I'd Walk with My Friends If I Could Find Them by Jesse Goolsby

typically responds with mock anger or withdrawn cowardice, never neutrality, but Dax doesn’t mind whatever animosity comes his way. Already six foot six, two hundred pounds in eleventh grade, armed with a cannon forehand, he has a stature that alone deters the most ardent opponents.
    Dax’s friendship with Alston is cemented by past loyalty and subtle envy. Alston showcases none of the shyness that Dax battles, so Dax attaches himself to Alston’s moments of outward exhibition and feels the alluring intensity, but not the consequences, of a life without restraint; even now, though Dax has no sister, he plays along with the blindfold taunt and lets the net player decide which body part to defend. The choice may seem easy, but Dax’s coach often sees talented players hunched over, peering through the heads of their meshed nylon racquets, praying that Dax will aim high.
    Alston handles his liquor well, but one day he throws up in the middle of his serve.
    â€œDamn,” he says, wiping his mouth. Then: “Love thirty. Second serve.”
    â€œWait,” the nervous but skilled opponent at the net says. “We’re not playing with that shit on the court. Somebody’s got to clean it up.”
    Alston studies the foul puddle of alcohol and Kool-Aid.
    â€œDax, you want to keep playing?”
    â€œWhatever,” Dax says.
    â€œWe’re done,” Alston says.
    â€œThen you guys forfeit.”
    â€œBitches,” Alston says, already swigging from his water bottle.
    Dax and Alston walk over to the top of a grassy hill overlooking the courts and check out the girls’ matches, their attention focused on the hiking hemlines and swaying asses of girls awaiting serves. Their earnest coach leans forward in a lawn chair next to the fence, shouting encouragement. Dax stretches his body out on the grass and stares up at the crisscrossing contrails. Alston sits and wraps his arms around his knees.
    â€œHey,” Alston says. “Tall one.”
    A new girl at their school speaks with the coach, her hands rubbing her hips, then turns and walks toward them. She crests the hill and stands close to the boys.
    â€œThey’re talking about you two,” she says. The hill is empty save the two boys and her. Dax shakes his head and rises onto his elbows.
    â€œBad flu,” Alston says.
    â€œI can smell you,” she says.
    The girl lowers herself to the ground. Dax watches her long limbs fold. She clasps her hands and slides them between her thighs. Dax notices a dolphin tattoo above her right ankle, a scar running along the outside of her thigh, disappearing under her shorts.
    â€œYou on the team now?” Dax says.
    â€œNo racket,” she says.
    â€œOh.” Then silence, except for the grunts, shoe squeaks, and score recitations of six high school tennis matches.
    The match they all ignore features the two best girls from each school. The girl from Rutherford High is the better player, quicker to the ball and with smoother ground strokes, and she produces a high-pitched squeal every time she strikes the ball.
    â€œThere need to be more tennis sluts,” Alston says. “All this grunting for nothing.”
    â€œAlston,” Dax says, and nods at the girl.
    â€œRelax, Dax. Your name’s Jean, right?” Alston says.
    â€œJanelle.”
    â€œHow come you don’t play?”
    â€œI’m new.”
    â€œSo? Aren’t you living with the Conleys?”
    â€œYeah.”
    From down below the coach yells something about backspin and gives a thumbs-up. The boys Dax and Alston forfeited to stand across the way, talking to their coach and pointing to where the three of them lounge. Dax stares at his feet.
    â€œDon’t the Conleys have a bunch of foster kids?” Alston says.
    â€œJesus, A,” Dax says.
    â€œYeah,” Janelle says.
    â€œYou been in other foster homes?” Alston says.
    â€œIt’s not my