"Whitney, can you come down?"
This is my mother's second time calling me from downstairs, yet I've been blatantly ignoring her. Unfortunately, since we're the only ones in this house, and she can yell louder than a foghorn, my plan is useless.
"I will soon!" I call back from my room.
I hear her footsteps come at the bottom of the stairs followed by a loud groan. "If you are on your phone or watching TV, you better bring your ass down here right now."
I look around me and see the flashing TV screen and the open app on my phone and feel my cheeks turn red. She knows me far too well. "My ass will make an appearance!" I yell back as I get off my bed.
I clamber out of my room into the hallway and head down the stairs. I find my mom in the kitchen, a cacophony from clashing pots and pans resounding into the living room.
"I'm here," I inform her, resting a hand against the entrance of the kitchen. She looks up at me, the same green eyes I have meeting mine.
"I need your help. This kitchen is horrendous, and to be honest, the only person I trust to organize it with me is you."
Or it could be the fact Dad, Poppy, and Levi are all out golfing, and I am the only person here, but sure.
"Alright, what would you like me to do?" I walk inside and start recycling the stack of old advertisement newspapers into the trash. My dad collects them for no reason, since I've never seen him pick one of them up and actually look at the deals on boxed pasta and toilet paper or other miscellaneous items.
"Get started on the pantry," she replies, yanking out a large colander from the cabinet and setting it on the counter, mumbling, "Why is this even here?"
I open the pantry and am greeted with shelves and shelves of different food items. It isn't entirely disorganized, but some things should be placed in other areas, and some simply need throwing out. I pick up a box of cereal and read the expiration date.
"Mom this expired on Thanksgiving," I say, chucking it in the trash. "Why is it here?"
"Oh you know how your father is, 'expiration dates are only relative,'" she answers, mocking him in a deep baritone. I let out a small laugh and continue reorganizing some of the boxes. The prospect of cleaning this kitchen doesn't too bad when I realize it gives me the perfect opportunity to talk to her. Senior year was so hectic that our relationship was reduced to formalities, and I miss her advice, even though I don't take it half the time.
"Mom, I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest," I say, putting down the box of Honey Bunches of Oats in my hand on the shelf. "Do you think I'm fat?"
She spins around, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Where the hell would you get that idea?"
Haha...she thinks I'm making it up. "People," I say vaguely. She narrows her eyes for more clarification. "People, places, school. People from places such as school."
People named Willow from school.
"Oh, Whitney." She presses her fingers to her forehead, but her eyes widen slightly, as if a thought just occurred to her. "Does this have anything to do with that Willow girl?"
"No." The lie slips out of my mouth before I can stop it. "Well, I mean, I guess, but she's not the only reason I think that way."
"If you want my real, unfiltered opinion, no, I don't think you're fat," she says and stands up, looking me dead in the eyes. "Lazy, undoubtedly, but even if you were fat, I'd still love you the same, Whitney."
"Why is that such a mom-ish answer, though?" I reply, cringing. She drops her hand to the marble countertop, raising her left eyebrow.
"Are you asking for a slap, Whitney?"
"No, ma'am." I chuckle and turn back around to get back to where I left off with this pantry. At least an hour passes by, and I'm only on the third shelf. I slide down to the floor and tug at the collar of my T-shirt, overheating. My mom is just as over organizing kitchen supplies, as she's taken to shuffling through our stack of mail and magazines.
"Whitney, come here," she says, gesturing me towards her across the kitchen. I drag myself across the hardwood and am met with a pamphlet shoved into my hands. "This got sent to us as some sort of fitness promotion last week. The back has a list of fitness camps you could look into, if you wanted."
I slap a hand to my chest. "I thought you said I wasn't fat?"
"Lazy, Whitney, lazy," she clarifies, tapping the pamphlet with a manicured nail. "Not like you really have anything else better to do the summer before college anyway."
"That I won't argue with," I mumble as I skim the selections. My eyes land on the second to last one: Bob Campbell's Intense Boot Camp. I read over the description.
This five week program will leave you not only stronger and fitter but challenged to your utmost capacity. Whether you want to shape up or try something new physically, this camp will be your best choice. The session will run from June 22nd to July 27th, but spots are limited so visit our website to apply by June 15th!
"Looks like you found something," my mom says from next to me.
I look up at her and gulp. "But what if I'm too weak for this kind of stuff?"
She places her hands on my shoulders and stares straight at me. "Just be confident; I'm sure you can do it."
Confidence? Does that even exist anymore?
"Fine, I'll think about it."
"Good," my mom replies and then whacks my shoulder. "Now get back to that pantry."
***
"I just don't know, Mina," I say, as I take a sip of a cold strawberry smoothie sitting on the wooden table beside me. "What if they kick me out for being so bad?"
"Whitney," she snaps. "The point of the camp is to cater for the less physically fit. They won't expel you for that of all things."
"I guess," I mumble back, looking up at the sky through my aviators. One of the perks of having a rich best friend like Mina is her house. It's three stories tall with a beautiful round pool in the backyard plus a tennis court and a patio. Last summer, I spent nearly a month just tanning beside her pool and enjoying those ten-dollar organic smoothies from her mother's refrigerator stockpile.
"I have an idea," Mina says, sitting up and taking off her floppy sunhat. She hops off the chair and walks over to a small compartment next to the patio and pulls out two tennis rackets and a ball. Oh no.
Mina has probably been playing tennis since before she could talk. Now about seventeen years later, she has a scholarship to play in college as one of the highest ranked recruits in the state, which means I already don't stand a chance.
"There is no way I'm playing," I say defiantly, crossing my tanned arms across my chest. I didn't plan for tennis to be the cause of my death. Not that I'm planning the cause of my death in the first place, but tennis would be embarrassing.
"We're not playing, we're training," she replies, as if that makes it any better. She pulls a sundress over her black and gold swimsuit while slipping into a pair of shoes. "Think of it as preparation for that camp."
I cringe. "But you're so much better than I am."
"Stop being so dramatic," she answers, grabbing my hand and pulling me off the chair. I grunt but oblige by putting on my coverup and following her to the blue tennis court.
"I'm going to cover the basics right now: serving and hitting," she begins, standing in her half of the court. She shows me how to hold the racket correctly, but the moment I pick mine it up it slips out of my hand like Jell-O. I take it in my right hand again and fumble around for a bit, until I finally get the hang of it.
"Now all I'm going to do is bring the racket behind me and toss the ball up in the air. As it's in the air, bring the racket to your back as if you're giving it a scratch, and then hit it." The ball goes sailing across the court, bouncing right beside me. I jump to the side, as if the yellow sphere is secretly made of fire.
"You expect me to replicate that?" I question, picking up the ball. I toss it up and down for a bit and even bounce it on the ground. It does look pretty harmless.
"Try your best, and let's see how it goes."
I suck in a deep breath. I grip the tennis racket tightly and hold it behind me, throwing the ball in the air. And reflexively, my racket makes contact with the ball, sending it straight into the net.
"Yay!" Mina cheers, clapping her hand against her racket. I'm confused as to why she's so happy.
"But it hit the net," I choke out, already relatively out of breath. I blame it on the stifling June heat. "Why are you cheering?"
"So? Some people can't even get their racket to touch the ball!"
My insecurities somewhat alleviated, I smile and pick up the ball, trying once more. It hits the net again, but on the fourth try it sails over to Mina's side of the court, and she expertly dashes to the side, hitting it across.
I try to connect the ball with my racket but end up running to the wrong side of the court. The ball hops into the thick bushes, never to be seen again. I don't feel too bad, since Mina has a lifetime supply of them.
"Whitney, the key is to keep your eyes on the ball. This way you'll know exactly where to hit it."
I nod, repeating her words in my head as she serves once more. My lack of athleticism has me huffing and puffing after fifteen minutes.
"You okay over there?" she asks concernedly. I cough a bit and nod, putting on my game face, which more or less makes it look like I'm constipated.
"Serve it again!" I call to her.
She looks a little worried but hits it sharply across the net at my request. My head feels like it's spinning as I watch the ball soar high in the air straight towards me. I reach my racket up, but before I can make contact with the ball, it connects with the sensitive skin under my eye. I yelp in pain and fall back onto my butt.
"Oh my gosh, Whitney, are you okay?" Mina rushes over to me and slaps her hands placed over her mouth. She crouches next to me and tries to take a peek at my eye. I swat her away with my left hand and keep my right hand pressed over my eye while I wince in pain.
"I'm so sorry, really; I'll get you some ice," she says. "Here I'll help you inside." She continues rambling as she takes my arm and helps me get up, and I stagger on the way to the inside of her house.
Tennis: 15. Whitney: 0.