Second Chance (Sweet Valley High Book 53) Page 5

  Dorrie came over with a towel again. "Well done," she said, giving her a hug.

  Kristin mopped her face off, trying to catch her breath. "I'm playing so badly," she moaned. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

  "Look, you're ahead," Dorrie said lightly. "Try not to be so hard on yourself."

  But Kristin knew her game was off. Beating Betsy wasn't supposed to be difficult. What was going to happen to her on Thursday, if she got to the second qualifying rounds?

  The second set was a little better, but Kristin was still double-faulting on her service games. She felt rusty and awkward, as if she hadn't played tennis in months. Competition usually brought her a surge of adrenaline, but today Kristin was in a real slump. Every single shot was hard won. It felt like a miracle to her when she finally won the second set. The match was hers.

  "You played well," Kristin gasped to Betsy, climbing over the net to shake her hand.

  Betsy wiped her forehead. "Not well enough," she said ruefully. "Good game, Kristin." She looked disappointed, but at the same time her gaze was admiring. "I hope you make it all the way. You deserve to be on Wylie's team."

  Kristin bit her lip. Betsy's compliment showed real sportsmanship, but Kristin knew she hadn't played very well. If she couldn't get her game back up to scratch, she didn't deserve to play on anyone's team, let alone Nick Wylie's pro circuit.

  Reporters, coaches, and other people crowded close to shake Kristin's hand, congratulating her and asking questions about the second round of matches. On Thursday, Kristin would be playing Wendy Gibson, the fifth seed.

  "Are you worried about Thursday's match?" a reporter asked.

  Kristin opened her mouth to answer. The automatic response—"No, I'm looking forward to it. It should be a good match"—suddenly seemed to vanish. For a crazy minute she felt like saying, "Yes, I am worried. To tell you the truth, I didn't play very well just now, and I'm afraid if I don't get my act together between now and then, I'll lose—and break my father's heart."

  But she didn't say anything. She just stared at the reporter.

  Luckily Dorrie broke in to run interference. "We're expecting a good fight on Thursday," she said briskly, putting her arm around Kristin and steering her through the crowd.

  "You played great," Dorrie said, squeezing her warmly.

  Kristin shook her head. "No, I didn't," she protested. "Dorrie, I was terrible out there! I felt like my legs were made out of lead."

  Before Dorrie could respond, Emily came running up, Kristin bent down, and the little girl threw her arms around Kristin. "You won! You won!" she cried. "Krissy, I'm so proud of you!"

  Kristin clutched the girl tightly. She could feel her tiny heart beating fast against her own. She didn't think she could bear to look her in the face. Emily thought she was some kind of heroine, and the truth was, she had barely won a match that should have been hers without the slightest effort.

  She couldn't bear the thought of letting any of them down on Thursday. Not Dorrie, not her father, and not poor Emily. Here they all were, thinking she was so wonderful. But what if she lost on Thursday? What if they all found out that she wasn't a winner after all?

  Mr. Thompson didn't say anything to Kristin about the match, but she knew he was worried. They were both silent most of the way home, and after they dropped Emily off, Kristin felt an almost overwhelming desire to tell him how upset she was.

  "Dad—" she started to say.

  But he cut her off. "I think you're just under a lot of strain," he said absentmindedly. He turned to her with a look of such confusion and concern that she wanted to cry. "How about taking a vacation together, just you and me, after the tournament is over? I know once you've made the team you'll be able to relax a little. You'll really deserve a break."

  Kristin felt her eyes fill with tears. What if I don't win? she was thinking. Won't I need—and deserve—a break anyway? But she didn't have the courage to ask him. She just slumped back in the car seat and stared miserably through the front window.

  "I want you to get a lot of rest the next couple of nights," Mr. Thompson continued. "No more evening dates. Your match with Wendy is going to be pretty tough on Thursday. And after that—"

  "Daddy," Kristin moaned. She felt so tense, and she was afraid she was going to break down in sobs. "I know how much sleep I need. Remember, I'm the one who's playing in this tournament!"

  Kristin couldn't believe the words she had blurted out. Her father looked shocked and hurt. Kristin felt terrible, but she couldn't help feeling angry with Dorrie for telling her she had played well when she knew she hadn't. And now she was angry with her father's understated criticism.

  Kristin could feel the blood pounding in her ears. The truth was that she just didn't know what she wanted anymore.

  "Kristin, it's for you," Mr. Thompson called from downstairs that evening.

  Kristin frowned. She pushed aside the second draft of her essay on "The American Dream" and picked up the phone.

  "Kris? It's Bruce."

  Kristin swallowed. She didn't know if she was glad to hear from him or not. For one thing, she hated being called Kris by anyone other than her father or Dorrie. And Bruce sounded so darned sure of himself. "Hi," she said flatly, sitting down on the edge of her bed and twisting the cord with her fingers.

  Bruce launched into a long monologue. "I wanted to find you today in school to wish you luck on your match, but I had to take my car to the shop at lunchtime—nothing serious, luckily—and then I ran into a couple of guys and got totally sidetracked after school. I was thinking about you the whole time, though. I knew you'd win."

  Kristin kept fiddling with the phone cord. "Yeah," she said dryly. She hadn't really expected Bruce to come to the match, but she didn't think he had to go on and on making excuses, either.

  "Anyway," Bruce rushed on, "I'm calling because I've got something incredibly, unbelievably important to talk to you about. Are you busy this Saturday night?"

  Kristin took a deep breath. "Yes—" she started to say.

  "Well, you'll just have to cancel whatever you're doing," he interrupted cheerfully, "because I happen to be asking you to go to my parents' enormous annual blowout bash they're springing at the country club this Saturday. I would've asked you sooner, but I had to clear it with them," he added. "I mean, Kristin, this is the party of the year. It's just amazing. And I've got to have you there by my side. I just have to."

  Kristin was surprised. She had heard one or two kids at school talking about the Patman's party, and she had wondered whether or not Bruce would mention it to her. But the thought of actually being his date . . . well, it was pretty flattering. For a brief moment Kristin thought how cool it would be to show up at the party of the year as the host's date. She had never done anything like it. But she also knew it would be impossible.

  "I can't," she said stoically. "Sunday morning is the third round of qualifying matches for the Avery Cup. If I make it past Thursday, I'll have to be in bed really early Saturday night."

  Bruce didn't seem perturbed. "Come on," he said. "You're going to win this thing with one hand tied behind your back! What you'll need to do on Saturday night is relax, not sit home worrying about the next morning. Please, Kristin," he cajoled. "I really want you to be there." When she didn't respond, he added, dropping his voice a little, "I told my parents about you. They're really looking forward to meeting you."

  "Let me think about it," Kristin said. She couldn't believe she was reconsidering Bruce's invitation. There was no question what she ought to do! Yet Kristin wanted to be at the party—as Bruce's date. She was very tempted to tell him yes.

  Eight

  "I've been thinking," Jessica said, finishing the last bite of a chocolate-chip cookie at lunch. "Wouldn't it be a great idea if we got some kind of award for who was doing the best job with her little sister?"

  Cara laughed. "I don't think it's supposed to be competitive, Jess. I think the whole point is just to have a good time and try to help t
he little girls out."

  Jessica flipped back her hair. "I don't mean to brag," she said cheerfully, "but I've already done two things with Allison Post."

  Lila cracked up. "You probably took her to the beach once and went to the mall afterward. Right?"

  Jessica gave her friend a cool look. "In fact, we happen to be going to the mall this afternoon, after school. I need to find something to wear to the Patmans' party, and I thought it might be fun for Allison to come along."

  "Yeah"—Amy Sutton giggled—"Allison can run back and forth and bring you different sizes and stuff."

  Jessica ignored her. "And then afterward we're baking cookies with Liz and her little sister, Kim Edgars. By the way, what are you all doing about dresses? Are you wearing formals?"

  Amy suddenly looked perturbed. "I'm kind of irritated with Bruce. He's been telling me about this party for ages, and all of a sudden he's clammed up. I don't even know if he still thinks I'm going to be his date."

  Jessica and Lila exchanged glances. Bruce had dated Amy a few times in the past, but she acted as if they'd had a real relationship. Bruce had only ever seriously dated one girl, Regina Morrow, and her tragic death from trying cocaine had affected the whole school. Now Bruce was back to playing the field, but the merest suggestion that he might be interested in someone else was enough to drive Amy crazy.

  "Anyway, I saw this really filmy peach-colored dress at Lisette's that I'm going to buy," Amy concluded. She stood and picked up her tray, then said smugly, "Even if he's been kind of distant lately, one look at me in that dress and Bruce Patman will be out of his mind with love!"

  Lila waited until Amy was out of earshot before turning to Jessica. "Is it true Bruce asked Kristin Thompson to his party?" she demanded.

  Jessica shrugged. "That's what A.J. told me. He said Bruce was bragging about it to a bunch of guys in gym class today, saying how even though Kristin is competing in a big tournament, she's still willing to drop everything and come to his party."

  Lila let out a low whistle. "Wow," she said. "I can't wait to see sparks fly when Amy shows upon Saturday and realizes she isn't Bruce's date!"

  Wendy Gibson was playing incredibly well. Kristin wiped her hand on her tennis skirt and tried not to let her feelings show as she ran back to the service line. It was the middle of the first set, and Wendy was winning, four games to three. The score now was 40–30, Wendy's lead. After a particularly intense volley, Kristin tried a lob shot, but it was long.

  "Game!" Wendy cried, throwing her racket in the air.

  Kristin had to blink back tears. It was five games to three now, and she felt she was losing her psychological advantage. Kristin knew she would have a tough time catching up unless she got a grip on her nerves and began to play more aggressive and accurate tennis.

  Despite hard work in the next game, though, Kristin lost the set. She could barely look Dorrie in the eye at the break.

  "Kristin, what is it? What's going on?" Dorrie asked, her mild voice betraying legitimate worry.

  Kristin took a deep breath. "I don't know. I just don't seem to be able to keep up my concentration. And Wendy's playing incredibly well," she added. It was unlike Kristin to make excuses, but suddenly she felt exhausted—physically and emotionally. She felt like walking off the court. "Look," she said, struggling for control, "I'm going to give this everything I've got. That's all you can ask for, right?"

  Dorrie didn't answer for a minute. "Not when you're a pro, kiddo," she said finally. "When you're a pro, you've got to give everything you've got as a baseline. Then the work starts."

  Kristin turned away, her eyes swimming with tears. She knew Dorrie was right. As a coach, Dorrie should have been psyching Kristin up, not sympathizing with her. But all of a sudden Kristin felt an incredible need for someone to be there who loved her just for who she was, not for her tennis. Someone to give her a simple hug.

  "OK," she said, trying to force a smile. "Here goes nothing."

  Using every bit of strength Kristin had, she managed to win the second set. It was close, and by the end both girls were panting and red-faced. A crowd had gathered to watch their last set. Whichever girl won would be in the final qualifying match on Sunday morning.

  Kristin won the first two games. Then Wendy won one. Kristin another. Soon it was five games to three, and Kristin knew all she had to do was win one more game to win the match. Her shoulder felt like it was on fire when she served, and it was hard for her to keep her eyes focused on the ball. But she did it. She won the last game.

  "Well done," Wendy said, not even bothering to hide her disappointment when they shook hands.

  Kristin wiped her brow with a trembling hand. "You played well," she gasped.

  Wendy had played well, but Kristin knew that her own game had been just so-so. At this rate she wasn't going to stand a chance against Sharon Owens on Sunday morning.

  Dorrie put her arm around her as they walked to the clubhouse together. "What happened out there today?" she asked in a calm, controlled voice. "I thought I saw you start to panic in the middle of the second set. Let's go through it so it doesn't have to happen again."

  Kristin shook her head. "Can we wait to talk? I'm just totally wiped out, Dorrie."

  Dorrie nodded, but there was a look of disappointment in her eyes. Kristin had dreaded a moment like this for as long as she could remember. Dorrie's look said, clear as day, "You've let me down."

  Suddenly something snapped in Kristin, and she broke away from Dorrie's light embrace. "All you and Daddy care about is tennis," she cried. "Just for once, can't you love me and support me regardless of whether or not I win?"

  Dorrie looked at her in complete astonishment. Before she could say a word, Kristin broke into a run toward the clubhouse. All she wanted right then was to be alone.

  "Wow!" Kim Edgars exclaimed when she saw the Wakefields' Spanish-tiled kitchen. "This is fantastic! Is this where we're baking cookies?"

  Elizabeth nodded. "It sure is. Only remember," she added, her eyes sparkling, "we're having a bake-a-thon against Jessica and Allison. Whoever bakes the most cookies the fastest—and the best—is the winner."

  Jessica and Allison were already taking out ingredients and setting them up on the counter. "What does the winner get?" Jessica demanded.

  Elizabeth laughed. "The winners don't have to clean up. And the losers"—she winked at Kim—"have to clean everything. Spick and span."

  Jessica was frowning at the recipe. "This is way too complicated, Allison. Should we try a shortcut? I know we can beat them if—" She bent closer to the little girl and whispered something in her ear, and Allison giggled.

  Elizabeth shook her head. "Not a very good idea," she said reproachfully. "Kim, what do you think? Should we follow the recipe or take a shortcut?"

  The twins' mother, Alice Wakefield, who had just come into the kitchen, wanted to know what was going on, and soon the twins had convinced her to be the judge. "You have to decide whose cookies are better," Jessica declared. "We can figure out who makes more and who's faster, but you have to be the quality control."

  Mrs. Wakefield laughed ruefully. "Why am I afraid that whoever gets the clean-up chore is in for a big job?"

  For the next hour the kitchen was filled with frenetic activity as the twins and their two young helpers whipped up batches of batter and raced back and forth to the oven with trays of chocolate-chip cookies. Jessica and Allison were far ahead when it came to speed, but Kim and Elizabeth agreed that their opponents' cookies looked strangely pale. "They're leaving out some of the ingredients," Kim cried.

  Elizabeth burst out laughing. "Jess, what are you two doing?" she cried. "Aren't you putting in brown sugar or chocolate chips or any of that stuff?"

  "We're trying to hurry," Jessica said, miffed. "Just wait and see. I bet Mom thinks ours are every bit as good as yours are."

  Elizabeth gave Kim a v-for-victory sign behind the counter. "My sister," she whispered, "is a crazy woman."

  Kim giggl
ed, covering her mouth with her hand. Elizabeth felt warm inside, knowing how much fun the two girls were having. Jessica, too, seemed to be enjoying herself. Elizabeth could hardly believe it when Mrs. Wakefield called, "Time!"

  Allison and Jessica had managed to bake fifty cookies in an hour, whereas Elizabeth and Kim only had three dozen.

  "We won! We won!" Jessica cried, dancing around the kitchen with her arms around Allison.

  "Now, wait a minute," Mrs. Wakefield objected. "Each of you choose a cookie and let me taste," she said to Allison and Kim.

  Elizabeth cracked up when she saw the pale cookie Allison selected. Everyone laughed when Mrs. Wakefield took a bite of it and spat it out. "Ugh," she cried. "What's in this thing?"

  "See!" Elizabeth cried happily, giving Kim a hug. "You've heard of the tortoise and the hare, right? Well, it obviously applies to cookie-baking, too. Kim, we may be slower, but our cookies taste better."

  Jessica and Allison looked sorrowfully at the mess they had made, and neither Elizabeth nor Kim could contain their giggles any longer. "Should we help them, or make them do it all themselves?" Elizabeth asked her brand-new little sister.

  Kim smiled impishly. "I guess we could help—a little," she said. She went over to Allison, and the two girls picked up some dirty bowls to carry to the sink. From the way they grinned at each other, another new friendship seemed to have formed.

  Elizabeth chuckled. "I'm only willing to help clean up on one condition. Jess, I want to see you eat one of your own cookies!"

  Jessica tried to look nonchalant, but she wasn't fooling any of them. "I would," she said casually, "but I just happen not to be very hungry."

  Mrs. Wakefield burst out laughing, and Kim and Allison looked at each other, and both started giggling.

  That night Mr. Thompson had invited Dorrie over to the house for dinner. At first Kristin thought she couldn't bear to face her coach after her disappointing match, but as they sat down to eat, she realized it was a relief having Dorrie there. As usual, it was impossible for Kristin to relate to her father without Dorrie's help.