Dangerous Play

  But we won.

  I’m sure I lost all the scholarships. Nobody wants someone who bails on their team in the second half.

  But strangely, I feel okay. I feel lighter than I have in months, maybe years. Besides, I’ll get another shot at States next year.

  We won.

  I push myself up to sitting and take a moment for my body to adjust. I pull out my phone, ready to mindlessly scroll, then I remember I deleted the app. I re-download it.

  Wow.

  There are so many reposts. So many new entries under our hashtag: #BoycottDDO. There are hearts and fire emojis and raised fists. There are girls I’ve never seen before sharing their stories. There are plans for mani-pedi parties yesterday afternoon.

  Yeah, there are nasty comments too. But there aren’t nearly as many as I’d feared. And the ones that exist are getting called out.

  Maybe Reilly will go to jail after last night. Maybe not. Given everything we’ve experienced, I doubt it. But now everyone knows who he really is. Everyone’s talking.

  Finally, we changed things.

  I choose clothes based on how easy they are to pull on one-handed: loose sweats. I don’t bother to change my shirt.

  I ease toward the stairs. Dad comes to his door, his face all worried.

  “Hi,” I manage. My voice is scratchy from all that screaming. I have no idea how Coach has a single vocal cord left.

  “Hey, tiger.” Dad hasn’t called me tiger in forever. “Mom’s at work, so you’re stuck with me. How are you feeling?”

  “Weirdly good?”

  He smiles. “You were”—he shakes his head—“amazing last night.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Too bad I only got to play the first half.”

  “No,” he says. “I mean, you were amazing the second half. You were great when you played. You were. You were deliberate and explosive. But you know what makes the greatest players great?”

  I shake my head.

  “They bend the game to their will. And you did that on the field. Which is incredible. But in all the games I’ve ever been to, I have never seen a player do what you managed to do from the sidelines.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Well, they played so well. They—”

  He nods. “They did. But you were a big part of that. Can I hug you?”

  I turn my big-bandaged wrist and sling away and offer a side hug. “Come at me.”

  He pulls me tight and I hug him back. “I love you, Dad.”

  “You too, sport.” He pulls back. “Want me to make you some breakfast?”

  I shake my head. “Nah. I can…” I look at my arm and realize this may be harder than I thought. “Are you up to it? Because maybe I need help?”

  At the kitchen table, he parks next to me, a bowl of coffee ice cream for him and s’mores ice cream for me. I scoop with my left hand. It feels new.

  “All four food groups,” I say.

  “Damn straight. Helps, right?” he asks.

  “I think it does. My wrist feels better already.”

  My phone vibrates.

  AVA: Did u hear from SU?

  AVA: I did. THEY WANT ME.

  AVA: well for visit or whatever

  AVA: Zo?

  AVA: Why aren’t u answering meeeeeeeeeeeee

  “Oh wow,” I say.

  “What?” Dad says.

  “Ava heard from SU.”

  Dad elbows me. “Just open your email.”

  I do. There’s nothing there. I check my junk mail. Nothing.

  I put it down. I shake my head.

  It’s one thing to think something won’t happen. It’s another to know it.

  I pick my phone back up.

  ME: Congratulations!!!

  ME:

  ME: Nothing for me.

  AVA:…

  AVA:…

  AVA: Coach will write.

  I heart the message and put my phone facedown.

  Dad and I spend the morning watching sports. He plays some music off his blog. We invent a game where we sit on the couch and use only our left hands to toss pens into a mug on the coffee table.

  It’s exactly what I need.

  After lunch, he nods at my phone. “Check your email again.”

  I shake my head. “It’s that Schrödinger’s cat thing. If I don’t check it, there’s still a possibility that I’ll get an email. If I do check it, all my scholarship dreams die forever.”

  “Wow,” he says. “That’s a lot of pressure on a cat.”

  I glare at him.

  “Open. It.”

  I pick up my phone and hover over the email button. Because I wasn’t kidding. There are a thousand possibilities that still exist as possibilities if I don’t actually look. But this whole weekend has been about seeing. Seeing things fresh, seeing things fully, and seeing things real.

  I open it.

  There’s one from Coach.

  Zoe.

  I’m so proud of you. So, so proud. Do let me know if you need assistance with the case against that boy. I’ll be in communication with your parents about that. But I want you to know that I am on your side. Always. I hope your wrist is on the mend. We need it in good shape for next year!

  For now, though, I have some good news to pass along. The recruiters wanted to do some double-checking about the circumstances of that boy’s attack, but you’ll see they came to the right conclusion. We can talk about all of it more next week.

  I sit up straighter. She’s included a note from the recruiter.

  Dear Miss Alamandar,

  Thank you for your interest in UNC Chapel Hill’s field hockey program. We are always looking for young women who are stars on the field as well as in the classroom.

  I was already impressed by the detailed video and testimony sent to me by Eileen Allen.

  “What the—”

  “What?” Dad asks.

  “Aunt Eileen talked to them for me?”

  “Ohhhh. Maybe that’s why Eileen’s old college roommate was there. Joan? Jill?”

  I just stare at him. “Now you tell me?” Dad starts to answer but I shush him. “Let me keep reading.”

  … She was a phenomenal collegiate field hockey player, and her in-depth assessment of your abilities bears out the testimony of the video she sent.

  This was further borne out by your performance tonight. I was deeply impressed by your talent, skill, style, and drive. What really stood out to me, however, was the way you handled adversity. After breaking your wrist, you didn’t give up and sulk. You remained a captain to the end and rallied your team to victory. It was a sight to see.

  We would like to invite you to Chapel Hill to meet our coaching staff and team. You will get one-on-one time with coaches, play with the team, and spend the night with members of the team. Someone from our office will be in touch shortly to set up the arrangements.

  Sincerely,

  Jane Hodgkins

  Assistant Field Hockey Coach

  UNC Chapel Hill

  I’m about to tell Dad everything when I see there’s more.

  Dear Miss Alamandar,

  We were very impressed by your performance at the State Championships last night. We loved seeing a local team win the trophy in our home Dome. You exhibited strength and intelligence, as well as skill and grit.

  We hope you will consider coming to campus to meet our team and coaches. You will get a taste of what will await you at SU with some practice sessions, time with our coaches, and an overnight. Someone from our office will contact you soon.

  Sincerely,

  Sarah Meyers

  Assistant Field Hockey Coach

  Syracuse University

  “I am not a patient person, Zo,” Dad sings. “Please for the love of Michael Jordan tell me what—”

  I pass him the phone.

  He starts to read. “Wow,” he says. “Oh, wow.” Then, “Oh, Zoe, wow.” And then, “Wow!” And, “Wow wow wow.”<
br />
  He places the phone gently on the table.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Yeah.”

  “I gotta text Ava.”

  He nods.

  She doesn’t put up with my texts for long. Soon we’re screaming and jumping and screaming but it’s hard holding my phone with my left hand, so I just put her on speaker and Dad shakes his head while we scream and scream and scream.

  * * *

  It’s the afternoon when my doorbell rings. On the other side of the door is Grove holding a giant white box with blue lettering.

  “Oh,” I say, “tell me that’s from Geddes Bakery.”

  He grins. “I aim to please.”

  “How did you know?”

  He shrugs. “Magic?”

  I tilt my head at him. “You asked Liv, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  I laugh. I point to the porch swing. And the three of us—Grove, me, and the box of baked yummies—get comfortable.

  I open the bakery box. Just the smell alone is enough to make everything better. It’s filled with half-moon cookies. “Oh, you did good,” I say, pulling one out. “Tell me about Regionals.”

  “Tell me about States,” he says, grabbing a cookie.

  We munch on cookies and he tells me about all the plays, how close the game was, and how it felt to walk away winners. I tell him everything that happened on our field.

  He looks at me and puts his arm across the back of the swing, his fingers grazing my shoulders.

  “We don’t have to talk about the fact that your arm is all wrapped up, but we can. If you want.” He bites his lip. “Reilly do that?”

  “How’d you—”

  “Dylan posted pictures of Reilly flat out on the floor in zip ties.”

  “Right,” I say. I forgot about that.

  He grits his jaw.

  “I don’t want you to get all testosteragey and promise to kill him for me or anything.”

  He half smiles. “I make it a mission in life never to get testosteragey. Besides, it’s pretty clear you can fight all your own battles.” He strokes my shoulder. “I just want you to know I’m happy to fight them beside you. If you want.”

  I put the box on the floor and move closer to him. “Is it okay if I kiss you now?”

  He smiles. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  He tastes like sugar, and snow, and I smell the laundry detergent on his shirt and the shampoo he must’ve used, and I pull my knees up into his lap, and he wraps his arm around me and even though I have this clunky splint, it’s a perfect kiss. And maybe it would taste just as sweet if everything hadn’t happened the way that it did.

  But I don’t think so.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  “OH WE ARE TOTALLY GETTING matching field hockey canes when we get old,” Liv’s saying as we slip and slide up the snowbank that divides the parking lot from the beach.

  “Absofockinglutely,” I say, using both hands to scamper up the hill. My wrist came out of its cast a few weeks ago, and I still haven’t gotten over how good it feels to have it back.

  When we reach the top, we stand tall along the mini-mountain, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the bright moonlight flashing off the crisp white surface.

  Two feet of snow buries the summer sand of the beach. I’m the first to leap off, and my boots crunch through the top layer to the fluffier snow beneath. Soon, we’ve all jumped, and we boot-stomp our field to flatten it.

  We plant our goal flags and paint the narrow strip of skin between our eyes and scarves with glow-in-the-dark face paint. This time, instead of the snow-colored white ball, Ava surprises us with a glow-in-the-dark green one. We race onto our homemade field, taking our positions, like we do.

  We dribble and drive, push and pass, turning the flawless field of snow into something a lot less perfect. We fall flat on our faces and get snow down our necks. We play hard and topple over one another into the snow. Every time Sasha falls, she has to make a snow angel, and every time Dylan falls, she tackles whoever brought her down. We chant our chants, each side trying to drown out the other, each side making up new rhymes for new moods.

  Finally, we collapse against one another on the snow. A few of the girls run back to the van to get the firewood, and we make a fire—not quite like the bonfires of the fall with their towering logs and giant flames, but I like it better. There’s room for all of us to crowd around it, and the logs are low enough that I can see everyone’s faces lit up across the circle.

  We laugh and talk about school and fockey and crushes and food. Always food.

  I follow an ember as it flies away from the logs and shoots itself up, up, up into the cold night until it finally disappears.

  I look across the circle and meet Ava’s eyes. She rocks back and smiles.

  I stand. “Parkour anyone?”

  We kick snow over the fire, which has melted away a ring around the logs. We race toward the playground. It’s a little small for us, but we make it work. We tumble and roll and fly and jump all over it, making it ours.

  Like we do.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction, but sexual assault is all too real. There are many important young adult books that follow the courageous journeys of survivors of rape. In Dangerous Play, I wanted to explore the insidious and pervasive effects of sexual assault and rape culture, even when a rape isn’t the focus. I wanted to examine what happens to a group of girls and their community when rape culture goes unchecked.

  Consent culture is the opposite of rape culture. Yes is a powerful word. Active consent ensures that each individual has a voice, that each individual values the voice and desires of their partner. That is why there is active consent in every romantic interaction between Zoe and Grove.

  I gave Zoe a bigger team than she realized she had. Zoe’s friends and family showed up, listened, believed her, sympathized with her, and allowed her to tell her story in her own way in her own time. When someone we care about gets hurt, it’s hard to know what to do. Those are all good places to start.

  It took time for Zoe to find her voice. That’s because there is no “right” timeline for finding your voice. You should get to decide when to talk, to whom you will speak, and what it is you want to say. Those are weighty decisions and they are yours to make.

  I worked as a sexual violence peer counselor for several years and we used to say: your worst experience is your worst experience. Like Zoe, some survivors question whether they have a right to be upset if their attacker didn’t rape them. You absolutely, unquestionably have that right. You did not deserve it. It was not your fault. You are allowed to have feelings, you are allowed to give those feelings voice, and you are allowed to seek help. I hope you do.

  If you or someone you know wants more information about sexual assault, please visit www.rainn.org or call their National Sexual Assault Hotline at 1-800-656-HOPE (4673).

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book has a twenty-four-plus-person cast, but it took many more to bring it into existence.

  First and always, to my students—past, present, future. And to all the teachers and librarians who give their students a safe place to try on ideas, practice civil dissent, and learn deep as if their lives depend upon it, because they do.

  To my agent Roseanne Wells, who demanded that this book be as strong as the girls who populate its pages and helped me get it there. Forever thanks for jumping into the game with me, Cap’n. Thanks, too, to Jennifer De Chiara, Betty Anne Crawford, and Kim Guidone.

  To my editor Mekisha Telfer of Roaring Brook Press, my coach, who asked the perceptive questions that led me to play my best game. Thanks for helping Zoe, and me, find the right words. To Aurora Parlagreco for the stunning design, and to Laura Callaghan for the jaw-dropping, fist-raising cover art. Thank you, too, to Cynthia Lliguichuzhca, Avia Perez, Susan Doran, Tracy Koontz, Kerry Johnson, and the entire team at Roaring Brook Press and Macmillan.

  To Pam Neimeth and CARES for being a refu
ge and a training ground for what it is to be a woman activist in this world. To the brave people of the #MeToo movement: This book began well before I heard your stories, but I’m so grateful that when you bravely spoke up, so many finally listened.

  To the original Rebels, my mom’s consciousness-raising group: Sheila Berger, Lois Chaber, Gloria DeSole, Judith Fetterley, and Joan Schulz. I spent my childhood eavesdropping on your feminism and friendship, and it shaped my life.

  To Erik “Obi-Wan” Canavan for the superhero talk while you were turning me into one.

  To my MVPs: Steph Liberati, Coach Maggie Kennedy, and Bri Stahrr, and also to Sarah Bisesi, Coach Megan Caveny, and Julia Loonin—all gifted athletes as fierce on the field, turf, and court as they are in life. Special thanks, too, to Coach Joe Burke and Coach Pat Kennedy.

  To those who answered my questions at all hours, but especially David Babikian, Erin Becker, Christa Desir, Jackie Hayman, Daniel Henderson, Keri Levin, Susan Macomber, Samantha Olds, Toni Santoferrara, Nicole and Genaro Sepulveda, and Cathy Wool.

  To my careful readers, especially Miriam Barquera, Jiton Davidson, Tarie Sabido, and Bianca Viñas. Thanks also to Kim Purcell, Joseph Wiederhold, Ellen Yeomans, my first VCFA workshop led by Uma Krishnaswami and Nova Ren Suma, and Mary Quattlebaum. Thanks, too, to Eleanor Brown, Denice Turner, and the Writing Table, where this book began.

  To my writing/publishing friends: the BCBs (Salima Alikhan, Gene Brenek, Rachel Purcell), the Saratoga Writing Group (Bre Grant, Rachel Krackeler, Barb Roberts), Eddie Gamarra, Rachel Gambiza, Gail Hochman, Laura Jackson, Melanie Jacobson, Jessie Janowitz, Erin Nuttal, Shannon Rigney, Anne-Marie Strohman, Erin Summerill, Lakita Wilson, and Elisa Zied. Thanks, too, to Holly Green, Tirzah Price, and the rest of the #The21ders.

  To the inclusive and creative VCFA community especially the Tropebusters, the Revisionaries, and my VCFA advisers David Gill, Amy King, Mary Quattlebaum, and Cynthia Leitich Smith, who each gave me tools to do this story justice.

  To Meg Wolitzer, my steadfast and generous champion. You were the first person to tell me I should write for young people. As always, you were right.