Julia and Juliet - A Short Story

                It wasn’t how I planned to spend my Friday night. Red wine with Erin. I hated these nights. I hated a lot of things, if I was being brutally honest. In no particular order – red wine, ugly breakups, my uncomfortable sofa, poetry (God, I hated poetry), selling cars, being broke. I could go on and on. Erin, though, always tried to get me to see the sunny side of things. I suppose it’s what best friends are for. This particular Friday night, I was ready to fuck the sunny side of things.  I told her as much.

                “Fuck the sunny side, Erin. I mean fuck it. Really fuck it. I can’t do it this time.”

                “You damn-well will do it. That girl wasn’t good enough for you. She cheated on you and lied constantly. Lied. She wouldn’t know the truth if it bit her on her bubble butt of an ass. I mean I can condone the cheating to an extent… But the lies.  You know what I say to that.”

                Lying Liar Pants. That’s what Erin would say. And I knew she was right. Add that to the list of things I hated – Erin being right.

                “We were supposed to be out tonight celebrating one year together.”

                “A year of what? Lies? Infidelity? Unhappiness?”

                “I was happy.”

                “Seriously? This isn’t the first night you’ve cried about her over red wine. Tell me again that you were happy.”

                “I was happy.”

                “Bullshit. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy. I know you’re a poet and melancholy kind of goes with the profession, but come on. Be honest.”

                “I was happy when I got into grad school, when I got my job at Cars Plus. I was happy with Kristi. Before the lies started.”

                “Like you were happy with Susannah, Kenzi, Hope, and all the rest. You get by, Juliet. I’ve known you, how long? Six, seven years?”

                “Going on eight.”

                “Right.  Eight. And I promise you, I’ve never seen you happy. It’s in your eyes, Julie. Your eyes can’t lie. Not to me.”

                I stared into the dark red recesses of my wine glass. I couldn’t meet Erin’s eyes. Something in me knew she was right. Warm tears welled up in my eyes. As I closed my eyes, tears rolled down my cheeks.

                “Oh, Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

                “It’s ok.”

                We fell silent a moment. Erin went to the kitchen and opened another bottle of wine. I thought about happiness. It was so easy for Erin. She married the love of her life right out of college, had two perfect children, and recently became a partner at a successful advertising firm downtown. Somehow she also managed to do volunteer work and play scratch golf. She was blessed and I was, well, the exact opposite. I never quite got life right. It took me six years and four majors to graduate from college. I bounced from girlfriend to girlfriend. The most recent, Kristi, almost a year, was my second longest relationship to date. I’d gotten a couple poems published and managed to sneak into a fairly competitive MFA program, but I sold cars for a living.

                “I’m not happy, Erin. I’m not.”

                She poured me another glass of wine.

                I sighed. “There’s just something missing. Always has been. I just don’t know.”

                “Think about the last time you were truly happy. Really think about it.”

                I sipped my wine. I felt the tears building again. I shook my head as if to clear a thought. I pushed myself up off the couch. I walked toward the stairs that led to the basement.

                “Where are you going?”

                I didn’t answer.

                “Julie?” I heard her call as I ran down the stairs.

                I flipped on the light in the basement and looked at the boxes piled high in the far corner. Under all the boxes was an old army surplus trunk. Once upon a time, it had been my toy box. Now it held certain special keepsakes, things I never looked at but could never bring myself to throw away. I tossed aside several boxes until I reached the trunk. It was locked but I still remembered the combination – 31-1-35. The dial crunched a little as I turned it. Rust and dust have a way of gumming up a padlock. Finally though, it popped open.

                “What are you doing?” Erin’s voice came from behind me. She must have followed me down the stairs.

                Silently, I flipped open the trunk. I set aside manila folder after manila folder of old newspaper clippings. My mother’s heavily slanted cursive writing told the month and the year each represented.  I pulled out a couple trophies and a box containing three gold tennis ball medallions. I flipped through one photo album and discarded it, then another.  As I picked up a third album, a stack of pictures slid out. I sifted through them and found what I was looking for.  I sat back on my heels and stared at the photograph in my hand.  I threatened to burn all this stuff fifteen years ago. My mother forbade me, saying I’d regret it someday. The picture, though, she didn’t know about the picture. If she did, she would have burned it herself.

                “Julie?” Erin squatted down next to me and looked over my shoulder. I sunk to my knees and bowed my head.

                “Who is that? Oh my God, that’s you! Look at your hair! You never told me you played tennis!”

                I’d never told anyone I played tennis. Not after that day, the day I held firmly in my hand. I stood up and walked up the stairs leaving the mess I created behind. Erin followed.

                I tossed the picture on the coffee table and took a slug of red wine. It burned my throat. I hated red wine.

                Erin sat next to me on the couch. She picked up the picture and inspected it closely.

                “Who is this girl with you? She looks like a young Julia Dolan.”

                “That’s because it is a young Julia Dolan.”

                “Why are you showing me this now?”

                “You asked the question,” I answered. My voice was barely a whisper as I continued, “This picture is the answer.”

                Over the next hour and a half, I told the story I’d never told before. I’d buried it so deep that it seemed more like a long ago, forgotten dream than any kind of reality. I told her about how I used to hate Julia Dolan and how she used to hate me. She was #1 in the girls’ 12s in L.A. and #1 in the Southern California section. I was #1 in San Diego, but barely managed to crack the top ten in the section. She came from money and had all the advantages – good coaching, the best rackets, cute outfits. My dad was former Navy and we barely had enough to keep me in cut rate tennis shoes.  She was cocky and acted like she thought she was better than everyone.  

One day a tournament director thought it might be fun to make Julia Dolan and Juliet Dierksen a doubles team. History was made, but not before we railed against it. In our first match, I hit her with a serve. She set me up to get clocked by an overhead. I overturned a bad call she made. She called me a “bitch” and we got a code violation.

At 0-6, 0-5, Julia threw her racket at her bag and nearly hit me.

“I don’t lose. You know this right?” She was fuming.

“Yeah, me either.”

“These girls suck.”

“Yep. “

“We can beat them.”

“Yep.”

We managed to pull it together, both of us fueled by fear and anger, and rattled off twelve games in a row. Julia served for the match. At 30-15, she double faulted. I walked to the baseline and handed her a ball.

“You got this, Julia.”

For the first time, our eyes met. She nodded. Julia cracked an ace and a then service winner. We took the match, 0-6, 7-5, 6-0. Three matches later we won the tournament and put our differences behind us. Over the next three years, we played hundreds of matches and never lost. We took the USTA Girls 12s, 14s and at only fifteen, we won the 16s.

Even though, we lived two hours apart, our families became inseparable. We traveled every weekend together. Mr. Dolan helped my dad get a better job with a government contractor. My dad taught Mr. Dolan how to grill chicken without scorching it. Mrs. Dolan bought Julia and me matching outfits for all of our big tournaments. My mom baked Julia’s favorite cookies for post-match treats. When Julia was accepted to a prestigious tennis academy in Florida (her singles ranking was as impressive as her doubles ranking), the Dolans offered to pay my tuition so that Julia and I could stay together.  We were fifteen and we had the world by the tail.

“That picture,” I said pointing to the coffee table, “was taken after our last victory.”

“Wait a minute. Last victory? What happened?” Erin had picked up the bottle to pour more wine. She stopped.

“I never played tennis again after that day.”

“Wait. What?”

She set the bottle down with a clunk. I picked it up and poured us both another glass. I took a small sip and set my glass back on the coffee table. I willed myself to breathe and felt the sting of tears.

“After that match, Julia and I were in the locker room changing. Our parents were going to take us to our favorite restaurant – Cheesecake Factory. There was this moment-” I hesitated.

Erin looked at me intently. I couldn’t meet her eyes. I stared across the room.

“There was this moment… in the locker room… we were alone… her hand brushed mine… “

I picked up the picture and looked at Julia. She’d been so beautiful.

“We kissed. It was soft and salty.”

I felt a tear slide down my cheek. I took a deep breath. Erin leaned forward transfixed. I continued.

“Suddenly there was a shout. ‘Oh my God! Julia! Juliet!’ It was our moms.”

“Aww, fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Erin’s voice was barely audible.

“My mom pulled me away. Julia’s mom pulled her away. I haven’t seen her or talked to her since that moment. Our parents made sure of that. Julia went to that academy in Florida as planned, turned pro. You know the rest.  My dad took a job in Grand Rapids, Michigan so we moved to the Midwest. I quit tennis.”

“Oh, Honey. That was your first kiss?”

I nodded and raised my eyes to meet hers.

“You loved her?”

I nodded again. A tear slid down my cheek.

“My first and only love.”

Erin picked up the picture to study it. She flipped it over and looked at the back.

“Holy shit, Julie! The date on the back is March 7, 1999, fifteen years ago today. It’s a sign!”

“A sign of what? That I wasted fifteen years of my life pining away after a memory I didn’t want to remember anyway?”

“Julie, I’m being serious. It’s a sign that you’re supposed to change your life, today. You haven’t seen her since? Maybe you ought to.”

“Ought to what?”

“See her!”

“How would I do that? After fifteen years and all her fame and success, she won’t remember me anyway.”

“What if she does? Look, Julie. Your life is shit and has been for the last fifteen years. You never got to finish that kiss. You need closure, some kind of closure, so you can move on and maybe find some happiness.”

“Ok so what am I supposed to do? Show up at a tournament, stalk her, and what? Kiss her?”

“Exactly!”

Erin grabbed my laptop off the coffee table and sat down on the floor Indian style.

“You’re on Spring Break next week, right?”

“Yeah, what does that have to do with anything? I still have to work.”

“No, you don’t. You’re calling in an emergency vacation.”

“Where am I going?”

“I’m Googling right now to find out where.” She studied the screen a moment.

“Oh, thank you, Jesus,” Erin sighed.

“What?”

“The women’s tennis tour is in Indian Wells, California next week. I was afraid they’d be in Dubai or someplace crazy and you don’t have a passport.”

Erin was in her element. She loved to plan and be in charge. I must have fallen asleep because I was awakened by a kick in my foot. The sun was barely peaking through the blinds.

“Get your ass up and pack. You’re on a flight out of O’Hare at noon. You connect at LAX and get to Palm Springs at 9:00pm. You’re booked at The Marilyn. Remember that cute hotel my sister stayed at last year for that wedding? That’s where you’re staying. You have the room from the eighth until the twelfth. Oh, and I rented you a car so you can get back and forth. Hertz. Don’t forget.”

I couldn’t speak. I looked at her through the haze of a red wine hangover. My head pounded.

“Check your email. Your tickets will be there. I got you general admission seats at the BNP Paribas Open for Monday through Thursday. Julia is in the top half of the draw. Plays some girl named Carolina Wiederhoffer in the first round. The rest is up to you.”

~~

                On the way to the airport, Erin gave me a few fast facts about Julia.

                “Did you know that she’s never played a professional doubles match?”

                “No, I didn’t know that.” I didn’t know anything about Julia. I’d spent that past fifteen years avoiding everything tennis and everything Julia.

                “Did you know that she just broke up with her girlfriend of five years? Another professional player named Simona Maka-something?”

                “Didn’t know that either.”

                “I’m telling you, Julie. It’s all a sign. Everything. It’s meant to be. Now.  It’s your time, Julie. Yours.”

~~

I arrived in Palm Springs just a half hour late. I had a night and a day to kill before the tournament. I hadn’t been to Palm Springs in years. The last time was probably for a junior event with the Dolans. I’d never been sightseeing. The desk clerk at the hotel suggested taking the aerial tram up the mountain. The view was spectacular, he said, and there were lots of great hiking trails. As the tram climbed slowly up the mountain, I was treated to an amazing view of the city below. Somewhere down there in the expanse of the city and desert, amid all the windmills, was Julia Dolan. I hadn’t been this close to her in fifteen years.

How was I supposed to get close enough to speak to her?  And even if I did, what was I supposed to say?  Players were usually pretty well protected at these events. I remembered that from the pro tournaments I’d seen as a kid. My mom nearly ran over Chris Evert once and was immediately upbraided by a big guy in a gold windbreaker. I managed to get Martina Hingis’ autograph as she walked past at one tournament, but it wasn’t like we carried on a conversation. “Nice match” was about all I got out before she moved on to the next kid. Erin expected me to right a decade and a half of unhappiness in what? Less than ten seconds time? She was expecting a lot. I resolved that seeing Julia might be enough.

I arrived at the tournament site early. I entered the dusty parking lot with the rest of the early birds. The gates weren’t even open yet but that didn’t deter the fans. I followed the crowd and listened to the conversations around me.  I never watched tennis and even though I’d subscribed to “ESPN Magazine” for years, I’d never read one article about tennis. Still, I recognized some names – Venus, Serena, Federer, Nadal.

Finally the crowd moved forward and I was admitted to the grounds. I immediately tried to orient myself. Two small stadiums appeared to the right and left of me. The main stadium loomed ahead glowing orange in the early morning light. Not sure where to go and what to do, I found an empty Adirondack chair on the lawn in front of a huge video monitor and sat down. According to the program I was handed at the gate, Julia and Carolina Wiederhoffer were the fourth match of the day on Stadium 3, the smallest of the main courts. I was in luck – most of the stadium was considered “open seating”, meaning the ticket Erin bought me would be good enough.

It was only 10:30am when I did the math in my head. Three matches would go on before Julia. That meant that I had four or five hours to kill. I spent part of that time roaming the grounds. I ate a chicken salad for lunch and was enticed by the Wilson racket vendor to hit a few balls on the Tennis Express demo practice court. I must have hit the ball pretty well because an older couple asked me if I was one of the pros. I laughed and replied, “I wish.” 

I hadn’t been on or even near a tennis court in fifteen years, but it actually felt good to be back. The sights, the sounds, the smells were like a homecoming. I could feel myself smiling. I was happy. Damn Erin was right again.

Figuring that Julia would go on about 4:00pm, I made my way to Stadium 3 about 2:30. I wanted to see the lay of the land, so to speak. Where did the players come in? How did they leave? Where were the best seats? A nice older gentleman saw me looking for a seat and slid over to free up a small space.  I immediately discovered that I had one of the best seats in the stadium. One of the main TV camera wells was just below meaning that from the third row of the bleachers I had a nearly unobstructed view of the baseline.  I watched the last few games of the match between two women I had never heard of. The players exited the court not twenty feet from where I sat. Security didn’t accompany them until they were all the way off the court and in a small alleyway that lead to an expansive walkway beyond. The players stopped in the alley to sign autographs. If I could make it to the intersection between the court and the alleyway before anyone else, I might have a chance.

“Next up tennis fans, the #5 player in the world and #4 seed, Carolina Wiederhoffer, and former world #1, Julia Dolan!!!”

The crowd roared. I struggled to breathe. My phone vibrated in my hand. It was a text from Erin.

‘Well…?’ it said.

‘She’s just about on’ was my reply.

‘Fear less. Dare to be happy. I love you’, Erin replied.

I looked down at my phone to send an ‘I love you’ back when the announcer heralded the arrival of the players.

“Please welcome, from Munich, Germany, Carolina Wiederhoffer!!!”

A few fans cheered and clapped. A stout woman with blond hair and big muscles waved as she strode on to the court.

“And now, from right here in Southern California, former #1 player in the world, your very own… JULIA DOLAN!!!!!

The crowd stood, stomped their feet, and applauded wildly. I stood with them. I looked around the tall man standing in front of me and there she was. Maybe fifty feet away.  She waved enthusiastically to the crowd. I tried to breathe.

The players warmed up. The match began. The crowd was clearly on Julia’s side. Unfortunately, Julia didn’t give them much to cheer about. She couldn’t keep up with the German player. Nothing was working. She double faulted several times and her backhand failed her repeatedly. Within a half hour, Julia was down 0-5 and serving.

At 30-15, Julia double faulted again. The crowd went silent. She collected a ball from the ball kid and moved toward the baseline. She paused.

“You got this, Julia!” A voice rang out. The voice was mine.

She hesitated slightly, then proceeded to the baseline. She paused again. The crowd remained silent.

Two points later, Julia won the game.  Re-energized, she won seven straight games to take the set. The crowd went crazy. The second set was a battle, but Julia managed to hang on and won 6-4. The players shook hands. Carolina exited the court to a smattering of applause. Julia gathered her bags and moved toward the exit.

I knew I had to move, but I froze. I remembered Erin’s text – Fear Less. Suddenly I sprung into action. I hopped down the three rows of bleachers and wiggled through the crowd. As Julia started up the stairs toward the alley way, I was in position. As she hit the final step, I stood an arm’s length away. I stepped in front of her and our eyes met. I leaned in to kiss her. Our lips touched. Soft and salty, just as I remembered.

I felt something hit my back and an arm go around my midsection. My feet came off the ground and I couldn’t breathe.

“Juliet!” I heard someone call out.

I must have passed out because I woke up on a cot in what looked to be a security office. I shook off the haze and surveyed the scene. Erin was going to love this. A large man in a gold windbreaker sat at a desk. He was having an animated conversation with someone on the phone. A police officer stood near the desk with his hand one hand on his hip and the other resting on his gun holster.

“So you’re saying she says she knows her? Well, shit, man. Damn lesbians. All right, yeah.  I guess that’s all right.” He hung up the phone.

“Looks like we don’t need you after all,” he said to the cop. He turned to me and said, “Apparently, this is your lucky day, Miss.”

Lucky? I wasn’t sure how this was lucky. I’m sure I’d been mere inches from getting arrested, but the afternoon hadn’t gone exactly to plan. I licked my lips and tasted salt. It just wasn’t mean to be, Julia and me. Twice now we’d kissed and twice now we’d been pulled apart.

A few moments later I heard a knock on the door. A nicely dressed woman entered the room.

“Juliet? Juliet Dierksen?”

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m Julie.”

“I have something for you.” She held out a sheet of paper folded in half.

I took it from her and unfolded it. In the middle of the page, I saw a few lines written in a vaguely familiar hand.

‘She stumbled and fell

Tumbled through the looking glass

And into the void.’

                I knew the words well because they were mine, a long-lost stanza from the first poem I’d ever had published.  It was far from my best work.  A little farther down the page I saw a phone number and the words ‘Don’t leave! Call me!!’

“Miss?” Gold Windbreaker pulled me out of my reverie. “Looks like you’re free to go. Ms. Wexler will escort you back to the Garden.”

I was ushered through the grounds and back to the main concourse. Fans swarmed around me on their way to the evening session. I could hear people buzzing about Roger and Federer. I sat on the palisade of steps leading to the main stadium and looked at Julia’s note again. She knew my poetry. By heart. I didn’t even know my poetry by heart. My hand shook as I dialed the phone. I held it to my ear and heard it ring once and then again.

“Juliet?”

“Julia?”

“Where are you?”

“Stairs by the west concourse. Main stadium. I think.”

“Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”

Right there.

I saw someone running through the parting crowd. Someone said, “Julia!” I jogged down to the next landing as she jogged up.  

“I thought that was your voice,” she said.

Before I could answer she pulled me toward her into a soft, slow kiss that seemed to go on forever. The crowd jostled us. A few clapped and cheered. No one pulled us apart.

Erin found a pic of it, us, on Twitter the next morning. She sent me a screen shot and said she’d never seen me look happier. And you know what, for once, I didn’t hate that she was right.