Dangerous Play

by Emma Kress

  She shakes her head. She turns the key in the ignition. The car starts. She turns it off.

  “You realize we weren’t supposed to kill him, right?”

  “Whatever. He’s fine. Now drive.” Nikki still stares at her. Dylan tilts her head back and moans at the sunroof. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I swear.”

  Nikki looks at her. Dylan smiles.

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Nikki starts the engine. We pull out of the parking lot. Instead of turning at the light ahead, Nikki makes the right before the light. Skirts around it. I get it. I need to keep moving too.

  “Dyl, what happened?” I finally ask.

  Dylan looks down at the gun she’s cradling in her lap. I look at mine. It’s so heavy and real. “I don’t know. All this mad came rushing at me. Like everything he’s done. Not even just this year. Like since middle school.”

  “He’s been doing it that long?” Nikki’s voice is soft.

  Dylan nods.

  “I’m so sorry, Dyl,” I say.

  Dylan shrugs like it’s nothing.

  Nikki reaches out her hand, palm up. Dylan looks at it and then puts her hand in Nikki’s for a squeeze.

  “Anyway, it was like it was all just filling me up and I wanted to scare him so bad. I swear I didn’t know there was a bullet. I just thought if he could hear the click he’d really lose it.”

  I get it. I felt it.

  “Oh, he lost it,” Nikki says.

  “He really did, didn’t he?” Dylan says.

  Then we all start to laugh. It’s a manic, wild laugh that takes over so hard I couldn’t stop it if I tried. Tears spill down my cheeks. Dylan squeals.

  “I mean, I’m sorry about the gunshot, but man, it felt so good to see him like that. To be the one who made him like that.”

  “I wonder if he’ll still go to Darcy’s party,” Nikki says.

  “Not a chance,” Dylan says.

  I’m so damned hot. I put the gun on the floor. I peel off my gloves and sweatshirt. I tug my hair loose from my ponytail. We turn off the main road into the triplets’ neighborhood.

  I knock the sunroof. “This baby open?”

  Nikki presses the button and there’s a sucking sound as it opens and Dylan and I unbuckle our seat belts. We stand and pull ourselves up to sit on the roof. We loop our ankles around the headrests.

  The November wind beats against my face until tears stream from my eyes. I raise my arms toward the moon and let the wind rip through me.

  Up here, I’m invincible.

  * * *

  I wake at the triplets’ house Saturday morning thinking of Kups and field hockey.

  We need to leave early for Regionals in Cortland against Sparta.

  I wish I didn’t remember the way Sparta was a red, angry swarm always ready to attack. I wish I didn’t remember the way my shins were covered in bruises from their vicious sticks. I wish I didn’t remember the way we played the whole game in our goal, as Ava tried again and again to stop them. I wish I didn’t remember the way they destroyed us: 4 to 0.

  But I do.

  And my knee hurts from last night. It’s the same stupid knee I twisted with Jason Stimple. This time I must’ve scraped it because there was some blood I had to wipe clean in the shower.

  I’m in the triplets’ bathroom, toothbrush hovering midair, when Nikki bumps me in the shoulder. I spit into the sink.

  “You’re psyching yourself out, Cap,” she says.

  “Nuh-uh.” I rinse.

  “Yuh-huh.” Her lips purse. “I don’t care who they are or that they won a million years ago. Because it was a million years ago.” The others cluster behind us. “You guys”—she looks at all of us—“we did something amazing last night. We’ve been incredible all fall—on the field and off. We changed the whole course of things.” She puts some toothpaste on her brush. “If we can do that, we can beat Sparta.”

  “Sticks Chicks forever!” The six of us bump elbows and shoulders, dapping and high-fiving and whooping, and the others make their way downstairs until it’s just me and Nikki again.

  She throws her arm across my shoulder. “You are a true badass.”

  I hip bump her. “I’m so glad you tried out.”

  She smiles. “Me too. Absofockinglutely.”

  The wind that beat against me on the car’s roof last night is inside, ready to unleash. We did the impossible last night. And we’ll do it again today.

  Ava, Cristina, Michaela, Kiara, and Liv meet us at the bus. Ava looks worried and Liv looks ready to cry. Like I’m the one who’ll be mad at them. But I’m not. I’m just sorry they missed out. I want them to feel what I’m feeling. I throw my arms around them in a big hug and the others join in until they’re gasping for air in the middle of a giant team hug.

  Ava comes up to me while everyone else boards the bus. “You good?”

  I smile. “We’re going to kill Sparta today.”

  “That’s the plan.” Ava tilts her head. “Did you kill anyone else I should know about?”

  I laugh. “Everyone’s fine. But I doubt he’s going to be messing with us anytime soon.”

  She nods. “Good.” She fumbles with her stick. “We’re good, right?”

  I hip bump her and she loses her balance, laughing. “Sticks Chicks forever, baby!”

  On the bus, I sit next to Liv. “We okay?”

  “I am.” She turns from the window to me. “Are you?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “You did what you needed to do?”

  I think of Kups, face in the dirt, sobbing. “Absofockinglutely.”

  “Good. I’m glad you got that out of your system. Because, honestly?” She looks at me hard. “It didn’t feel like you.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about me,” I say.

  Except her words feel too big to blow away. So I change the subject. “What did you end up doing last night? Did you go out with Jake?”

  “Yeah. We went to Tully’s—”

  I groan. “I’m already jealous.”

  She laughs. And she talks about who she saw and the movie and a funny thing Jake did. And I’m listening, I am. But I’m also wondering what “me” is anymore.

  We fall silent after a bit and put in our earbuds—we all do—and concentrate on what we have to do in Cortland. If we win today, we get to play in the state semifinals in the Syracuse University Dome. State finals are always in different places, so it’s just a coincidence that they’re in Syracuse this year. But Ava and I took it like an invitation.

  Dad used to take us to SU football and basketball games before the accident, the high seats clinging to the sides, the roar of the crowd so loud I thought it might rip the dome right off. I always wondered how it would feel to run across that turf, look up at all those people in all those stands cheering for me.

  And now it might actually happen. In less than a week.

  No. It will happen. I let the wind from last night swirl around and fill me up again. It’s how I storm off the bus. It’s how we all storm off the bus.

  We’re here to play.

  We’re here to stay.

  Our sticks and skills will make you pay.

  Your jabs are trash.

  Your sticks don’t smash.

  You wrote a check your skills can’t cash.

  When we race onto the field, their red kilts and socks don’t seem as angry. Away from their home field, they seem a little lost. I imagine they heard how we defeated Greenville, how we leveled Sommersville, the top-ranked team in the league. Every time that counted, we’ve won.

  And then there are all the wins they don’t know about—the moonlit dressed-in-black wins.

  At the whistle, Quinn pushes the ball away. She passes to Bella. When Sparta swarms, she flicks it back to me. I dance around them and advance a few feet before their middie steals it. She gets a good shot and drives it halfway down the field, sending us all sprinting.

  Back and forth, back a
nd forth. The seconds roll into minutes. The minutes roll together. At the half, it’s 0 to 0.

  I kick a tuft of grass on the way back to the bench. We need to win this. I think of the UNC coach going to States, watching some other team, some other girl. I take a swig of my water.

  “There’s this AA quote I’ve always liked: ‘Yesterday is history, tomorrow’s a mystery, and today is a gift.’” Coach gestures toward the field. “Enjoy this.”

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe this moment isn’t about two years from now. It’s about us, being here, further than we’ve ever been before.

  Then again, Coach doesn’t need a scholarship.

  I look at Sparta’s bench. Their heads are dipped, shoulders bent, faces drawn. Then I turn back and look at our girls. They’re sweaty and tired, but they’re not defeated. I smile. I tip my head toward the Spartans. “They’re scared. Of us.”

  The others turn, and I watch the truth of it spread across their faces.

  “We did that, you guys.” I put my stick in the center. “Sticks Chicks forever?”

  The girls add their sticks to mine. “Sticks Chicks forever!”

  Coach puts her face in the huddle. “Now kill ’em. Unless you want to walk home.”

  When we run out again, something clicks. Like I know how it will work. When Quinn passes the ball back to Liv, I know where she’ll send it before it’s there and I’m on it. My stick connects with that satisfying crack and I send the ball through their forward’s legs just enough to pick it up on the other side. I search for the triplets, but they’re tangled in Sparta’s defense. Cristina doesn’t have an open lane. I dance around the reds, sprinting toward the goal. I sweep it so hard my knee grazes the ground, and the ball flies across the green, sailing beneath the goalie’s pads.

  GOAL.

  Quinn hugs me so hard my feet leave the ground, and we scream as we race back to position.

  We scramble to hold the lead, but they cut through with a goal ten minutes before the end. Coach calls a timeout and wraps us in a huddle. “Is this the way it will end?” she asks. Our NO rises like a lion. I see it in my teammates’ eyes. We will not be beat.

  We run back out with a roar. Bella takes it right off. They steal it and drive it back toward Ava, but Nikki is there and she swings back and smacks that sucker so hard it jumps out of their grasp and right into Dylan’s, who slams it toward Michaela. Ahead of them by seconds, we push it out of their reach until Bella hurls it toward the goal. And it lands.

  They can hear our screams back home. They can hear our screams in NYC. They can hear our screams in Europe. Hell, our screams penetrate space and time and confuse the crap out of the people who fought on these fields once upon a time.

  WE WON.

  Us + This Moment = States.

  We scream ourselves onto the bus. We scream to the music. I pull out Big Bob’s cooler and we stuff ice cream into our screaming mouths, and we muffle our screams with cold sugar.

  “State semifinals, here we come!”

  “Even better that it’s at the Dome.” Our Dome: the biggest domed stadium in the northeast or on a college campus or the world or something.

  I can’t believe I’m going to play at States. In the Dome.

  Cristina makes all of us lean into the aisle and click sticks for Coach to take a picture on her phone. Then she goes to post it.

  She slumps down in her seat. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  She just shakes her head. Liv nudges me. I look over her shoulder at her phone.

  Kups is in the ICU. He got in an accident.

  I look up, and we’re all quiet, searching one another’s faces.

  Liv, next to me, gives me this look laced with pity or blame or I don’t know what.

  Sasha bursts into tears. “We should tell the doctors.”

  Dylan snaps her head back. “Tell them what?”

  “Don’t.” Bella’s eyes narrow at Dylan. “Don’t talk to my sister like that.”

  “Everyone chill,” Kiara says. “Sasha, think about it. What good would that do?” Kiara shakes her head. “No. Everyone sit tight.”

  “Besides,” I whisper. “It couldn’t be because of us. He was fine when we left.”

  “But what about the gu—” Sasha starts.

  Dylan stands and nods toward the front of the bus where Coach sits. “Shut. Up.”

  “Down in back, please!” the bus driver shouts. I see his eyes in the mirror.

  “Whatever,” Dyl mutters, sliding back down. “It’s not like he didn’t deserve it.”

  We sink back into our seats.

  Kiara whispers to Sasha, “You won’t tell, right?”

  I look back at Sasha. She just stares out the window, tears rolling down her cheeks. She doesn’t say okay. She doesn’t say she won’t tell.

  Whispers clog the bus air but I can’t make them out.

  The ice cream turns sour in my stomach. We were just supposed to change him. I think of the way he cried on the ground. Of how wrong the gunshot sounded in the night.

  I remember Coach’s words: Is this the way it will end?

  THIRTY-TWO

  ON MONDAY, EVERYONE WHISPERS ABOUT the accident in the halls, during class, in the bathroom. He was drunk. Someone else was drunk. He smashed his truck into a tree. Another car plowed into him. He was texting. He was wasted when he left Darcy’s party Friday night. He was sober. Someone said they even saw him crying.

  Kups. The great, unflappable Kups was crying.

  That’s the one that gets me. Of all the rumors, that’s the one nobody believes. Except Dylan, Nikki, and me. Because we saw him. We made him sob. We made him shake and crumple, wet himself, and beg for mercy.

  We broke him.

  No one mentions us.

  In class, I try to focus on the teachers’ words, their mouths, but it’s reaching through the fog. I pass my team in the halls, and it’s like we’re all ghosts.

  Everyone but Sasha. She’s not in school.

  And then we hear a new rumor, one that makes our shoulders curl: He went to the party after he was attacked. He wouldn’t shut up about it. He was ranting. Everyone thought he was wasted. Maybe he was? Maybe he wasn’t? But he was attacked. At gunpoint.

  Hearing it in other people’s mouths, the words feel sharper, scarier. Gun. Point.

  In Mac’s class, Liv leans over to Bella. “Is Sasha okay? Is it her concussion?”

  But Bella just keeps her eyes down and shakes her head. Michaela and Liv give her this sympathetic look, but it’s easy for them to be sympathetic. They weren’t there. They’re free and clear.

  Unlike me.

  What if Sasha calls the hospital? What if the cops get involved?

  I think of when I banged my knee. Blood. I wonder if any blood got on the ground when I fell.

  There’s something in my stomach, and it keeps growing. Like a tumor.

  All I hear is Kups sobbing on the ground. All I feel is the weight of the gun in my hand. All I see is the way his shoulders shook when Nikki played the recording. All I—

  “Zoe? Zoe?”

  “Yes?” I manage to say.

  “Are you all right?”

  The vomit rises fast, and I run from the room and make it to the garbage can in the hall. I throw up into the bag. I see Cheetos at the bottom of the trash, smell them, and retch again. A door opens and shuts behind me, and part of me cares about the whispers that feel like needles at my back, and part of me doesn’t care at all.

  Because of me, a boy is in intensive care. Because of me, a person might die.

  And because of Sasha, everyone might find out.

  I want to go to the hospital. But I know I can’t. I’m not friends with him. I don’t even like him. A few days ago, I loved the idea of a gun held to his head. I hated him so much that I wanted to scare him to death.

  Oh God. It was my idea to scare him.

  My idea.

  By the time the nurse comes, I’m sobbing. My sleeves and cheeks are wet
with tears, and I have that crying headache that sits low on my eyes and craves darkness.

  “You’re not going to practice tonight,” she says. It’s a statement, not a question.

  “I have to,” I say. “You don’t understand.”

  She shakes her head. “It isn’t even a game. You kids think missing sports is like a death sentence. Get some perspective.”

  But she’s wrong. I have perspective. I have the full weight of Kups sitting on my eyelids, pressing against my skull. He could die, and I’m responsible.

  I throw up again.

  I stay in bed the next day. Texts come in and I struggle to focus on the small screen, on the words. Everything feels too big for a text. Anyway, nobody knows anything new. I call Nikki, but she doesn’t answer. I think of calling Sasha, or her sisters, but my finger hovers above a button that I don’t press. I replay the moments before, the way we planned everything down to the minute. Everything so that we would get away with it. Everything except for Kups getting hurt.

  But that’s a lie.

  I wanted him hurt. I wanted him to feel what I felt. I wanted to punish him for what he did to Dylan. For the fact that he got away with everything. For the way they all got away with everything.

  And that’s when it hits me, and when it does, I run to the bathroom to throw up. Again. We got away with everything too. Night after night we decided who got hurt, and nobody stopped us. Who the hell did I think I was that I could—that I should—hold a gun to someone’s head?

  All the thoughts I had when I held the gun to him rush back at me. The way all the memories of Kups, yes, but Jamison and Reilly too, blended together, like I was punishing Kups for all of them. Like they were all the same person. Like hurting him was hurting them all.

  And now he will have a Before and an After.

  I slump back to bed and pull the covers up. But I don’t feel the safety and comfort of bed. Instead, I keep reliving the night in the woods: Kups on his knees, on the ground, face in the mud, sobbing for his life.

  And I laughed.

  I run back to the bathroom, but there’s nothing to throw up anymore. I lean my head against the cool tank. I can’t believe I was that person. I can’t believe I let myself become that person.