Jersey Tomatoes are the Best by Maria Padian

on a line in the hot sun, they are impeccably dressed. Even the next-to-littlest, a guy who might be all of four, wears pressed shorts, a belt and a shirt neatly tucked in.
    “Umm, yeah. But it’s
Henry,
” I reply, surprised at how awkward I feel. “Yolanda, right?” She’s short, this Yolanda Cruz, and … stocky. Not fat, although when she smiles her cheeks look like these two round apples. I can’t imagine she moves very well on the court.
    She puts out her hand, which seems a little formal, but her face melts into this expression of relief. I notice that she stands beside
two
rackets, each zipped into individual covers, and leaning against a square, brown suitcase.
    “Excuse me, can we move forward, please?” Some mom standing behind the Cruz clan sounds impatient, and I realize we’ve advanced in line. As we shuffle toward the table, nudgingour luggage ahead with our feet, my mom introduces herself to Yolanda’s mom.
    “You look just like your Facebook picture,” Yolanda begins. “I recognized you right off.”
    Hmm. I don’t think that looks anything like me, but okay.…
    “Did you fly into Fort Lauderdale?” she continues.
    “Actually, we drove.”
    “
¡Ay, Dios mío!
” she exclaims. The family standing in front of us turns and looks. “Straight through?”
    “Oh, no, we stopped at night. Twice,” I add. Yolanda turns to the little brother with the belt.
    “How would you like that, Mr. I-Get-Carsick?” she says to him. “Three days in the car?” He looks at me shyly, shakes his head no, then buries his face in his sister’s hip. I hear him whisper to her. “
Sí, es muy bonita,
” she replies quietly.
    “He thinks you’re very pretty,” she tells me.
    “Tell him he can be my boyfriend,” I reply seriously. “I like younger men.” Yolanda whispers to him again, and he squeals. He runs to hide behind his mother.
    “He’s really cute,” I say to Yolanda. “I don’t have any brothers and sisters.”
    “I have a few you can borrow,” she says, and we both laugh.
    “Uh, some of us would like to get out of the sun?” The impatient mother behind us again. It’s our turn at the table.
    The Chadwick people exude high-voltage helpfulness as they hand us our room keys and point us toward our dorm. Girls, we learn, are on the third floor; boys are on the second. There’s a gathering at three o’clock, in the dining hall, for allcampers and parents, then campus tours for new players. Dinner, to which families are invited, starts promptly at six. After dinner …
    Well, then it begins, doesn’t it? Mom and Dad drive away. Three days between here and New Jersey.
    The Lloyds and Cruzes, weighed down by luggage, head toward the dorm rooms. Mom and Mrs. Cruz chat away like old friends, and I know it won’t be long before Mom gets her hands on the baby Mrs. Cruz holds. The dads seem very preoccupied with carrying suitcases.
    Just before we round the corner, Yolanda nudges me and gestures with her head toward the line.
    “One, two, three … fifth guy back,” she murmurs. “Recognize him from Facebook?”
    Right about where I think the fifth camper might be, I see a blond-streaked head. He’s a lot taller than I imagined he’d be.
    “Jonathan Dundas!” This comes out a bit louder than intended. Heads on the line turn, luckily not Jonathan Dundas’s. But another guy’s. He’s standing just beyond the awning, alone, not really part of the line. More like he’s checking it out. He has long brown hair, sort of Roger Federer–ish. It swings when he whips his head around. I don’t recognize him from Facebook.
    He obviously heard me, and he stares.
Great, Hen. Haven’t even dragged your duffel up to the room, and already made an idiot out of yourself. Ten points
.
    As we walk on, Yolanda whispers in my ear.
    “What did you think of his profile?” She looks at me carefully.
    I smile and raise my eyebrows suggestively.
    “What did
you
think?” I return the question.
    She