that was Molly. Something tells me she’s not too big on it now.) She’d gotten into it a little during our sophomore year, when she went out for the team, but then Dad made her quit because even though she’d never picked up a racket before, she had this funny way of winning every single match she played, and he was pretty sure she was using magic to help her out. Molly claimed she wasn’t, and who knows, maybe she wasn’t doing it on purpose, but my sister is just about the most competitive person I know—after me—and sometimes when a goddess wants something, she’s just going to get it.
So anyway, she quit the team, and destroyed all her gear, including an adorable platinum tennis bracelet that quite frankly looked better when it wasn’t worn with a tennis skirt. But by then she’d started watching matches on TV—she even made Dad add the Tennis Channel to our cable package—and she’d become obsessed with Janet Steele.
In case you live under a rock, Janet Steele is the number one female tennis player in the world, which is amazing, given that she’s something like thirty-seven or thirty-eight years old, which in tennis years is ancient. She was once a teenage prodigy, but then something happened when she was twenty or twenty-one and she vanished into the Outback, that big desert in the middle of Australia, which is where she’s from. Some kind of “family crisis” was all she’d say—or all her publicist would say, since Janet simply disappeared. She was gone for thirteen or fourteen years, until about two years ago, when she suddenly showed up and started playing again, at around the same age that most tennis players retire. And not just playing: winning. By the end of her first year back, she was in the top ten. By the end of her second year, she was number one. She even almost won the Grand Slam last year (Serena Williams beat her at Wimbledon) and, what with the fact that she’s a six-foot-two Glamazon with three feet of lustrous dark hair and legs that would make Giselle jealous, she became the highest-paid female athlete in the world. According to reports, she pulls in more than a $100 million a year in endorsements and prize money. That’s Michael Jordan money, people. That’s LeBron James money.
So, Janet started the year by winning the Australian Open and cruised right to the French Open final, where she was once again facing Serena Williams. I didn’t watch last year’s Wimbledon match, but I guess it was a real slugfest, and according to the tabloids, whatever friendship might’ve existed between Janet and Serena was dead and gone by the time it was over.
“Rumor has it she can be a bit of a bitch,” Molly said as she settled onto a couch with a bottomless bowl of Parmesan-dusted popcorn, courtesy of Ingrid’s magic and culinary prowess.
The TV was on, but it was just the announcers, droning away about things like “first-serve percentage” and “forehand volleys” and “hitting a clean, flat ball.” I would’ve rather been at the beach, or with Trent, but it was pouring rain outside, and Trent was busy. So I was stuck with the fam.
“Molly, please,” Ingrid said. “Little pitchers have big ears.” She nodded at Jo, who was sitting a few feet away on an easy chair.
“Oh, Mom, puh-lease!” seven-year-old Jo said, snacking on her own bottomless bowl of crunchy kale chips. “I totally know what a bee-yotch is!”
Ingrid shook her head in defeat.
“Who’s the b?” I asked Molly. “Janet or Serena?”
“Puh-lease,” she said in her best imitation of Jo. “Janet Steele basically shows up, plays her matches, crushes her opponents, then leaves. Never talks to anyone, doesn’t socialize or practice with any of the other players, nothing. Back when she was a teenager, she was supposed to be a real party girl, but now she says all of that is ‘beneath her.’”
“Like, literally,” I said, pointing to the screen. That woman was tall.
The players were walking out onto the field, or court, or whatever it’s called. Serena Williams is like five foot ten or something, with guns like an NBA star, but Janet Steele towered over her by a good four inches. She was more lithe than Serena, but you could see the strength in her shoulders and legs, all three or four feet of them, which were fully on display in a skimpy white tennis dress that barely covered her butt cheeks.
“My Lord,” Ingrid said from the other side of the kitchen island. “Is that what they’re wearing these days? I have bathing suits that cover more than that!”
“Mo-om!” Jo groaned. “You are em-bar-ras-sing me!”
“Watch it, young lady, or I’ll turn those kale chips back into plain old kale, and make you eat till you turn green. Mardi, here are your spicy wasabi peas,” she said, proffering an antique earthenware bowl with a bright red stripe around the rim. “I’ve put a bottomless hex on them, so pace yourself or you’re going to end up with a tummy ache.”
Tummy ache. Ingrid’s fought demons and giants, visited six of the nine worlds, and helped raise people from the dead, but she still talks like a children’s librarian (which, btdubs, is what she is in her human guise). You gotta love her.
Just then, Freya burst through the front door. She was rocking a typical Freya look (not that anything Freya wears is “typical”): cutoff denim shorts that were definitely shorter than Janet Steele’s tennis dress, and a sleeveless, backless, semi-see-through blouse that showed off her arms, which glittered with bracelets, including an asp coiled high up around her toned left biceps.
“Hey, Molls, what’s shaking?” she said before turning to me. “Mardi, I was going through my closet this morning, and I saw something that made me think of you.”
She tossed me a little box; inside I found a thick black leather belt. When I uncoiled it, I saw that the chunky silver buckle read BOY TOY.
“Oh, my gods, it’s awesome!” I practically squealed. “Is it vintage?”
“It’s more than vintage,” Freya laughed. “It’s Madonna’s. I borrowed it from her at a club in New York in like 1982, and then when she got famous, I kind of sort of forgot to give it back.” She winked mischievously.
Molly tried to hide her disappointment at not getting anything, but you could tell she was upset. This was the third item of clothing Freya had given me since we’d arrived last week, and just the day before, Molly had complained that Freya liked me best and she felt left out. I tried to tell her it was just bec
ause Freya and I have the same taste in clothes, not because she liked me better. I mean, Molly’s a label queen, and everything she wears has to be right off the runway or she won’t even look at it. I don’t mean that as a dig or anything. Just stating the facts.
When Molly puts on the same Herve Leger you’ve seen on a thousand different celebrities, she works it out. But Freya and I are more rock ’n’ roll. And besides, I told her, Ingrid clearly preferred Molly to me. This didn’t make Molly feel any better, though. “Ingrid dresses more like a librarian than any librarian in the history of libraries,” she’d whined.
Now, however, before she could say anything, Freya exclaimed, “Is that Janet Steele? She’s back?”
Molly immediately perked up. “Do you know her?”
“Know her?” Freya said. “I held that girl’s hair out of her face while she puked her guts out. We used to party like it was 1999 when it was only 1995. She used to hang around—”
“Janet’s a big tennis star now,” Ingrid said in this bland but curiously sharp tone of voice. When I looked over at her, she was frowning at Freya, and her face bore a clear shut-up expression. Like I said, Ingrid’s a librarian, so she can make a shut-up face like nobody’s business.
“Right, she was always a big tennis star, even then,” Freya said, oblivious to her sister’s warning. “I always thought it was a little suspicious myself.”
“Why?” Molly asked. “I think she’s amazing. She’s beautiful and talented, and she doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her.”
“I’m sure Freya’s just exaggerating,” Ingrid said, coming around the island with a bottle of white wine in one hand, seltzer in the other. “Sis,” she said in a not-very-sisterly tone, “why don’t you make us some spritzers to drink while we watch the game?”
“It’s called a match,” Molly said. “A game is, like, I don’t know, baseball.”
“Yes, Mother,” Jo echoed drolly. “Baze-bowl.”
Ingrid and Freya exchanged a significant look, and suddenly Freya’s eyes went wide. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut. With a false smile on her face, she ran to the kitchen, and Ingrid sighed in relief.
I looked back and forth between them, then glanced at the TV. Janet Steele was unzipping her warm-up jacket and shaking out her legs prior to the start of the game, or match, or whatever you call the whole tennis experience. It seemed pretty clear that Freya and Ingrid knew something about her that they weren’t saying, and I was determined to get it out of them, if only so I’d have something to talk to Molly about while two grown women spent the next two hours hitting a ball back and forth with giant flyswatters.
But as it turned out, I didn’t have to get it out of them.
Janet told us herself.
3
YOU DROPPED A BOMB ON ME
From the Diary of Molly Overbrook
Freya came around the counter with a tray of ice-filled glasses and a fat pitcher full of golden liquid.
“Those don’t look like spritzers,” Ingrid said, frowning in the way that only a woman who knows she’s magically immune to frown lines would dare to risk.
Freya laughed. “It’s the French Open; I made Pimm’s Cups.”
“Um, I think that’s Wimbledon,” Ingrid said.
“Um, what is a Pimm’s Cup?” Mardi said.
“Pimm’s Cups are traditionally associated with Wimbledon, which starts in three weeks,” I added.
“Oh, my gods, this is going to happen again?” Mardi said, waving a hand at the screen, where Janet and Serena were warming up. “You’ve had that TV on twenty-four seven for the past two weeks.”
“A Pimm’s Cup,” Freya said before I could inform Mardi that not only was there still Wimbledon to come, but also the US Open at the end of the summer, “is muddled cucumber, lemon, mint, candied ginger, and a liqueur called Pimm’s No. 1, which is basically an herb-infused gin. Plus some bubbles to give it fizz. Of course it’s me, so I added a little twist of my own—and I don’t mean the lemon peel,” she said, winking.
I almost forgave her for not giving me any presents when we arrived, like she did Mardi.
She handed the first glass to me, and I took an experimental sip. Unsurprisingly, it was delicious—herbal and cooling, becoming warmer as it hit my stomach. It pays to have an aunt who’s a world-class mixologist with a sideline in magic potions, even if she gives all her clothes to my sister.
I sniffed at the glass. “Is that elderflower?”
“Nice nose, Molls,” Freya said. “I infused the Pimm’s with it a few days ago. Gives it a nice mellow finish.”
“It’s fantastic,” I said, taking a longer sip. Then, glancing at Mardi, I added as innocently as I could, “So tell me more about Janet Steele. Where did you guys meet?”
Like Mardi, I had noticed the looks they had exchanged earlier. Freya glanced over at Ingrid, whose frown had gone even deeper. Then she turned back to me, an awkward smile on her face, before her eyes drifted to the TV.
“Whoa, who’s the weirdo in her player’s box?” Freya asked.
I turned to see the camera focused on a twentysomething guy with pale skin that seemed even whiter next to his jet-black hair, which was parted in the middle and fell past his shoulders like Jared Leto used to wear it. His most striking feature, however, was a Fu Manchu mustache that fell a good three inches past his chin.
A name and caption appeared on the screen below him:
IVAN
J STEELE HITTING PARTNER
I’ve seen Ivan a hundred times before, of course, but as I stared at him this time, I felt a strange chill. In fact, I’ve always thought he was a little creepy in a way that reminded me of vampires I’ve met—his hair too dark, his skin too pale, his eyes too, well, empty. But today was different. Today my dream popped into my head, so palpably that I could smell the stale salt water and feel it swirling icily around my ankles. As I looked into Ivan’s dark, empty eyes, I felt as though I was looking into the broken windows of Fair Haven.
“That’s Ivan,” I heard Mardi say, shaking me out of it. “Guess he doesn’t have a last name.”
“‘Hitting partner.’” Freya giggled. “Is that a euphemism?”
I laughed, shaking off the last images of my dream. “Some people think so; some people think he’s gay. He’s actually kind of a mystery. Even though he’s been following Janet to every major tournament for the past two years, no one even knows his last name.”
“Ooh, that is mysterious,” Freya said, sending another significant look Ingrid’s way. I was going to nudge her about Janet again when there was a loud pop! from the television, followed by an even louder grunt.
Freya whipped her head toward the TV, almost in relief. “Oh, look. It’s starting.”
I nodded, even though I was burning with curiosity, and turned to the television. Serena had served one of her trademark 120-mph bombs, but Janet had managed to get it back in play. Now the two were whacking the ball back and forth—two hard-core athletes, and they gave it everything they had. The ball was hurtling across the net, ricocheting from corner to corner, as first one woman and then the other chased down one seemingly ungettable shot after another. Finally, in a move that was half genius, half desperate, Serena walloped a backhand directly into Janet’s body. Janet had rushed the net and barely had time to get her racket in front of her. The ball smashed into it and bounced out of the court nearly into the stands, while Serena let loose her trademark “Come on!”
“A twenty-six shot rally on the very first point,” the announcer said in an awestruck voice. “If this is any indication of how the match is going to be, we’re in for an afternoon of great tennis.”
“‘Great’ is obviously a subjective term,” Mardi muttered. “Pass the Pimm’s, please,” she added, holding out her already-empty glass.
The announcer’s words proved prophetic. For the nex
t three hours, the two women belted bombs at each other. The third and final set went on for an hour and seventeen minutes, until Serena finally made a mistake and Janet fell to the ground in exhaustion and exultation.
“Yes!” someone screamed, and after a second, I realized it was me. I was on my feet and jumping up and down.
“What the Hell?” Mardi said, startling out of her seat. From the bleary-eyed expression on her face, she looked like she’d fallen asleep. Given how many Pimm’s Cups she’d downed in the past three hours, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
“She won, she won!” I yelled. “Janet won!”
“Okay, okay, settle down,” Mardi said, sitting back in her chair. “It’s just a tennis game, for crying out loud.” She yawned and stretched. “Damn, Freya, those Pimm’s Cups are strong. Knocked me right out.”
“It’s a match,” I said, “and not just any match. It’s the French Open, and Janet Steele just won it. She’s on her way to being the first woman since Steffi Graf to win the Grand Slam!”
“Steffi who?” Mardi said.
I rolled my eyes.
“Hey,” Ingrid said, “who wants some tea? I could use a little caffeine after all that alcohol.”
“Yes, please!” Mardi said.