Drew’s father had offered to judge the match. Mr. Peters 1 0 0
F o r t u n a t e S o n
was hale and tall. He had red hair everywhere and skin that had seen a lot of sun. The Peters family made their money in construction. He was a hard man, and Eric was confident that he wouldn’t cheat to favor his son.
But even if he did, Eric expected to win the match anyway. He always won when it was important. He was, as his Episcopalian minister, Uncle Louis, always said, “born in the circle of light.”
Eric hadn’t told his father about the match. He never wanted Minas or Ahn to be anywhere where he was the center of attention. Something about that talk with Ahn the night after Lester Corning was scarred had made him leery of the trouble he might cause. For the next few weeks after the accident, Eric asked about his real mother and what had happened.
Eric could tell that his father blamed him, not angrily, not wishing that his son had died instead, but simply knowing that Eric’s being born had killed Joanne. Between mother and son Eric had won the coin toss.
While Eric was thinking about his luck, Mr. Peters cried,
“Heads up.”
Drew served, and Eric returned with an easy backhand. He felt weightless on his toes out there, predicting where every volley would land. He watched Drew’s effortless movements and saw that this was a kindred spirit on the court. Here they both ruled. Who cared who won? They were one, the same 1 0 1
Wa l t e r M o s l e y
side of the coin. And while Eric watched Drew, Christie found that her gaze, more and more, drifted toward the sophomore Adonis.
She noticed his strong legs first and then the careless preci-sion with which he returned each volley. Where Drew had an angry, snorting demeanor, Eric was neither angry nor glad.
The sophomore moved freely, not worrying when he lost a point or even a set. He flipped his blond hair out of his face naturally, with no posing or apparent knowledge of his beauty. He only got serious when he saw a hole in Drew’s defenses. Then he came down on the ball like a predatory feline clamping down on the throat of a fawn.
Christie felt her heart skip when she thought that Eric might miss a return. She found herself, for no reason that she could name, hoping that Eric won the game — or, at least, that he didn’t lose. She clutched her hands and watched the carefree youth make her boyfriend run back and forth like a gerbil cornered by the devil-pawed tomcat that lived on her family farm in Santa Barbara.
No one knew what the high school beauty was thinking.
The match was very close. No matter who was receiving there was something to worry about.
On Eric’s final match point, Drew lobbed the ball to the back of the court when Eric was playing the net. Christie gasped loudly as Eric ran toward the foul line swinging at the ball with his back turned. He connected, but the ball flew high and slow. The exertion made Eric stumble and fall. The senior class let out a loud whoop (except for Christie, who was inexplicably near tears). At that moment the clouds parted, and a shaft of concentrated sunlight shone in Drew’s eyes. He swung wildly, hitting the ball so hard that it flew off the court and into the park beyond.
1 0 2
F o r t u n a t e S o n
“Game!” shouted Mr. Peters.
“No!” screamed his son.
The tenth-graders leaped and hollered for their hero. Even some of the seniors applauded the incredible play.
The only incident that scarred the game was Drew’s rage at the sun. He was so angry that instead of going to the net to shake Eric’s hand, he threw his racket at the victor. But Eric merely held up his own racket, deflecting the force of the missile, then catching it handily by the haft.
Eric walked to the net, holding out the racket as if Drew had merely dropped it.
“Take it,” Drew’s father commanded.
The audience had gone quiet.
Christie felt a tremor between her legs that her boyfriend had never made her feel.
Drew was taken off the court by his father. The sophomore class put Eric on their shoulders and carried him three blocks to the Beanery, the coffeehouse that, until that day, only the senior class inhabited.
As Christie watched him float away on the shoulders of his class, she felt an ache inside her that she feared might never completely subside.
“ E ri c ? ” M i nas sa i d outside the boy’s half-open door.
“Yeah, Dad?”
“Phone.”
“Who is it?”
“A girl.”
