Page 56 of The Newcomer
“Me? I don’t think I’ve played Ping-Pong since I was twelve.”
“It’ll come back to you. We’ll just volley a couple minutes. Those oldsters are gonna break down the doors to get at the pigs in blankets if we don’t let ’em in pretty soon.”
He held the ball in his left hand and the paddle in his right and gave it a thwack. The ball bounced once on Joe’s side of the table, then skipped over the net and caromed off Letty’s side. She swung but missed.
But the “pong” sound of the ball hitting the table took her instantly back to Camp WeLoJe, the sleepaway camp where she’d spent two weeks the summer she was twelve. Somehow, Terri had wangled a “scholarship” for both her and Tanya to the camp, which was a moldering collection of cabins sprinkled around the edge of a dank-smelling lake in the mountains of North Carolina. WeLoJe stood for We Love Jesus, and it was run by an ultraconservative Christian church that forbade watching television, wearing makeup, and chewing gum, the three activities that were twelve-year-old Letty’s personal Holy Trinity.
Tanya had cleverly faked a case of stomach flu on the day of departure and had stayed home, much to Terri’s annoyance.
The campers had mandatory Bible study every morning and afternoon, campfire “sing-alongs,” archery, arts and crafts, and the only thing Letty remotely enjoyed, a Ping-Pong table. She was an outcast from the beginning, because all the other girls in her cabin attended the same church together. At the end of the two most miserable weeks of her childhood, when the church bus dropped her off at home, the only thing Letty had to show for her stay was a leather belt stamped with WeLoJe and her initials, and a wicked case of poison ivy. But she knew how to play Ping-Pong.
Letty retrieved the ball and lobbed it over the net. Joe hit it back, she managed to return his serve, whiffed the next two serves, then, to her amazement, managed to sustain a volley for four or five exchanges.
Someone was pounding on the plate-glass door. “Open up! We need to practice too.” Merwin Maples and Oscar Jensen had their faces pressed to the glass.
“Okay,” Ava said. “The food’s ready. Letty, you get out there and start selling tickets. Let’s get this show on the road.”
Peoplestreamed into the rec room. A van pulled up and disgorged eight elderly guests from the SeaBreeze Motel, all dressed in matching aqua SeaBreeze T-shirts and sun visors. Letty sold tickets, made change, and politely but firmly refused (per Ava’s instructions) to accept personal checks or Canadian currency.
She could tell from the noise from inside that the tournament had begun, but she was too busy to get up and spectate. At some point, Ava brought her a plate of chicken wings and a glass of the worst white wine she’d ever tasted. Cheers and boos erupted from the rec room. At eight thirty, Joe came outside, dragging a folding chair with him. His hair was damp with sweat and hisMURMURING SURF MARAUDERST-shirt stuck to his chest.
To Letty’s surprise, she thought he looked cute. Hot even.
“I thought you were playing in the tournament.”
“I got skunked,” he said, looking chagrined. “By an eighty-year-old retired gym teacher from Milwaukee.” He shook his fist in mock indignation. “Damn those professional Ping-Pongers at the Michigander!”
Letty cocked her head. “Will you ever get over the disappointment?”
“No. The worst of it is, the SeaBreeze guys didn’t even want me to play. They said I was a ringer because I don’t live here.”
“Then why did you get to play?”
He laughed. “When your mom runs the tournament, your mom makes the rules.”
“So who won?” Letty asked, craning her neck to look inside the door.
“Not us. Merwin’s playing now. We’re doomed. Looks like the coveted golden Ping-Pong paddle will once again be awarded to our archenemies.”
He jerked his head in the direction of the beach. “Come on, let’s blow this pop stand.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I’m on duty.”
“So clock out,” Joe said. “Merwin’s going down and people will be leaving here in droves in five minutes.” He tugged at her hand. “Come on. Ava told me to tell you it’s okay. You’ve been working all day, with hardly a break. The Feldmans are going to help her clean up.”
“I shouldn’t,” Letty said reluctantly. “If Maya wakes up and I’m not there…”
“Isabelle’s there,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “For God’s sake, Letty. It’s not even nine o’clock yet. You haven’t even been here three weeks and you’re already turning into an early bird.”
“Whereare we going?” They were walking along the beach, headed south. A silver sliver of a moon splashed its reflection on the Gulf, and the stars looked like pinpricks in the dark sky. Letty stopped momentarily in the ankle-high surf, letting the gentle waves roll over her feet. “Water’s kind of cold,” she said, surprised.
“It cools off fast when the sun goes down,” Joe said, staying where he was at the edge of the waterline. “But you wait ’til July or August. It’s like bathwater. Hurricane season.”
“I’ll skip hurricane season, if it’s all the same to you,” Letty said.
“What? You’re leaving?”
She joined him on the sand. “I’m not sure. I mean, I can’t keep living indefinitely in a motel room with an almost five-year-old child. I’ve got to figure out school for her in the fall.”
