Mr. Langford was on top of the bleachers with the Panasonic on his shoulder.
And along the far fence, the one by the maintenance road, where nobody had set up any lawn chairs, were the staff.
Dee saw them when she came out of the staff restroom in her mother's church dress. Leon from the bar in his white jacket. The two girls from the kitchen, still in hairnets. Marcus Odom from Washington Street, who'd ridden his bike out, and his aunt, Mrs. Odom, in a Winthrop T-shirt. The caddies, a dozen of them, young and old, leaning on the fence with their arms folded. Mrs. Fripp from Prince Street. Her mother, who'd traded a shift for the first time in four years, standing beside her father in his work clothes, his hands in his pockets. Pastor Simmons from Ebenezer and two deacons in short sleeves and ties. They didn't say anything. They didn't cheer. They just stood there along the fence in a long line, and when Dee walked past them toward the gate, Leon nodded once, and so did all the rest of them, more or less at once, like a field of grass when the wind comes over it.
Mr. Grant wasn't with them.
She looked for him twice, and told herself it didn't matter, and her stomach dropped anyway.
Whit was already on the court, hitting with Coach Pemberton. He had on all white, Fila, the shirt with the little red-and-blue F, and a white headband, and brand-new white Adidas, and three Prince Graphites lined up on the bench in their covers like rifles in a rack. He was hitting the ball so hard it made a sound like a door slamming. The crowd murmured every time.
Dee walked out with one racket. She sat down on her end of the bench. She took the cover off—an old pillowcase her mother had sewn shut on one end—and somebody in the bleachers laughed, and then a few more.
Whit glanced over. He looked at the racket, at the new leather grip. He looked at her face. Then he went back to hitting.
Coach Pemberton climbed into the umpire's chair with a clipboard and a whistle he didn't need. "Miss Pruitt," he said, looking down at her the way he had in the pro shop. "You've got five minutes to warm up."
She warmed up. Her legs felt like they belonged to somebody else. She hit the first ball into the net and the second one over the baseline, and the bleachers laughed again, warmer this time, comfortable, like people settling into a movie they already knew the ending to.
She looked at the far fence. Her father was looking back at her. He didn't do anything. He just looked at her the way he looked at a court when it was finished—like it was ready, like it was what it was supposed to be.
"Time," said Coach Pemberton. "Mr. Langford has won the toss and elected to serve. Miss Pruitt, choose your end."
Dee looked up the hill. It was ten past two. The sun was still high, white and shapeless in the haze, nowhere near the clubhouse roof yet. In two hours it would be.
"West end," she said. "I'll start on the west."