THE BASTILLE INVITATIONAL
Congratulations on your acceptance into the qualifying draw of the Bastille Invitational! It is a thirty-two-player single-elimination tournament played on red clay. Four players will earn entry into the main draw.
Qualifying check-in will take place on Wednesday, July 5, from 10 a.m. until 2 p.m. Please note that if you are not checked in by the deadline, you will be replaced by an on-site alternate. Competition will begin on Thursday, July 6, with the quarterfinals taking place on Saturday, July 8.
Should you be one of the four players to qualify for the sixty-four-player main draw, Sunday, July 9, is a rest day. Competition will resume on Monday, July 10.
Enclosed in this package, you will find a rulebook along with your room assignment. One of the time-honored traditions of the Bastille Invitational is having players room together in the villas on-site. Parents/guardians and/or coaches, should you travel with one, will be housed in a separate facility. We hope you enjoy this experience and that the connections you form here will be lasting.
The winners of the 12U, 14U, and 16U singles draw will earn both USA Tennis and ITF points, as well as a possible spot at the BJK Cup. The winner of the 18U singles draw will earn a wild card into a WTA 125 tour event, as well as USA Tennis and ITF points.
We look forward to a great tournament. Please route all questions through the main office to be directed as necessary.
Aces!
Dick Duncan
Director, The Bastille Invitational
WEDNESDAY, JULY 5TH
DAY BEFORE THE BASTILLE INVITATIONAL
1
ALICE
“DID YOU MAKE IT TO THE BASTILLE?”
I am so busy staring at my bizarre surroundings that I barely hear my brother’s question through the phone. I hadn’t expected central Florida to look so . . . French.
“Hello? Alice? Can you hear me?” David’s voice strains with tension, as though I might have simply vanished without a word.
“I’m here,” I confirm, giving a wary look at the imposing wrought-iron letters that have been twisted and dropped immediately upon entrance to the campus.
Bastille.
Not the Bastille. Just Bastille.
I’d known the place would be French-like. What I did not anticipate was stepping directly into a non–French person’s fantasy of what France would look like. Right down to the cobblestone paths, I am in the middle of the scene in Beauty and the Beast where Belle insults everyone around her and visits the library in a town where no one else reads.
“We’re so proud of you. I hope you know that.”
My older brother clears his throat, surely giving himself more time to think of things to say as I wander through plaza after plaza of villas, each with a different Joan of Arc fountain in its center.
They’re not called dorms here, these villages of miniature structures that burst out in all directions from their central gathering point. Each house in this plaza, marked Place de la Concorde, has four doors, all painted pale blue to contrast with the pinkish color of the building itself. The upper-level rooms have tiny balconies out back, the villas cleverly arranged so that they open into tall cypresses and other green shrubbery instead of each other. It gives the illusion of privacy, even as the buildings are crammed so close together you can nearly span the distance between them with your hands.
I’m accustomed to the dense housing of an urban environment, with San Francisco’s mere forty-seven square miles housing nearly a million people, but the number of players Bastille is able to squeeze into these little villages is impressive even to me.
I shift the strap on my shoulder, thinking of the hot-pink sleeping bag inside the bag I’m carrying. Surely the color alone will mark me as an outsider here—a kid’s color—borrowed from the little sister of one of David’s friends. I see a few players towing carts of proper bedding from their cars, apparently unsatisfied at the prospect of living the actual camp experience. Everyone here moves with such assurance of where they’re going and what they’re doing.
I’m stalling.
Finding my assigned villa will lead to my going inside, which will lead to making this entire thing real. As it is now, I am simply a visitor, wandering the grounds in admiration.
My eye snags on a familiar face. With thick, glossy brown hair and a smile that would make dentists weep with joy, Violetta Masuda is unmistakable. So is the man next to her—with the wavy blond hair and dimples that vaulted him onto posters across America, it’s Cooper Nelsen. He was once considered “the next big thing” in American men’s tennis, until multiple knee injuries forced an early retirement.
So this is where he ended up.
They turn my way and, without thinking, I fling myself behind the closest Joan of Arc. Here, she is spitting gracefully into a concrete basin while proudly
holding the French flag. In this sculpture, unlike the painting that clearly inspired it, her breasts are covered. It’s perhaps the one detail that finally pulls me back to the reality of the moment.
Crouched behind a fountain with sweat trickling down my back and into my pants, I am hiding from people who have no idea I exist. From my low post, I have an almost unobstructed view of them. It’s clear they are close by the way they interact, easy bumps and touches without hesitation—like they’ve had a lifetime of knowing each other. Funny then that he’s never made an appearance on her social media.
I’m so immersed in watching them that I forget I still have my phone held to my ear, David waiting for me on the line.
“Alice? Are you still there?” he asks.
I grunt my agreement, not wanting to draw the attention of those crossing the plaza—this one marked Place du Capitole. No one seems to even look at the trees or the statues around them as they scurry to their villas. Perhaps they have all been here before.
“How are your hands?” David asks. “Did they survive the flight?”
I flex my left hand, watching each finger stretch out in front of me, pretending I don’t know what he’s really asking. In spite of his teasing tone, I know there’s worry behind his question. “Present and accounted for.”
He lets my sarcasm go without a response. He never used to do that.
I watch Violetta and Cooper hug goodbye, her arms lingering just a fraction longer than his, then stand and stretch my legs with relief once they’re out of sight. My entire body is slick with sweat, my curly hair uncomfortably plastered to the back of my neck and my phone screen fogged from my body heat.
“Listen,” David continues, not bothering to ask my permission for this unsolicited pep talk. “I know this is scary, but you can do this. We believe in you. You’re going to be great and we’ll be cheering you on the whole way.”
We. He keeps using the plural pronoun, as if he speaks for the rest of the family.
I drag a finger through the water in the fountain, hoping it might cool my body and therefore my mind. But it’s warm, like everything else here.
“Is Ma there?” I ask.
David awkwardly clears his throat. “She just stepped out to run some errands. She wanted to talk to you, I know she did. She’s just busy with it being summer and all. You know how it is, people wanting their houses deep cleaned while they’re on vacation. I’m sure she’ll call you when she can.”
A cloud passes over and temporarily darkens the sky and I wonder if it’s a sign David is lying, like a penance for trying to keep light where there should be none. He’s always been the upbeat one, cracking jokes and prying smiles even from the grim lips of Ahma, who smiles less now than she did in the before.
I hear David’s faint breath through the receiver and I wish I could extend this conversation, maybe forever—anything to keep me from having to actually find my villa and go inside. But David and I have nothing else to talk about; nothing except the one thing we never talk about.
“How’s the weather down there? You have everything you need? Have you met your
roommates yet?” His voice is brimming with false cheer.
I wander into Place de l’Étoile, where another Joan of Arc fountain awaits, this one of her in full armored glory and wielding a sword. Instead of Joan herself spitting water, this one spouts out the tip of the sword. I wish my villa was in this plaza—I could use a battle-ready Joan of Arc on my side. Instead, I’m like the Joan in the previous courtyard, all soft and vulnerable and exposed to the elements, spitting water uselessly while the troops around me fight.
Yeah, yeah, she’s an inspiration or whatever. I’m tired of being inspirational.
“It’s a thousand degrees and the air is so muggy I could squeeze it for drinking water,” I reply, checking the temperature of this fountain’s water. It, too, is warm.
“You pack your hand sanitizer?” he asks.
He’s trying so hard. I can almost feel his effort through the phone. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t replace what I’ve lost.
“I’ll be fine,” I reassure him. It’s comforting to know I still have the ability to lie.
“I just don’t want you to get sick,” he frets. “Who knows what kind of germs you’re touching? It’s Florida.”
I almost let out a snort of laughter, but I don’t want to let him off so easily. His questions aren’t about Florida any more than they are about germs. But if he won’t simply come out and say it, neither will I. I’m tired of being the only one who refuses to pretend everything is okay.
We are not okay. I am not okay.
“I’d better go.” The unfinished parts of my sentence stick in my throat, grasping for air I’m unable to give.
“Give ’em hell, Alice!"
2
VIOLETTA
AFTER SAYING GOODBYE TO COOP, I FLOAT THROUGH THE DOOR ON A CLOUD of happiness until I remember who my assigned roommate is. Suddenly, my favorite aspect of the tournament is personal torture—having to share this space with Leylah Lê.
She’s stomping around, slamming drawers as she unpacks, like she needs me to know how much she hates me without saying so. Spoiler alert: I already know. The past two years of silence from her was message enough. I hope she loses in the qualifiers and goes home before the main draw even starts.
A wave of guilt hits me but I shake it off.
I decide to be extra sweet just to get under her skin.
“Is there something I can help you with? It seems like you’re having trouble opening and closing the drawers.”
Leylah ignores me completely, slamming the next drawer shut even louder than before.
“I didn’t quite catch that, can you repeat it?” I ask.
I chuckle to myself when she mutters under her breath. It doesn’t matter that I don’t hear what she’s saying.
There’s a light knock and after waiting a beat for the person to enter, I answer the door. The girl standing there looks down so all I can see is the top of her head. Thick, dark curls. The kind I need a curling iron and two different products to imitate. Even then, I could only dream of having curls like this.
Post idea: changing hair texture temporarily vs. permanently
She finally looks up and I see a spray of freckles across her flat nose. She keeps tilting her head back, back, back, until she finally reaches my eyes.
Hers widen at the sight of me and a little gasp escapes. “I’m rooming with Violetta Masuda?”
I can’t lie—my ego swells a little at the recognition.
“That’s me.” I step aside so she can get through the narrow door. “And you are?”
“Alice. Alice Wu.” She says it almost reluctantly, like she would have preferred never to have told anyone.
Her lack of enthusiasm sends mine into hyperdrive, my voice bordering on shrill. “Come in, come in!”
She sets her bags down in the entry and surveys the room I’m showing off like Vanna White. Instead of regular-looking dorms, Bastille’s rooms are more like long, narrow studios, with a sofa and coffee table in the middle and the beds, dressers, and built-in shelving at the far end. A side door leads to the single bathroom and every room has tall, narrow windows that open, the upstairs apartments getting tiny terraces.
A lot of the players complain about the heat when they first arrive because it’s not like the newer academies that outfit every space like a hotel, but it’s actually not too bad because the stone floors keep things fairly cool. I think the charm of it all outweighs any other drawbacks. It’s like being in a different country here.
“There are four rooms to every building,” I explain. “So sometimes you’ll hear the people upstairs or next door, but it makes you feel like you’re really living in a tiny city instead of an independent campus in the middle of Florida.”
That had been a big selling point to Audrey when we moved out here. Ever since I can remember, she’s been pushing for me to be more independent.
Alice nods, her eyes still roving hungrily across everything like she might have missed a detail on her first few perusals.
“There are usually only two people to a room during the school year,” I babble on, uncomfortable with the silence. “But they put four to a room during the tournament. My last roommate just moved out, which is why it’s only the three of us now. I live here full-time,” I add.
“That explains the decorations,” Leylah mutters.
I see Alice take in the
twinkle lights and dangling paper stars I’ve strung from the ceiling, along with some more homey touches like fresh throw pillows for the couch and an area rug for the middle of the room. “They’re nice,” she says quietly, and I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at Leylah.
“How far did you travel?” I ask. The Bastille Invitational is open internationally, so there are always some players who come from halfway across the world. So far, I’ve met people from twenty-two different countries.
“Just from San Francisco,” Alice answers.
I look back toward the entry, where she’s brought only a small duffel, a tote, and two racquets. Most of us go on court with more than she’s got for an eleven-day trip.
Maybe she doesn’t plan on staying the entire time.
Some players can’t wait to take off to their next location after a loss, but most people stick around for a few days afterward to hang out. The big tournaments are usually the only places we get to see one another and Bastille is always extra exciting because it has everyone: all ages and both boys’ and girls’ tournaments. It’s one of the toughest to get into because it’s by invitation only and the admissions board never reveals exactly what the criteria for it are.
Bastille (the academy) even brings on a team of coordinators to help the students that live here with their applications to Bastille (the tournament). Playing here full-time doesn’t guarantee anything except an error-free application.
It’s archaic and time-consuming, but I also assume it’s the only way Leylah got back here. Last time I checked, all her ranking points had expired.
“Is this your first time in Florida?” I ask.
A nod.
“Did you come out here by yourself? Or do you have a coach or a parent at one of the hotels nearby?” Bastille is one of the only truly independent tournaments where all players stay on campus while adults are relegated to off-campus housing. It makes it more like a summer camp than a tournament—another reason it’s so popular.
“It’s just me,” she says after a hard swallow. Her fingers trail along the wainscoting on the walls, her eyes still scanning the area.
Back and forth, back and forth. She seems restless.
I press on. “Is this your first L1 tournament?”
“For fuck’s sake, can you just waterboard her and get it over with?” Leylah bursts out. “It’ll be faster and a lot less painful than whatever the hell it is you’re doing now.”
Alice startles a little at Leylah’s abrasiveness, but I wave her off. “She’s always like this,” I explain. “You get used to it.”
Leylah looks at Alice for the first time. She jerks a thumb in my direction. “She’s always like this. Make sure you don’t get used to it.”
Leylah’s tone is so sharp it actually stings a little.
“Excuse me for trying to make friends,” I say defensively.
“News flash, Violetta
Not everyone wants to be friends with you.”
She says my name with hard t’s, making fun of the fact that I insist people pronounce my name correctly. If I had the last name Lê, I wouldn’t hesitate to correct someone every time they mispronounced it as Lee. It shouldn’t surprise me she doesn’t think it’s worth her time. If she had my name, she’d probably let people call her Violet.
Post idea: staying true to your roots
I glare at her back while she finishes unpacking. Unlike Alice, Leylah packed like she’s moving in. I’m sure she assumes she’ll make it all the way to Bastille Day (the finals). Knowing her, she’ll probably do it.
But she looks thinner than she did two years ago, bordering on ballerina-thin. Her bones practically poke through her coppery-brown skin that never burns, not a single ounce of fat to be found anywhere. She could walk straight into a runway casting without an issue, she’s so tall and skinny. Plus the frown.
I pull myself up straighter and suck in my stomach a little.
As she moves—always keeping her back to me—I eventually spy the tiny insulin pump on the back of her arm, poking out of the sleeve of her T-shirt. I don’t know exactly how they work, but I’ve seen enough commercials to know they’re supposed to make being a type 1 diabetic easier. Also, they’re very, very expensive.
Not that her family can’t afford it.
Alice has chosen to escape us both, already safely tucked away in her bright pink nylon sleeping bag on the top bunk.
“Are you . . . going to sleep?” I ask, pulling out my phone to check the time. San Francisco is three hours behind us; there’s no reason she should be ready for bed. “You’re going to want to hold off for a little or your body will be jet-lagged tomorrow,” I advise.
“Let me guess, you’re offering to keep her awake out of the goodness of your heart?” Leylah snorts. “She just got here. Maybe you can wait a minute before you try to sabotage her.”
Sabotage? Is that what she thinks I did?
I prop my hand on a hip. “How is an offer to help considered sabotage?”
“Don’t be fooled,” Leylah calls up to the top bunk. “Violetta plays the long game.”
I roll my eyes. “Why am I not surprised you managed to make yourself a victim again?”
“Why am I not surprised you don’t think you did anything wrong?”
“In telling Alice to stay awake?”
She glares at me.
“Alice. I need to go check in. You coming?” Leylah speaks to her like a dog. Simple commands, short questions.
Alice is fully buried
in her sleeping bag with only her curls peeking out so her voice is muffled. “No, thank you.”
“You know you have to do it before two o’clock, right? If you miss it, they’ll assume you’re not coming and replace you.”
Now it’s my turn to be skeptical. “Leylah Lê is suddenly a philanthropist? ...
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