Zed had survived and eventually thrived in this odd environment, but not without effort. In order to thwart the egg roll jokes and the dumb questions about the geometric orientation of her vagina, she’d had to learn how to see herself as she was seen. It wasn’t too hard, especially since most people weren’t particularly committed to how they initially saw her, but Zed had always wanted to reverse the situation, to wield that power of seeing rather than just redirecting it in her favor. Last night, Apollo had briefly wielded it. She’d have to ask him about it, maybe experience it herself.

Highway 279 slowly eased into sight. Zed hit a right and continued toward Kenwood Park, their destination. She hated that she had to go all the way to another county for a decent park, but Kai refused to play at Flat Shoals, and Sol was banned from Independence Park for life.

The park was active. The sun had reached its merciful phase, its rays suddenly inviting after a day-long barrage of heat. Zed, Sol, and Kai filed out of the MINI armed with rackets, water bottles, and tennis balls. Noticing that the tennis courts were momentarily empty, Zed gestured for Sol and Kai to pick up the pace. Unwanted whistles and stares grazed them as they passed the fenced basketball court. “This is for you, Charlie’s Angels!” a shirtless white guy shouted at them, launching a three-point shot. It air-balled spectacularly, slinking toward the ground like a Raid-rinsed wasp. The other players laughed, but their stares intensified as the girls’ backsides came into view. Zed could feel their eyes on her ass. Sol rolled her shoulders back and hurled her arms skyward, extending her middle fingers.

“Fuck Fayette County,” Zed huffed, walking onto the tennis court.

“Word. It’s just Clayton County with golf carts,” Kai seconded. “And nice tennis courts.”

° ° °

The tennis court was thoroughly baked. Sol slumped to the hot ground, convinced her ass would catch on fire. Her mind started to swelter as well. What had Derrick been doing? Sol concentrated on Kai and Zed’s forms, hoping they could keep her from feeling violent.

Kai’s strokes were works of art, kinetic compositions. The fabric of reality seemed to dissolve and reform when she hit the ball, redirecting Zed’s wild shots with an impossible calmness. Sol remembered Zed as a staunch fundamentalist. Her frantic shots were a new development. Even if the ball’s trajectory was obvious, she would decide how to hit it at the last second. It was an odd style, but Sol could see its utility. Kai was returning the shots every time, but each return was less strategic and more reactive. Sol couldn’t believe these were just warm-up shots. She’d missed so much while she was away.

“First to eight games, win by two, switch every odd game,” Zed announced.

“Yep,” Kai agreed, throwing her racket into the air. “W.”