Having a crazy religious mom wasn’t easy. I got home-schooled from a bunch of weird study guides that she ordered from a catalog. I didn’t have many friends, none in the neighborhood, just other freaks like me whose parents went to The Holy Word of Faith Pentecostal Church, all living and worshiping under the stern hand of Pastor Bob.
When I turned fifteen, Mother thought I could handle meeting some other kids and let me sign up for a few classes at the civic center. There it finally became obvious how completely messed up I was. I didn’t know any of the stuff the other kids knew: the teen idols, the music, the clothes. I was like an idiot. I didn’t even have Internet. They made fun of me constantly.
It was really hard. But I didn’t dare tell Mother. No, as far as she was concerned, everything was peachy wonderful. Every day, when she picked me up, I made sure to smile.
“How were classes?”
“Great! Today we made pots.”
Then I would smooth out my modest, knee-length, cotton skirt and look out the car window at the people rushing around the city streets: people holding hands, walking dogs, taking out their trash — in other words, people living in sin.
Honestly, the sin didn’t look so bad to me. It fascinated me. I paid attention.
Then the day finally came when I convinced Mother to take me into the heart of sin.
On that day she clutched her handbag in front of her, her eyes darted back and forth, and we strolled along a sandy path under sprawling oaks. It was the annual Art in the Park festival, an event highly encouraged by the teachers at the civic center. After much pleading Mother had agreed to take me, but only if she kept her eye on me. And how she watched!
She gripped my elbow and pulled me toward one of the booths.
“Let’s look at this one, Megan,” she said.
No surprise. In front there was a large painting of Jesus in the garden. His face was somber and vaguely glistening. From tears? Behind him on a hill lay the soft orange glow of a city at night. Jerusalem, I guessed. Clouds floated above, soft, gray, but with a touch of the city’s orange light. I noticed something else in the clouds: hints of blue and silver haloed above Christ. But only a touch. So subtle.
“It’s really nice,” I said.
Mother harrumphed and glanced into the booth, no doubt seeking hints of sin: homosexuality, secularism, Catholics.
The artist approached, a tall man with a soft face and delicate hands. “Do you like it?” he asked.
Mother gave him a cross look. “There’s simply no way that’s worth seven thousand dollars.”
Evidently she had noticed the price.
He raised his brow, spun about, and then sauntered back into his booth.
“Mother,” I whispered. “Don’t be rude.”
She shrugged. “It’s way too much. Who would pay that?”
Lot’s of people, I thought. But it didn’t seem worth saying.
I turned away from her. “I like his stuff. I wanna go in.”
“Fine,” she said. “For a little bit.”
When I entered, she followed me. She stayed very close.
His booth was one of the larger ones at the show. Inside, it was divided up by black partitions, fabric over rickety frames, which formed a sort of maze. The partitions held his paintings, each carefully lit by a small white light suspended from the truss above. They were oil paintings, each unmistakably in the same style as the one out front, with the same play of light and color, the same vague shadows, and the same sense of scale. Many were of religious topics, mostly Christ. A few were of landscapes at night, soft clouds and moonlight. He was no creature of the sun, this artist. The remaining paintings were of men, tall men, beautiful men, with strong faces and deep eyes. They gazed into the distance.
Mother glanced around disapprovingly.
We turned a corner, and then another, and then found the artist sitting on a wooden stool in a little open area in the back of the place. He glanced at us, but said nothing. I looked at him with wide eyes and gave an apologetic shrug.
Mother asked, “Are you Catholic?”
He chuckled. “Ma’am, what I think you mean to ask is: am I gay?” Then, he winked.
At me?
Mother turned away from him, grabbed my hand, and then marched toward the nearest exit. As we were about to get out of the place, he called out, “Hey!”
I turned back. Mother still pulled.
“Good luck,” he said.
I would have said thanks, but before I could, Mother dragged me out.
Back under the glaring sunlight, Mother said, “Well, they had better not all be like that!”
The next booth was a photographer’s, a lady photographer who wandered among the small crowd who browsed her place. The sides of the booth were open, which let in the daylight and a cool breeze. Inside, a few stands were set up with pictures of landscapes, buildings, and boys and girls playing sports.
The artist noticed us and approached. “Hey,” she said, holding our her hand to Mother.
Mother didn’t take her hand.
“Uh — I’m Lisa,” she said. Mother still didn’t respond. The artist, Lisa, pulled back her hand. “Well, come on in and look around.”
“We won’t be buying anything,” Mother said in a flat voice.
Lisa blinked a few times. Then she glanced over at me with small, brown, peering eyes. An artist’s eyes. I gave my accustomed shrug and smile. “Hey, sweetie,” she said to me. “Do you like photography?”
We know our own, I thought.
“I’m taking a photography class at the civic center. But I’m not, like, good or anything.”
She gave me a soft smile. “Aww! Well, come in and look around.” She put her hand on my elbow and gently guided me toward her booth. “Do you use film or digital?”
Mother waited outside and scowled. I told Lisa about the shabby equipment we used in class.
Soon, when a rich couple showed up and began to browse, and seemed perhaps ready to buy, she left me alone. I drifted to the back of the place where she had placed a row of wooden bins with stacks of prints, all modestly priced. I thumbed through them. Most were smaller versions of the larger photos on display, but there were a few scattered about that I had not yet seen. Among those I found three photos of her, a girl.
She was a soccer player. She wore a yellow jersey and red shorts. Her legs were bronzed, smooth, and muscular. Her hair was long and tawny. In the first photo she was being lifted up by her teammates after winning a game or something. She seemed happy and carefree and not at all concerned that two of the girls had their hands firmly on her butt.
I looked outside. Mother was there with a frown on her face, watching me. I gave a little wave.
Back to the photos.
The next photo, which was beside the first in the stack, was an action shot: she was kicking the ball while her opponent, with legs splayed out, ripping up turf, tried to block. No use. The kick looked perfect. The tawny-haired girl’s arms were held out to balance her. Her hips were turned just so. And her hair, tied into a ponytail, swung behind her. I studied the photo. Her perfect shape. The taut curve of her thigh. Her round breasts.
The final photo, which I found by thumbing through the entire bin, was a close-up of her holding a soccer ball under her right arm. She had high cheeks and chestnut eyes. Her hair was tied back. Except her bangs, which were matted and stuck to her skin. From there, sweat dripped down around her brow and over her dirt-streaked, lightly freckled face.
It was her smile the got to me. So confident — defiant even, I thought. I felt like she was looking at me, challenging me. Who was I?
Then I realized: too much time had passed, too long spent lost in warm feelings. I glanced up. Indeed Mother was approaching. Quick, I shoved the photo back and began flipping through the next bin.
“Megan,” Mother asked, “will you be much longer?”
I pulled out and examined a photo of a lighthouse on a rocky shoal. “She’s really good, Mom. Can I stay for a bit more?”
Mother scoffed. “Fine. I’ll be outside.”
When she was gone again, I went back to looking at the girl.
Soon Lisa returned. “Oh,” she said when she saw which photo I had. “Do you know Alyssa?”
“No. I mean, it’s just a nice picture.”
I slid the photo back into the rack — the close-up. Of course it was the close-up. Lisa stepped up beside me. I glanced and saw her smile — and the little wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, just a hint of the years creeping up. Still, she seemed young and poised, vibrant, alive.
I looked down.
“You want the picture?” she asked. “I mean, I already sold most of those, and I don’t mind giving the last one away.” She paused. “To someone who will appreciate it.”
She seemed so close. She wore shorts and her legs were supple and tanned. Very nice. Yeah, there were a few spots from age, but not so many. Her little pink flip-flops were darling.
“You know her?” I asked. “I mean, does she live around here?”
I was still looking down. She leaned to catch my eye. “Yeah. She’s my neighbor’s kid, and a pretty big soccer star, well, at the state level or something.”
“Oh.”
“I guess you don’t follow soccer.”
“I don’t really do sports.”
“Aww. You should — well, if you want.” She smiled and paused. “Anyhow, do you want the picture?”
I glanced outside and saw Mother and her harsh gaze. Her arms were crossed and she was tapping her foot.
“I can’t.” I looked back at Lisa and saw slow recognition cross her face. Yeah, people like her always got me, so fast. “Mom wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, sweetie.” She squeezed my arm.
“I should go.”
I hurried from the booth.
Later we found ourselves across from the park in a little diner with butterflies on its outside wall. Inside, there were young people with tattoos and piercings, which made Mother very uncomfortable. But we were hungry and far from home, and all of the restaurants in this area were like this. Mother kept her bag on the seat close to her leg. She ordered in sentence fragments: “Coffee,” “Toast,” “Check please.”
Our waitress was a cute blond girl who wore a tiny skirt and a lacy cami. She had about a dozen tattoos and a pierced lip. Mother wouldn’t let me speak to her. Not hardly. When the the girl asked for my order, Mother spoke up and said that I wanted grilled cheese and milk.
After the waitress left us alone, Mother asked, “Did you like the art show?”
“Yes, thank you. It was really fun.”
She watched me and munched on bread. She glanced around. Just then a guy and a girl passed by holding hands. They were pierced all over, their clothes were torn up, and his hair was longer than hers. Mother shook her head.
Next she caught me looking at our waitress as she shuffled by with a tray of food.
“Megan, don’t you ever come home looking like that… Don’t you… I can’t believe her parents…”
It went on. It was one of those monologues with lots of pauses and rolling eyes. She shook her head again and again.
The waitress came over to our table and smiled. “Are you all fine?” Mother bit her lip. I gave my customary shrug and smile.
When the waitress left us alone again, I said, “Mother…”
“Yes?”
“Do you think maybe I could play some sports?”
She blinked. “Sports? Uh, maybe? What sports?”
“I was thinking soccer.”
She frowned. “I don’t know, dear.”
We did these a lot: I don’t know, dear conversations. Over the years I had learned certain strategies.
“Well, if I was in a real school, I’d get lots of chances to play sports.”
Mother never liked when I brought up what I’d have in a real school. But still, it often worked.
“True,” she said.
“So, like, why not the community soccer league? I’d meet some people. And, well, it would be good for fitness.”
Again, she blinked. “Megan, a lot of those girls…” She glanced over at the waitress.
I was quiet. Mother pinched the bridge of her nose and seemed to think.
“Well, sooner or later… I mean, you’ve handled yourself well at the community center.”
I just sat and waited. I had learned long ago not to rush this process, not to force it. If she felt for a second that I was manipulating her, or that I wanted it too much, she would surely say no. But if she reached the idea on her own, she would let me.
“If we do it, I’ll have to meet the girls on the team, and obviously the coach.”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll have to talk about it with Pastor Bob. He has to know all about it.”
“Yes. That would be fine.”
Then she smiled. “When did you get interested in sports?”
I shrugged. Her smile deepened. “My daughter, a soccer star.”
She was proud already. She reached and squeezed my hand. The waitress brought our bill.
Including me, there were sixteen girls and two coaches on the field. Like the rest of the girls, I was wearing a yellow jersey with blue letters. Unlike most of the others, my shorts, shinguards, and cleats were new out of the box and not broken in. Also, unlike them, I was off alone, squatted down, watching them gather in little clusters of what seemed like old friends. There were smiles and hugs, light shoving and talk of boys. Except one other girl, who stood apart from the others. She had sandy-brown hair and was skinny like me. Her shy eyes gazed on the other girls. But she didn’t move close. After a while she noticed me and smiled.
One of the coaches stepped forward and introduced herself as “Miss Abrams.” She was stocky, flat chested, and had short blond hair. She strutted to the center of the gathered girls.
“Alright, everybody listen up!”
The clusters broke up and the girls circled around her. I rose and walked to the outside of the ring and peered between two curvy blonds.
I noticed the brown-haired girl opposite me. She too was peering between two other girls.
“Okay everyone, we’re the Thunderbolts! We’re a recreational level team, so, we don’t track wins/losses or any of that. You don’t have to worry that stuff. Alright?”
The girls nodded and shuffled in place.
“Good. We here to have fun and learn the game. Yes?”
More nodding and shuffling.
“Alright. Whoever has played before and knows the rules, go ahead with Brenda. The rest of you stay with me.”
Brenda was evidently the other coach. She was herself a teen girl, maybe a year or two older than me, tall, athletic, with messy shoulder length hair and big eyes.
“Come on, everyone,” Brenda said.
Everybody but me and the brown-haired girl followed Brenda.
Coach Abrams looked us over. “Hmm, just you two, eh?”
I went and stood next to the brown-haired girl. We both nodded while Coach Abrams eyed us skeptically. Then she smiled and said, “Good, well, just remember, this is for fun. Nobody will be judging you out there.”
The brown-haired girl looked down. I nodded again.
Behind me I heard Brenda blow a whistle. When I looked over, the other girls were running and kicking a bunch of balls.
Coach Abrams said, “Okay, so — uh, what are your names?”
“Megan.”
“Leah.”
“Fine. Okay, Leah, why don’t you run over there — ” Coach Abrams pointed to a bag of soccer balls near Brenda. “And bring back a ball. We’ll start with kicking.”
Leah nodded and jogged over.
While she was gone Coach Abrams looked me up and down. “So, you’ve really never played soccer before?”
I shook my head no.
“Not even in school?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Hmm. You look fit enough. Do you play any sports?”
I had gone through something like this at the civic center. Who are you? Why are you such a freak? It was best just to get it over with.
“I’m home-schooled.”
I watched her face as she processed it. Her lips tightened. Then she opened her mouth as if to speak. But she stayed quiet. She closed her mouth again.
I watched. Then I said, “You’re wondering if my mom is one of those religious nuts, right?”
She had met Mother briefly when I got dropped off. Of course they had met, as Mother inspected her, searching for sin — sin that would be itemized and listed, and all told to Pastor Bob. It had been the same with the Civic Center: me and Pastor Bob, a long Sunday afternoon while he questioned me on what I had seen, and what I needed to know about the fallen people of the world.
She blinked. “Oh, sweetie. No, of course not. It’s fine.”
I wondered what Mother would tell him about Coach Abrams. What sin had Mother seen in her?
She reached to touch my elbow, but stopped herself.
I glanced up at her and said, “So, anyhow, she is — ” I took a long pause. “A religious freak. But it’s okay.” I shrugged and smiled. “She means well.”
Leah arrived back with the ball. She was already breathing heavy.
We worked on kicking for a while. Coach had us stand about fifteen yards apart and kick the ball back and forth, except Leah couldn’t kick quite that far, and I, after a few tries, could kick quite a bit further. After a bit of that, Coach Abrams noticed Leah looking frustrated and embarrassed. She said, “Hey, Megan. You seem to be picking this up well. Why don’t you have Brenda pair you off with one of the other girls, and I’ll work with Leah?”
I looked over at Leah. The ball rested in front of her and she nudged it with her toe. She looked up at me. “Go ahead, Megan. Thanks for working with me.” Then she looked down again.
I looked at Coach Abrams and her soft, kind smile.
“Nah, Coach Abrams,” I said. “I mean, if it’s okay, I’d rather stay and work with Leah.”
Coach Abrams’ face brightened up. She looked at me with a growing smile. “Oh, okay, yes.”
During this Leah kept looking at her feet, but I could see that she was grinning.
I stepped forward, like, ten yards from Leah. We had fun kicking the ball back and forth.
It was about twenty minutes from practice to our little house just outside of Clayton. During the drive Mother questioned me.
“So,” she asked, “what do you think of the coach?”
“She seems nice.”
I sat with my face against the side window and watched the trees rush past. Gently, I ran my fingers up and down my thighs and thought of soft things. I didn’t really feel like getting questioned.
“And the other girls?”
Of course, I knew that I would get questioned whether I wanted to or not.
“They’re nice.”
Mother put on her turn signal to exit the highway. Then, after we rounded the long sweeping ramp and merged onto highway 70, she said, “Oh, come on, sweetie. Tell me what happened?”
“Really, not much. I mean, I sorta made a friend.”
“Oh? Really? What’s her name, is she nice?”
“Leah. And yeah, she’s nice.”
A big red pickup truck roared up behind us, really close. Mother glanced into her mirror, frowned, and then merged into the other lane. The truck zoomed past.
I said, “She’s pretty bad at soccer, though.”
“Oh, sweetie, you should make friends with the girls who are good at soccer. You want to get better yourself, right?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“I’m hoping that next season you can move up to the Challenge League.”
“Yeah, me too.”
There were actually three leagues: Recreational, where I was now, the Challenge League, where they began keeping track of wins/losses, and the Classic. Teams in the Classic competed at the state level, and sometimes beyond that.
That’s where I wanted to be someday. That’s where Alyssa was.
“Actually,” Mother said after a while. “I don’t much like this not keeping track of wins. It reeks of communism.” She glanced at me. “And other secularist stuff.”
“Sure Mom.”
“And I don’t want you hanging out with this Leah. You need to work with the top girls on the team. Impress the coach. Okay?”
“Yeah. I won’t talk to her at all. Even though she’s, like, the only other beginner besides me.” Mother gave me a harsh, sidelong glance. “And even if all the other girls give her the cold shoulder and she’s really, really lonely.”
“Megan!”
“Sure, Mom, I’ll blow her off totally. After all, that’s what Jesus would do.”
“Megan!” She gripped the wheel tight. “Jesus wants you to win.”
Soon the little sign that marked our street came into view among the trees on the side of the road. Mother put on her turn signal.
On Sunday I met with Pastor Bob in his flashy metallic office at the church. He sat behind his glass-topped desk covered with books, trinkets, and family pictures framed in steel. Beyond him was a large window that showed a line of trees. Above the trees, the Raleigh skyline.
Around the room glass bookshelves were attached the walls, arranged in what I had come to assume was a carefully affected disorder. The carpet was slate gray. The two chairs that faced his desk were black leather and could swivel.
I sat in one of those chairs. I held the arms tight, pulled up one leg, and used the other to push myself back and forth in little half-circles.
“Megan, please pay attention.”
Pastor Bob seemed allergic to fun.
“Sorry, Pastor Bob.” I stopped the chair from turning.
He leaned forward and peered at me through his deep black eyes. When he did that, his face seemed enormous. In fact, his whole body seemed huge, broad, looming. His thick black hair sat like a mop on his round head.
“So, Megan, you’ve started soccer.”
“Yeah.”
“And how is that?”
I found my eyes dropping. That always happened when he looked at me.
“Fun,” I said.
“So, I spoke to your mother — ” He paused. “Megan, are you comfortable? Please push down your skirt.”
When I had been turning the chair, I guess, my skirt had slipped a few inches above my knees. I pushed it down.
“Sorry, Pastor Bob.”
He coughed. “Anyway, I spoke to your mother, and I have a few concerns about this — uh — ” He picked up a scrap of paper and read. “Coach Abrams.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. So, how was she? Was she nice?”
“She was okay. I mean, I don’t really know much yet. But I liked her.”
“Did she spend a lot of time with you? As in, personally.”
“Yeah. Well, like me and this one other girl. We were both totally new to soccer, so she took us aside.”
His eyes narrowed. He drummed his fingers on the desk.
“Megan, I’m going to ask you what might seem a strange question. But please, just answer.” He waited. I nodded. “Okay. Was this other girl very pretty? Or was she, maybe, shy? Did she seem, I don’t know, vulnerable?”
I blinked. “Huh?”
“Just answer please.”
“I guess. She was kinda shy. But, like, she’s totally new and not so good at soccer, so…”
I shrugged. Pastor Bob peered at me. Then he asked, “Did the coach seem to try to get close to her? Or touch her?”
“Uh — ”
“Megan!”
“Yes?”
“Did she try to get close to you?”
“No!”
He sat back and stared at me quietly. Then he said, “Do you understand why I’m asking these things?”
Of course I did. Everyone in the church had heard the “gay” sermons, like, a million times.
“Yeah. You think she’s gay.”
He stroked his chin and got a little half smile. “Do you think she is?”
I shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Well, we’re not sure either, but your mother is very concerned.”
I just sat. He went on, “Okay, so don’t worry. We’re not thinking of taking you off the team or anything. All right?”
I glanced up, and indeed I felt better. A little bit. “Good. Thank you Pastor Bob.” He continued to stroke his chin. “Soccer is very fun,” I added.
His head didn’t move at all and he fixed me with his eyes. “Yes. But still, we want you to be on guard. You need to understand the sorts of people you’ll meet in life. And, yes, some of them will be gay.”
He rested both of his hands on his desk for a bit. Then he went on, “Anyway, just be aware. They can be friendly, and you’ll want to be nice to them. That’s only natural.”
I knew what was coming next.
“But, Megan, the devil is a cunning one. He knows your kindness, and he will use that to undo you.”
When Pastor Bob got going, he got going strong. He stood up from his chair.
“This coach will be kind to you, she will seem so nice, unnaturally nice.”
I said, “She does seem nice.”
“Yes! That’s the devil in her!”
I blinked.
“That’s the devil! Giving her strength from her perversion. Each sick act she performs, each — ” He stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to hear such disgusting things.”
I bit my lip and kind of wished he’d tell me about the disgusting things.
“Learn soccer from her, Megan, but be on guard. Be ever vigilant.”
“Okay.”
He sat back down. “Now, about this — ” He looked at his scrap of paper again. “Leah.”
He went on about Leah, how her shyness was also a tool of Satan, trying to trick me, to use my own kindness against me, to draw me into her broken world of failure where I’d be easy prey.
Yeah, Pastor Bob had it all figured out. Only the wealthy, strong, and happy were the true people of God. The broken, the shy, the gay — they were there to trick me into hellfire.
In the end he asked, “Do you understand, Megan?”
“Yeah. Got it.”
I was quiet as Mother drove me to my next practice. I didn’t talk to her about Leah or the coach. In fact, I hadn’t said anything about it since Sunday. There just didn’t seem to be a point.
When we arrived the other mothers (and a few dads) were dropping of their daughters and everybody was sort of milling about, slowly drifting over toward the field where the coaches were waiting with a big bag of balls.
I popped out of the car and turned back. “Thanks for the ride, Mom.”
“Megan,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you work with the better girls, okay?”
“Sure.”
I slammed the door then turned and ran over to the group. Leah was there, again standing a bit aside from the others. As I approached, she gave a little wave.
I glanced back and saw that Mother hadn’t yet pulled away. I looked at Leah. I arched my brow and gave her a little smile — Mother wouldn’t see that. But I didn’t wave. Instead I walked over to the biggest group of girls, the pretty ones, and said, “Hi. I’m Megan.”
“Hey,” they said back, a few of them. Then they ignored me and returned to whatever they had been talking about, which seemed to involve some boys at the school they all went to. I listened and didn’t understand.
Coach Abrams blew her whistle. “Circle up, everybody!”
I joined the circle. Mother was still parked, watching.
“Alright,” Coach Abrams said, “we have our first game Saturday. So, I’ll be choosing tonight who will start and who won’t. But don’t worry too much. All of your are guaranteed at least twenty minutes of play. Also, I’ll be picking positions and all of that. Lily” — she nodded toward this one blond girl — “will play goalie. The rest of you, we’ll see. Alright, split up into groups of three and lets start with dribbling and tackling.”
The girls split up into groups, seeming to mostly choose their friends. Coach Abrams came over to me.
“Megan, I want to talk to you.” I nodded. “Tonight, I’d like you to work with Sheila and Becky.” She called over two girls. “Sheila, Becky, this is Megan.”
I said, “Hi.” They each said “Hi” back, but slowly, suspiciously.
“Megan is real new. But she shows a lot of talent, so I want you two to get her up to speed. Can you do that?”
Both of them said, “Yeah, Coach.”
“Great! I’ll have Brenda keep an eye on you all. Now! Go!”
The taller of the two, who I gathered was Sheila, had straight black hair and lean, awkward body. Or so it seemed when I watched her. She leaned slightly to the side on her rickety frame. But when she ran — right after she turned to me and said, “Come on!” — she seemed to transform into a gazelle, with long, loping strides until she stopped on a dime, turned, and then waited for me. She looked poised, eager.
I didn’t follow her right away. Instead I said to Coach Abrams, “Coach, what will you have Leah do?”
Coach Abrams looked over at Leah, who stood apart from the others and kicked at the grass with her toe. While we watched, she kicked a bit too hard and stumbled. But she didn’t fall. She steadied herself. Then she smiled, held out her arms, and spun in place.
Coach Abrams’ shoulders slumped. She said in a soft voice, “I don’t know. I’ll find something for her to do.”
Becky was still waiting next to me. She was shorter and thicker than Sheila, but she seemed strong and athletic. She had muscular thighs, a round bottom, rounder breasts, and wide blue eyes.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
We jogged over to where Sheila was. When we arrived, Sheila took a ball and tossed it in front of me. “So,” she said, “do you know about dribbling and tackling?”
I rested my foot on the ball. Then I rolled it back and forth a bit with my foot. “Yeah, a little. I read the booklet they gave me when I signed up.”
She began to speak very fast. “Okay. Fine. So, what we’re gonna do is one of us dribbles the ball and tries to get past the other, who tries to tackle. Whoever gets the ball, she passes it to the third. Then, the first girl now tries to tackle, and the girl who tackled gets to receive the pass. We kinda circle around. Get it?”
I blinked a few times and said, “Yeah. I guess. I’ll have to see it working.”
“And tackling is not Football tackling. You just kinda knock the ball away with your foot. You got that, right?”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“And don’t trip anybody. Okay?”
As she said all of this, she was getting in my face, looming over me. Becky was standing away from us and watching with a grin.
I looked up and said, “Yeah. I got it. I’m not stupid.” Sheila stepped back. I nudged the ball with my foot again. “I’ll go first.”
Becky, when she heard that, said, “Good luck, Megan!” Then she ran a bit away from us and waited. It seemed she was going to let Sheila tackle first.
No problem. Sheila ran a few yards away.
“Well, go,” she said.
Dribbling was hard. To do it you sort of ran along giving the ball little kicks and trying to keep it away from your opponents. Tackling, on the other hand, was when you shot out your leg and took the ball away.
It turned out Sheila was much better at tackling than I was at dribbling. The first time I tried, she took the ball from me easily.
And worse, she didn’t even bother to smile.
Next she kicked it over to Becky. Now it was my turn to tackle.
Becky made it look easy. She dribbled right past me and kicked to Sheila. Then Sheila dribbled past her. Next I received the pass. Then I dribbled against Becky.
When Becky got it away from me, she said, “Good try!”
Tackling again. Failure. Dribbling again. Failure.
We went round and round, and I kept losing.
After a bit of that, Becky said, “You’re doing fine, Megan.”
Sheila gave me a cold stare. “Keep going.”
I found myself breathing hard. I leaned and rested my hands on my knees.
But I didn’t say anything. Sheila, who was at that moment a few yards away, began dribbling the ball toward me. “Come on!” Becky said. “Just keep trying.”
I ran toward Sheila and kicked at the ball. This time I got it! It shot loose in my direction, rolling free. We scrambled for it, Sheila and I. But I was closer and got control.
I dribbled away from Sheila and kicked it over to Becky. It went right to her and she stopped it with her foot.
“Great job!” Becky shouted. She clapped.
I turned to Sheila. Finally, she smiled. “Yeah. That was good.” She stepped forward and shoved my shoulder, but not very hard. “Seriously, cool.”
I felt great. I smiled and she smiled — right at me. I dropped my eyes.
Then she said, “Okay. Enough celebrating. Let’s keep working.”
We kept at it for a while. After a while I got to the point I could dribble past them one time out of three, and tackle one time out of four.
I was pretty happy with that. They seemed happy too.
Soon Coach Abrams blew her whistle. Then she shouted, “Alright! Practice over! Everybody circle up!”
We all ran over and made a circle. As I approached, I saw Leah trudging up with Coach Brenda and some other girl. None of them looked very happy. Leah arrived and stood on the outside, behind taller girl’s. From my position I couldn’t really see her.
Then we discussed Saturday’s game, who would start, what positions we would play. I was to play a defender, but also I was going to start! If I did well, Coach Abrams said, I’d play for the whole game.
“Megan,” she said, pulling me aside as the girls scattered toward the cars, “you really are picking it up fast.”
“Thanks.”
“So, you’ve really never played any sports?”
I shrugged. “I ride my bike a lot. And my mother makes me exercise.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, I’m having you play defender now, since you’re new and still learning so much. But I think we’ll try to get you up to midfield or striker in the coming weeks. How’s that sound?”
“Good. Great.” I smiled. She smiled back. Then I said, “Except, somebody will need to explain how offsides works.”
She squeezed my shoulder. “Heh. Yeah. That takes a while to explain. Did you read the booklet?”
“Twice.”
“Ah, well, you’ll get it when you see it. Don’t worry.” She glanced over to where Mother was parked. “Well, I guess your mother is waiting. So, run along. See’ya Saturday.”
“Thanks Coach Abrams.”
I trotted toward Mother’s car. As I did, I noticed that Leah was walking toward a blue minivan that was parked nearby. She walked slowly with her head hung low. When she arrived at the van, which happened just as I neared Mother’s car, she looked over and noticed me.
She seemed very sad. Hesitantly, she raised her hand to wave.
Mother watched me. At the same time I heard a voice call out, “Hey Megan! Wait up!”
It was Becky, who trotted up behind me. When she got close she put her arm around my shoulders. “You did really, really good!”
I glanced back to Leah. She had just climbed into the minivan and was closing the door.
“Yeah, thanks,” I said to Becky. The minivan began to back out from its spot.
“I’m serious. Even Sheila thinks so. And, like, she never likes new people.”
“Cool.”
Through the window of the minivan, I thought I saw Leah looking our way. I raised my hand and waved.
Mother honked the horn. Becky said, “Well, see’ya Saturday.”
The minivan turned and drove toward the exit of the parking lot.
“Yeah, see’ya.”
I left Becky and got into Mother’s car.
Saturday arrived, game day. I sat in the back of my dad’s rusty Honda as he drove to a little park northeast of Raleigh where the game was to be played. Next to him sat Kelly, his twenty-eight year old girlfriend.
She was nice and pretty, and way too young for Dad. Mother never liked me spending time around her, for all kinds of reasons, but the divorce settlement said he got me every other weekend, so there wasn’t much she could do.
Well, except call him and scream and fight, and threaten to go back to court, and all sorts of other stuff. So things never quite felt free and open around Dad.
“Are you excited?” Kelly asked. I could see her big blue eyes watching me in the mirror.
I shrugged. A few seconds later I asked, “What time is it?” Since I was going to get all sweaty and dirty, I had decided not to wear my watch.
“Uh — ” Dad glanced at his phone. “It’s coming up on 2:00.”
My game wasn’t scheduled to start until 2:45, but had a good reason to arrive early. When I signed up, I had asked the lady about “that girl Alyssa.” What team was she on? When did they play?
“Alyssa Mann?” the lady asked.
I shrugged.
“Well, if you mean Alyssa Mann, she plays for the Strikers. She’s probably the best girl in the league.”
Then last night, when I had checked the schedule for my game, I noticed that the Strikers were playing the same day on the same field, from 12:30-2:30.
Dad wouldn’t bring me early enough to watch her whole game, but he said we could get there early enough to catch the end.
“Please hurry,” I said. “I don’t wanna miss the Strikers.”
“Fine, sweetie.” He turned to smile at me, only briefly, then eyes back on the road.
His hair was getting gray, it seemed, like, more every day. His skin was still smooth, even if blotchy and pale. But it seemed thinner somehow, like he was becoming fragile, like the tiniest thing might cut him deep.
Kelly, on the other hand, was as young and vibrant as anybody I knew. She had blond hair (with dark roots) and a deep golden tan. Her skin was perfectly smooth. Today she wore yellow shorts and a tight tee. Round breasts. Wide smile.
Dad wasn’t rich or anything. After the divorce, and after all the layoffs and a crappy new job — all he could find — he could barely keep paying Mom. So I didn’t really get Kelly. But I liked her. She was fun and smiled at me, and seemed to understand that it wasn’t my fault that I was a freak.
We pulled off the main boulevard and onto another. Then a side street. Then the soccer complex came into view.
“Here we are,” Dad said.
“Yay!” said Kelly.
We found a parking spot between two giant SUV’s. Ahead across a rocky area was the wide green field with big netted goals at each end and rows of short bleachers along the sides. Over on the far side, I saw the team wearing yellow jerseys like Alyssa had in the pictures.
“I guess we’re across,” I said.
Dad popped open his door. “Well, let’s go.”
We crossed the rocky area and went around the field. When we got close I began to scan the field looking for Alyssa.
I found her. She was all the way on the other end of the field, playing up front for the Strikers. At that moment she had just received a pass. Then, with a few sharp kicks, she broke from one defender and dribbled hard toward goal. She was very fast. Another defender came to tackle, but Alyssa burst past, driving hard. After that no one else was in her way — but the goalie. Alyssa kicked. Thwack!
The goalie dove for the ball, but too late. It went past her outstretched arms and slammed against the back of the net.
The crowd erupted into cheers. We proceeded on toward the bleachers.
“Which team do you like?” Kelly asked.
“The Strikers, the ones who just scored,” I said.
“Oh! Cool!”
When we arrived at the bleachers, I noticed that Coach Abrams was there, sitting in the second row. Next to her was a bunch of free space.
I walked directly toward her. She saw me and said, “Hi, Megan. Come to watch?”
“Yeah. Hi.”
She motioned to the free area next to her. “Well, sit down if you want. Is this your dad?”
I introduced Dad and Kelly, who were just behind me.
“Hiya,” Dad said. He stepped forward and extended his hand. “Call me Dave.”
Dad and Coach Abrams shook hands. Then Kelly came up and said, “Hey. You can call me Kelly — if you want. But most folks just call me the scandal.” On her face was a great big smile.
Coach Abrams blinked, then she smiled, then she shook Kelly’s hand. “How surprising,” she said, “folks call me the scandal too.” She winked.
Everybody smiled at each other. Then we sat down, me between Dad and Coach Abrams, Kelly on the other side of Dad.
“The team in yellow are the Strikers, right?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Coach Abrams said.
“Cool.”
“They really are a pretty good team. This year I think they’ll win state, and maybe beyond that.”
At that moment the other team had the ball on the Strikers’ side of the field. They were trying to set up some kind of play, but the Striker defenders were fast, always at the right place at the right time, heading off passes, hanging back, then explosively charging the attackers. The attacking team never could get a play together. The Strikers finally got the ball and cleared it back down field.
“It’s kinda slow,” Dad said.
Coach Abrams kept her eyes on the field. “Yeah. At the higher level of play there isn’t much scoring. Nobody makes foolish mistakes.”
“Ah,” Dad said.
“It’s a subtle game. When you understand all the little bits, it gets quite interesting.”
Dad nodded. Then he said, “So, Megan, which is the girl you like? Allison or something?”
He said it very loud, as if he had no inkling that his daughter might not want her every little curiosity broadcast to the world. I glanced around and cringed. Then I muttered, “Alyssa, the one who just got the ball.”
Indeed Alyssa had just received a pass midfield and was dribbling hard on attack.
Coach Abrams turned to me. “You know Alyssa?”
Alyssa broke past two defenders and then launched a hard pass to another Striker clear across the field. The remaining defender scrambled to intercept, but never had a chance.
“No. I mean — I know who she is.”
Alyssa broke into the clear while the defenders tried to corner the girl with the ball. No good. The girl passed it back to Alyssa, who received it easily. Nobody was near. Another shot on goal.
In her excitement Coach Abrams grabbed my arm.
This time the goalie made a desperate plunge and stopped the ball. The attackers ran back downfield.
“Whoa!” Coach Abrams said, “that was close.”
I was sitting upright with my hands clenched into fists. “She’s really amazing.”
I realized that I was smiling way too much, obviously gawking at Alyssa. Quickly, I hid my smile. I dropped my gaze and sat back, looking casual. Then I glanced over at Coach Abrams, who watched me with a knowing grin. We both returned our eyes to the field.
The two teams battled midfield, neither getting a clear play. Alyssa ran this way and that, shouting out instructions to the other girls, always near the ball, but never charging an opponent directly. She seemed to hang back and observe.
Today her hair was in two braids, which swung behind her as she ran and turned. She was so graceful, never tired, always poised, like some kind of cat. In the sunlight her bronze skin glistened.
“Hey,” Coach Abrams said, “After the game, you wanna meet her?”
My eyes shifted back and forth, to Coach Abrams and her quizzical look, to Dad with his kind smile — he patted me on the knee — and over to Kelly, who was leaning back and looking up into the clear blue sky.
My gaze returned to Alyssa, who had just burst into a run toward a free ball. She got it.
“Yes,” I said. “Very much.”