Breaking Point by Alex Flinn

school.”
    â€œForget something?” He took my hand, looking only at Charlie. “Good to meet you, Phil.”
    â€œOh.” Charlie stared at his shoes.
    â€œNow he remembers.” Charlie’s father smiled at me, like we were coconspirators against Charlie. “Pretty hard to forget a practice we discussed this morning.”
    â€œThought it was later.”
    â€œShould we start later?” He dropped my hand and turned full attention on Charlie. “You tell me. Your backhand was for shit Saturday.” His posture was straight, military. He was much taller than Charlie and bore down on him. “That little Chicano kid almost beat you.”
    Charlie backed away. “Dan’s not a Chicano, Dad. He’s Colombian. And he was born—”
    â€œI don’t need his life story.” Charlie’s dad stepped closer. “He almost won. Five sets. The last one was seven-six.”
    â€œHe’s two years older, Dad. He’s in college.”
    â€œAre there age divisions in the pros?”
    Charlie turned away. “Guess not.”
    â€œYou guess?”
    â€œNo, sir. There aren’t.”
    â€œBetter. And look at people when you speak. Eye contact. You look like a punk.”
    â€œYes, sir.” Charlie gestured at me.
    Mr. Good remembered I was there. “I apologize, Phil. My son needs to get his priorities straight.” He turned back to Charlie. “See him to the door.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    I stared at Charlie. He was my ride, after all. He wasn’t saying anything, though, just walked to the door. Was I supposed to stay until he finished? Wait outside like a dog? Finally, I said, “Um, that’s fine, sir. But Charlie drove me here. I don’t…”
    Mr. Good raised an eyebrow, as unaccustomed to being disagreed with as I was to disagreeing. Then, a smile, quick and blinding as Charlie’s. “Of course. Rosita can drive you home.” He nodded at Charlie. “Two minutes.”
    â€œYes, sir,” Charlie said for the third time.
    â€œGood meeting you, Phil.”
    â€œIt’s Paul,” I said, finally. But Mr. Good had already left.
    I gathered my stuff while Charlie put on tennis shoes and socks. He walked me to the kitchen. Who was Rosita? The maid, I guessed. I didn’t ask. The house was silent, and so was Charlie. The kitchen had a cabinet in the center, with pots and pans dangling lethally from the ceiling. Charlie stopped under them, turned to me. “My father.” He stubbed his shoe against the peach-colored tile. “My father’s a little…” The word crazy hung in the air, but Charlie said, “See, I’m ranked in the state, and he thinks I’m good enough… I could go all the way, skip college, go pro. Like Jennifer Capriati. Ever hear of her?”
    The name was vaguely familiar. I nodded.
    â€œShe grew up around here. She’s on the pro tour now. Anyway, Dad, he has me in all these junior tournaments, the JOB, Fiesta Bowl, even flying to Australia—my whole Christmas break. He thinks I can qualify for pro tournaments by senior year. If I work hard enough. I’m good enough, too. From there…”
    â€œThat’s great.” But not surprising. Charlie excelled at everything, after all.
    â€œI’m good enough to do it, but I’m lazy. Too many outside interests, my dad says. I need to work on just tennis. I need to.” He’d slipped away, not talking to me anymore, but to himself. “I have a private coach, but that’s not enough. It’s not enough. That’s why Dad takes off work to coach me. I’m damn lucky he can do that, right?” Charlie glanced outside. I looked too. Across the pool, Mr. Good bounced a ball with his racket on the blazing green court. He nodded at Charlie, then his watch. “Takes practice, though, perseverance, Dad says. Live to win. Win. Win.” Punching his thigh with