by Emma Kress
* * *
I hesitate before Dad’s door, clutching the thin box in my hand. I worry that I don’t even know him now. I had all these ideas about him but, it turns out, they weren’t about him at all. They were more about me. This time, when I walk into the room, I want to see him.
I knock.
“Come in,” he calls.
The room is still dark. He’s propped up in bed against his pillows, his legs elevated as usual. He’s typing on his laptop. He closes it and puts it aside. I cross to the wall of windows and pull up the shades, one by one. Snow clings to the bare branches, redefining them.
I pull the chair to his bedside. “I suck.”
He reaches for my hand. “No, Zoe. You don’t.”
I wrap both hands around his. “I just wasn’t thinking about it right. You have to know I was only thinking about you and trying to help.”
“I know, honey. I do.” He sighs. “I’m not saying it’s fun to be in pain. It’s not. But I feel grateful that I have a wonderful wife. I have a daughter who kicks butt on the field and cares about me—to a fault.”
“But that’s just it. It’s all about us. You lost your work, your—”
“That’s not true, Zoe. I mean, sure, I can’t work the way I used to. But I’ve started a blog and—”
I lean back. “You started a blog? About what?”
He reaches over, opens his laptop, and passes it to me. On the screen I see Hammers and Tunes, a blog by a music-obsessed recovering contractor.
I look up at him. I had no idea. No. Idea.
He shrugs. “It’s just something I started. It’s been fun, listening to new songs, thinking about how to curate them, how—”
“Curate them?” I smile. “Who are you and what have you done with my dad?”
He smiles. “This is me, Zo.”
I think of the CD he made me, still sitting on my bureau, unlistened to.
I close the computer, lean over, and give him a big hug. “I’m so, so sorry, Dad.”
He pats me on the back. “I know.”
I sit up and hand him the thin box. He raises his eyebrows. As soon as he opens it, he busts out laughing. “Oh, Zoe.” Then his face hesitates between a laugh and a cry. “I kind of love you, you know that?”
“I know.” I undo the watch on his wrist. I rub the smooth patch of skin where the broken watch face sat for all these years.
“I still love that watch,” he says, watching me put it down on the nightstand. “Because you gave it to me.”
I smile. “I just thought it was time. For us.” I buckle on the new watch, its face full of fierce cartoon superheroes. “I owe you a superhero movie.”
He smiles and his whole face crinkles up. I can tell he’s trying not to let the tears fall, but I’m not even trying anymore. I just let them run as I rest my head on his chest, his thin T-shirt soft against my cheek, the weight of his arm around me, the hushed music from his earbuds.
“Oooh,” he says after a while. “So beautiful.”
I turn to face the windows to see what he sees. A wind has come through to shake the snow from the branches. Some falls in clumps, sending giant snowballs to the ground. But some falls in a swoosh, a drifting veil of white dropped over the world for just a few seconds. Then, when it’s gone, everything is crisp and clear.
“Snow-covered branches always make me think of frosting,” Dad says. “Mmmm. Wegmans cupcakes.”
I laugh and wipe my cheeks. “Of course they do.”
Later, when I hear Mom open the garage, I abandon my AP US History homework and run downstairs so I can meet her at the door.
“Oh!” she says, her hands full. “Do I have you to thank for the shoveled driveway?”
“Yeah,” I say.
She drops her purse on the floor and shrugs off her coat. “I hate knowing that we’ll be shoveling for the next five months. There’s something so depressing about that.”
I give her a huge hug. Her arms take a second to catch up, but soon they do, and I’m reminded of how safe I feel in her arms. How sometimes she’s exactly the container I need. “I’m so sorry.”
She pats me on the back. “Can I get a recording of that?”
I step back. “I had no idea you were working extra shifts to—”
She holds up her hands. “Honey, it’s not your job to worry about that.” She shakes her head and puts her hands on my shoulders. “I think—I think we’ve put too much on you these last couple of years and you’ve forgotten how to be a kid. It’s just that you were so capable and good at being a grown-up. We forgot to take care of you.”
It was never about the cooking and the cleaning after all. It’s like she flung open all the shades the way I did in Dad’s room and let the light pour all the way down.
“Thanks,” I finally say. “Also”—I take a deep breath—“I didn’t realize I was taking Dad’s accident out on you.”
She’s quiet. She exhales and her cheeks puff out from the force of it. “That—that means a lot.” She nods. “A lot.” She exhales again. “I just hate how much all this had to affect you too. Nobody lives in a vacuum I guess, huh?” She shakes her head. “We’re all just ripples in a pond, no control over the rock that made them.”
I half laugh. “That should be on a T-shirt.”
“That’s me, Zen-Master Mom.”
“I love you.” And it feels so good to say. I’ve missed saying it. I’ve missed feeling it. So I say it again. “I love you, Mom.”
She sniffs and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Now, what do soon-to-be state champions have for dinner?”
I shake my head. “I already ate. Liv’s on her way to get me.”
“No way, honey. We’re driving you. Dad and I are coming to the game tonight.”
* * *
All geared up, I tap my Tar Heels poster for good luck and zip downstairs. Dad’s footsteps are slow as he navigates his way down. I fight the urge to help. If he wants help, he’ll ask for it.
All three of us pile into the car and it feels like the weirdest thing in the world to be in the back seat again after all these years. Mom puts the car in reverse, carefully easing onto the street, and then we’re ready to move forward.
THIRTY-SEVEN
WE’RE ALL IN THE SCHOOL’S parking lot. I keep looking at Dad because I can’t believe he’s here, but also because I’m trying to see him differently. Mom keeps rearranging the pile of cushions in the front seat. Liv’s parents are equally weird, taking apart a huge fancy camera only to put it back together again. Liv, meanwhile, keeps rattling off random facts about the Dome, like if she knows its whole history, she’ll be able to predict our future.
Then the 1978 green Triumph Spitfire pulls up.
Jake jumps out of the passenger side and twirls Liv in the air until her anxiety dissolves into laughter. The driver’s door creaks and slams. Grove walks slowly so I have time to admire his stride. I move toward him and take his hands in mine. I kiss him quickly on the lips. But just as I’m rocking back on my heels, he pulls me in again for a real kiss.
My team whistles and bangs the side of the bus. I redden and pull away, grinning.
“Go Captain!” Quinn screams.
He smiles as he lets go and tilts his forehead toward mine. “I had to do that before you left.”
“Yeah?” My voice goes low.
“Well.” He leans back and stretches our arms wide with our clasped hands. “I have to make sure you don’t forget me when you get all famous.”
I laugh. “There’ll probably be twenty people who show up. It’s field hockey.”
“I’ll be there,” he whispers in my ear.
I step back and realize that in addition to a packed bus, my parents, Jake, Liv, and Liv’s parents are all watching us, openmouthed.
Of course, this is the first time Grove’s meeting my family and friends, and they look like a bunch of wide-mouthed Muppets.
Jake does a slow clap, and Liv elbows him, while Dad laughs. Mom nurse-w
alks up to us, ever speedy and efficient, and pumps his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Mom, everyone”—I exhale—“this is Grove. He’s…”
“Your friend?” Mom rushes in to save me.
“Boyfriend.” Grove shakes her hand. He raises his eyebrows at me, and I nod. And blush. And smile. And blush again. I’m about two seconds away from erupting into flames.
“Well, come on over here, Grove,” Dad says. “I’ve got to shake the hand of the guy who was finally good enough for—”
“Dad!” I yell. And he bursts into laughter and just claps Grove on the back.
“Okay!” Liv yells. “If we don’t go soon, I’m going to leave you all and just run there myself. I can’t take any more waiting.”
Liv and I race onto the bus. To Syracuse. To the Dome. To the biggest stadium I’ve ever seen, and ours for the night. Even the Motown can’t steady me. I’m a Jell-O bowl of giddy.
We pull up to a giant garage door on the side of the Dome and step off the bus. Security types wave us over and lift up the door on some kind of huge pulley system, and we race in before they close it again. We walk down a long concrete hallway lined with tackling dummies and football sleds. I smile. Our football team won’t get to States. But we did.
We push through the doors into our locker room—the away team’s, since we’re the lower seed. The “lockers” don’t look anything like at our school. They’re wooden cubbies, with hooks, a shelf, and a bench below that runs around the room. A magnetic strip sits above each one where they put the players’ names.
It smells like dude. But we’re here now. Quinn braids blue and green ribbons into our hair, and Ava and I streak our cheeks in glow-in-the-dark paint. I bet the boys don’t do that.
Coach pulls me aside. “Look, Zoe, I haven’t heard anything else from the UNC coach. Given the last email, if we bring it home today, we can expect her at the championship game tomorrow night. So just get through this game and everything you’ve been working for is on the other side.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh, is that all?”
She laughs. “Remember, you can eat—”
“—an elephant one bite at a time. Yeah, yeah. I remember.”
She pats my shoulder. “You done good, kid.”
Finally, it’s time. We push through another set of doors and walk across an orange-splashed hallway with giant posters of players on the walls. But I’m focused on the ramp.
A legion of drummers beats their rhythms into my bones. Pound. Pound. Pound. I’ve watched a hundred games here, but I’ve never seen this view. When the hall slopes up and the ceiling disappears to reveal the giant curved dome above, I still can’t believe it.
We break into a run, and the second my feet touch that turf, it feels as good as kissing Grove, as good as parkour, as good as being a hero, as good as being a part of this sisterhood.
We’ve got this.
I look up into the stands to find my parents. When I find them, I find everyone else. Even the Rebels. They’ve made a huge banner that reads SHOW ’EM HOW REBELS ROLL, ZO! with all different-colored letters. Uncle Bob is here with Aunt Eileen. She’s got a big tub of popcorn along with the camera. She swats him when he starts jumping and waving, threatening to knock down the poor family in front of him, but she’s waving too.
Grove, Jake, and a bunch of the soccer guys are here. Their Regionals game is tomorrow in Albany, so even if we win tonight, Grove won’t be able to be here for the championship game tomorrow. They turn around at once, letters clustered across their backs: UNLASH THEE HOLE HULNDS. I bust out laughing.
“Pretty sure that’s supposed to say ‘Unleash the Hellhounds.’” Liv laughs.
We cup our hands to our mouths and howl.
Three Rivers is from somewhere downstate. They’re stuck with the parents willing to drive five hours. We’ve got a wild home crowd. We’ve got anyone bored on a snowy Friday. We’ve got our family.
The crowd stamps their feet for us. They stand and scream for us. They wave their banners and shake their fists.
For us.
When the anthem plays, it booms off the dome roof and walls, the vibrations thumping through us. All the cells in our bodies soar in tune.
The whistle blows.
The game is a mess of sticks, a blur of kilts. We fill the arena with our yells, intertwining with the crowd’s. We’re at our goal, we’re at their goal, we’re back again. I try to direct the chaos, but their sweeper and goalie block us every time. Still, Dylan and Ava are a wall at the end of the field, keeping them at bay.
I sprint up and down the field, passing and pushing, calling and conducting, but the ball refuses to land on either side. By halftime, it’s still 0 to 0, and we’re panting in our locker room.
“Any other year, this team would have us crying into the turf by now.”
“Aw, Coach.” Cristina clasps her hands and bats her eyelashes. “You’re such a sweet talker.”
Coach shrugs. “You know this year is different. You know you’re different. And you know what you know—nothing I say will change that. But just look around.” She throws her arms wide. “We’re in the Dome. Some of the best athletes in the world have played here. All I want—”
“We know, we know, enjoy it.”
Coach side-eyes the triplets. “Yeah. That. And stick it to ’em.”
We run out and the whistle blows again, blasting off the dome and back down. It’s a tumble of legs and hits and calls and passes, but nothing gets through on either side. Field hockey turns into tennis. It’s all volleys and no landings.
A Three Rivers girl slams her stick into Dylan’s leg, and she screams, “Fuck!” But instead of calling the girl, the ref hands Dylan a yellow card for the swear. Coach sends in the sub, but the sub isn’t Dylan, and the panic rises. I look at the others and see my fear in their crouches, their drawn mouths.
No. This is our year. Our Dome. Our championship.
We run to position. As soon as the whistle blows, we don’t hold back. We charge and get a penalty corner. They block it. There’s 1:26 left on the clock. We get another penalty corner. Bella inserts the ball from the left to Quinn. The ball disappears in a jumble of sticks and shins. I hear the taps but I can’t place it, and then there’s a crack, small but sure, and I see it rest in the back of the goal.
We scream. Quinn did it. And we’re hugging and jumping and yelling, only seconds on the clock.
We get to play in the finals.
We get to play in the State Championships.
Us.
As we skip back to the locker room, the concrete walls echo our replays, our shouts, our cleats, our sticks—until the noise doubles and triples and quadruples, until we’re not just a team, we’re an army. Headed for States.
We pull up short. Two police officers stand outside the locker room.
THIRTY-EIGHT
THE MAN POLICE OFFICER STEPS forward. “Dylan Johnson?”
Dylan’s face pales. She nods.
“We’d like you to come with us.” The woman officer is silent.
“What for?” Dylan’s voice holds steady, but her eyes are scared.
“We just need to ask you some questions at the station.”
“What if I don’t want to come?”
The woman officer steps forward. “Then we’ll get a warrant for your arrest.”
“Arrest!” Kiara says. “For what?”
“The menacing, assault, and kidnapping of Lance Kupperton.” The officer cocks his head at the exit, and Dylan follows, muttering “Bullshit” under her breath.
Oh no. It’s happening.
“Coach.” Kiara’s voice is tight. “I’m going to run and get my dad, okay? He’s a lawyer.” At Coach’s nod, she races off, yelling after Dylan not to say anything. That her dad will meet her at the station. Wordless, the rest of us walk inside the locker room. Without Dylan.
Coach sinks onto the bench with a loud thump—like she didn’t sit at all but fell.
&nbs
p; Quinn starts crying and so do some others, but not me.
We made it through the day. We made it through the game. I thought we were on the mountaintop, ready to place our flag.
But the floor yawns open, sucking me into a great, dark hole. My friends far above me. Dylan out of reach. The mountaintop a mirage.
And it’s all my fault.
Someone touches my shoulder, and I flinch.
Liv. “What do we do?” she says.
But I’m in the hole and I can barely hear her through the distance.
* * *
That night, we cram into Kiara’s living room, her dad reaching toward his computer perched on the coffee table, papers scattered by his feet. He sits on the edge of a cushy chair, his back rigid.
“I don’t get why she’s there overnight,” Ava says. “What happened to ‘We’re just taking you in for questioning’?”
Mr. Walker raises an eyebrow. “Well, it didn’t help that she said ‘F you’ to the interrogating officer—five times, no less.”
“Oh,” Ava says.
“Or that she has priors on her record. Or that Lance’s parents already thought about pressing charges against her for her earlier assault at school. Holding her overnight was a foregone conclusion, I’m afraid.”
“Did she seem okay?” Kiara bites her nails, then tucks her hands under her thighs.
Mr. Walker looks at her, his face wrinkled in worry. “She didn’t seem hurt or abnormally upset.” His voice is soft, and Kiara nods.
I lean forward. I have to lean so far to reach my way out of the hole. I have to get Dylan out of the hole. “How can we help?”
He tidies a stack of papers. “Dylan has given me permission to be fully transparent with you all. She seems to believe she should plead guilty, and I don’t agree.” He runs his hand over his tight gray curls. “She doesn’t have faith in the system, so she’s giving in, which is understandable given her history. But these are serious charges, and I don’t think we should let her do that.” He clasps his hands together. “I hope that through our conversation we can arrive at a better decision for Dylan.