Alma felt a smile curl the edges of her mouth, or maybe it had just been plastered there since last night.
“¡Imagínate! We all will be celebrating Las Posadas together in Georgia this December, muñeca.”
If this miracle actually did happen, and they all were eating posole, drinking warm fruit punch, and processing through the streets together for the nine days leading up to Christmas, Alma knew it was likely to be the first and last time. If Abuela Lupe was right about la Virgencita, she would be granted the visa in December, which would give her six months. Tía Pera and Tío Rigo would return to Mexico and set up their new lives there, while Abuela Lupe would stay with Alma and her family. But in June, right after graduation, Abuela Lupe, Isa, and Selena would have to return to Mexico for good.
Alma couldn’t help but catch the wave of excitement. After last night with Evan, Alma was feeling so optimistic that she was almost tempted to share in her abuelita’s certainty that a future of good fortune lay ahead.
* * *
Evan never exactly enjoyed sitting through church with his family. None of it seemed real. It was just a show that everyone dressed up on Sunday mornings to put on.
Look at us. We are a happy family. The family that prays together stays together.
All Evan wanted was to get it over with—to see Alma again. Plus, Uncle Sexton and Aunt Maggie were in town with all of their kids, which spelled family drama. When Whit excused himself before the sermon to go to the restroom, Evan knew what was coming. Ten minutes later, his aunt gently nudged him.
“Evan, sweetheart,” she whispered, “can you please do me a little favor and check on your cousin? He’s been gone for quite a while.”
Ugh.
Evan knew where to find him. He went to the balcony and edged into the space between the organ pipes and the stained glass window. Whit was there, taking a long swig from his flask.
“What’s up, Evan?” Whit asked casually, as if it were perfectly normal for him to be hiding out behind the organ getting drunk.
“You shouldn’t be drinking in here,” Evan said. If that wasn’t stating the obvious, Evan didn’t know what was.
Whit took another swig and shrugged.
“In case you haven’t noticed, it’s before noon on a Sunday,” Evan said, “and we’re in church.”
“I’ve noticed,” Whit replied. “But I need to prepare myself for this afternoon’s public display of filial piety.” He pulled a container of prescription pills from his pocket and examined the label.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Whit,” Evan said.
“Of course you don’t, Evan. You and your mother live in a state of domestic tranquility, and—as far as I can tell—your dad basically no longer exists to either of you.”
As always, Whit was wrong. It was Evan’s dad who seemed to have forgotten about them.
“Let’s go, Whit,” Evan said, reaching out to pull Whit to his feet. “I’ve been sent to retrieve you.”
Whit stood and followed Evan, and they both slid back into the pew just before the benediction.
When church ended, Evan felt elated to be leaving alone rather than following his family to the club—that is until Whit rushed over to join him.
“So, Evan,” Whit announced, “as you know, my parents and I can’t be alone together for more than five minutes, and it’s a ten-minute drive to the club.”
“What’s your point, Whit?” Evan asked, getting into his car.
“I need to ride with you.”
“I’m not going,” Evan said.
He started to close the door, but Whit grabbed it and held it open.
“Not fair!” Whit exclaimed, thrusting the car door open. “What’s your excuse?”
“A soccer game.”
“Granted, I don’t know much about high school sporting events,” Whit said as he pulled the flask from his pocket, “but I know you’re not in season yet.”
“It’s a city league,” Evan replied, grabbing the flask from Whit’s hand and shoving it under the seat of his car. “A friend and her brother invited me. And, Christ, can you please not drink in the parking lot of our church?”
“What friend?” Whit asked.
“You don’t know them.”
“Try me.”
“Alma and Raúl.” Evan knew there was no way Whit had crossed paths with Alma’s family.
“Wait, you’re not going to watch the Liga Latina are you?” Whit asked.
Evan’s jaw dropped. How would Whit know about this league?
“You are!” Whit exclaimed. “Can I come, too? Please? Please, please?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Evan said as he started to slam the door shut.
“OK, then.” Whit announced, wedging himself into the car and reaching down for the flask. “I’ll just hang out at the club and finish this bottle before this afternoon’s televised interview.”
Evan rolled his eyes and let out a long sigh.
“Hand over the bottle. And the pills,” Evan said. “Let’s go.”
Whit released a squeal and thrust the flask into Evan’s hand. “I love cultural experiences.”
This had the potential to be bad.
* * *
Standing at the edge of the field, Alma saw Evan walking toward her with another boy she didn’t know. They both had on khakis and white button-down shirts. Evan also wore a strange look on his face. Maybe embarrassment.
“Hey, Alma,” Evan said as he approached. “This is my cousin Whit. He’s visiting from out of town. I’m on babysitting duty.”
So this was the delinquent cousin. In his preppy clothes, he sure didn’t look like any delinquent Alma had ever met. And he was way too old to need babysitting.
Whit threw out his arms and lifted her off of her feet, in apparent defiance of his beanpole frame.
“Look at you!” he commented, holding her at arm’s length. “You’re ravishingly beautiful.”
Evan stood beside her awkwardly.
Alma laughed. “You’re not so shabby yourself,” she replied.
It was true. Whit had a beautiful, broad jawbone and a long, angular nose. His dark hair and dark eyebrows set off creamy skin. The only blemishes on his near-perfect face were the puffy, dark bags under his eyes.
“She thinks I’m sexy,” Whit announced triumphantly to Evan.
Just then a whistle blew and they turned to watch the game.
Evan stood with his body inclined slightly forward, leaning into the field. His eyes focused with laser-sharp precision on the ball, occasionally darting across the field to take in the position of the goalie or an open player. He seemed completely oblivious to everything and everyone around him, including Alma and her little cousin Selena, who, to Alma’s surprise, had sort of nuzzled up against him like a stray puppy looking for someone to feed it.
Alma was actually glad Evan had brought his cousin along. Whit didn’t seem to care a bit about soccer. He knelt down beside Selena and engaged her in intense conversation.
“Man, your brother is good,” Evan said, not even looking at Alma. “Who’s that small kid—the striker? Number twenty-three?”
“You mean the guy with long hair? That’s Ramiro.”
“He’s pretty good, too. Where does he play?”
“Right here. He’s not a kid. He’s, like, twenty-five. He’s a framer.”
“A what?”
“A framer. You know, he frames houses. That’s his job.” Then, trying to make conversation, or maybe just to pull Evan out of the trance he seemed to have gone into, Alma continued, “He’s got twelve brothers and sisters back in Oaxaca.”
“Oaxaca?” Whit asked, standing up. “Does he speak an indigenous language? I read that there are sixteen surviving indigenous languages in Oaxaca.”
“Actually, I think he does,” Alma said. “Mixtec.” Alma was impressed. Evan hadn’t told her the delinquent cousin was smart.
“Pass. Pass the ball,” Evan cried out. He turned
to look at Alma. “Who’s the midfielder? Number ten?”
“I don’t know his name. He’s new.” The new guy had stepped in a few weeks back to replace Rafael—one of the casualties of the Silver Ribbon raid.
“He has no idea what he’s doing,” Evan replied. “How do you say ‘pass’ in Spanish?”
The whistle interrupted and the referee called halftime. The score was 3-0. The Diablos de Daxthi were in the lead, and there was no chance that the Santos de San Juan would pull it out.
Number ten jogged over toward Alma’s dad on the sidelines. They watched as he said something to Alma’s dad, who then buried his head in his hands. Number ten walked toward the parking lot. Alma’s dad called his team over to consult. The players shifted on their feet and flailed their arms. They were not happy. Raúl said something that seemed to calm them, and then he jogged toward Evan and Alma.
The whole team watched as he approached.
“Hey, man. Rough match.” Evan said.
“Yeah, we lost some players, so we’ve got a bunch of novices out there.”
“This is my cousin,” Evan said, nodding toward Whit.
Whit thrust out his hand toward Raúl. “Encantado de conocerte,” he said.
Whoa. He spoke Spanish with a perfect Castilian accent. That was the Spanish of the elites. Until now, Alma had only heard it on television.
“Good to meet you, too, man,” Raúl said, taking his hand. “Thanks for coming out.”
Raúl turned to Evan. “So, Diego—one of our midfielders—he just got called in to work. We’re short a player. We probably should forfeit since we’re getting crushed out there. But I thought you might, uh…”
Evan’s face lit up. “You want me to step in?”
“If you’re up for it,” Raúl said, shrugging.
“Hell, yeah!” Evan replied. “Just give me a sec.”
He jogged over to his car and rummaged around in the trunk. Then he slid into the backseat.
“Where’d you learn the Spanish, man?” Raúl asked Whit.
“Salamanca,” Whit said. “Estudié un semestre en la Universidad de Salamanca—en España.”
“No way,” Alma said. “How did you pull off a semester at the best university in Spain?”
“My parents find ways,” Whit said. “They prefer for me to be as far from Georgia as possible.”
Alma laughed nervously, not sure how to respond.
“Damn,” Raúl said. “I wish I could get myself in that kind of trouble.”
“Let me know if you need some help,” Whit said. “It’s my special talent. Evan scores goals; I score DUIs.”
Raúl laughed and glanced toward Evan’s car. “Looks like he’s ready.”
Evan emerged wearing cleats and soccer shorts. Alma had never seen him look so good. It wasn’t just his body. It wasn’t even the way he pulled his long bangs off his forehead and secured them back so that she could see his entire face, with that beautiful smile that spread across it. He just looked so confident, like everything in this moment was right.
“Let’s go,” Raúl said.
“Wish us luck,” Evan yelled over his shoulder.
Seeing Evan and Raúl jog toward the team, she had a feeling they weren’t going to need it.
Evan pulled his white undershirt over his head and let it fall to the ground.
Swoon.
Alma’s dad handed him a neon-green team jersey. He shrugged it on too quickly and stepped into the huddle.
“Oh, my God,” Whit said, pulling Alma out of her Evan-induced trance. “Your brother just made Evan’s day.”
Alma decided not to tell Whit that he had made her day, too.
Watching Evan play soccer was disconcerting. He left his easygoing, friendly self crumpled on the sidelines with his discarded undershirt. He stripped himself down to something else, something more elemental. Evan was a very aggressive player. He taunted the player whose unfortunate job it was to defend him. He threw his elbows and body in ways that Alma was sure would earn him a yellow card, but he seemed to know just where the limits were.
“People are starting to gather,” Whit said, nudging Alma and pointing across the field. “I think they’re baffled by the gringo boy.”
He turned away from Alma, striking up a conversation in almost flawless Spanish with an elderly grandmother sitting next to them.
Yes, Whit was surprising.
Intrigued by the transformation of Evan’s character on the field and by his odd cousin, Alma almost didn’t notice that he and Raúl were dominating the game. The spectators around her began to point and comment. Seeing Evan through their eyes, she realized that Evan was good, really good. He and Raúl seemed to read each other’s presence, to sense the other’s next move. Evan carried the ball up the sideline, passing two defenders, and then slid a left-to-right pass across the top of the box to Raúl, who sent an arcing shot over the head of the Diablos’ goalkeeper and into the top right corner of the goal.
Five minutes later, Evan sent another effortless pass to Raúl, who neatly tucked away their second goal. The crowd along the sidelines grew, and the newly energized fans of the Santos de San Juan began to yell and hoot for the dynamic duo. Even Alma’s dad was smiling. His body involuntarily hopped when Evan set Raúl up in the box, positioning him perfectly to send the ball cruising into the left corner of the net, bringing the game to a tie.
* * *
Evan felt them watching him—the white kid dominating field eight. He didn’t care. Playing with Raúl was such a rush that even if spectators had been screaming, “Get off the field, gringo,” he would have ignored their jeers.
There were only three minutes left in the game, and defenders were all over Evan and Raúl. Evan tried to deflect them by sending a few passes to the other forward. He was pretty good at finding Evan’s passes, but not the goal.
With the clock down to forty seconds, the Diablos’ best player fell to the ground, clutching his knee. Whistle blown.
Evan yelled out in frustration, “Oh, come on! The guy barely touched him.”
This would take them into stoppage time.
While the opposing player rolled around on the pitch, feigning an injury to catch his breath, Evan jogged to the sideline. Mr. García yelled out instructions in rapid and completely incomprehensible Spanish. Evan jumped in, hoping his brash behavior wouldn’t put him on Mr. García’s bad side. Evan described a play that he and Raúl had used at GHS. It required very little help from their teammates, except the defender Ramiro. He was good. Raúl translated, and the other players nodded in agreement. Mr. García—amazingly—smiled and nodded, too.
Another whistle blew, and Evan felt his body shift back into focus. Surrounded by energy from his teammates and the crowd, he felt aggressive but calm. He took in the position of the players around him, motioning for the defenders to adjust.
The other team put the ball back into play. A Diablo sent an errant pass in Ramiro’s direction. Ramiro executed the play just as they had planned. He dribbled up the middle and crossed the ball to Evan. Evan drove it down the left sideline and then crossed it into the penalty area. Raúl received the ball, but he couldn’t get a shot off. He glanced around as the clock continued counting down. Evan motioned for Ramiro to move forward, into the midfield. Finding him open, Raúl sent a long pass back to Ramiro, who then tapped it across to Evan. Scanning the field, Evan realized that the defenders were so busy covering Raúl that they’d left the goal open. From fifteen yards, he sent the ball airborne, and nailed the top left corner of the goal. It wasn’t the plan, but it worked.
Spectators charged the field as teammates piled onto Evan, cheering and hugging. Evan felt the familiar rush of exhilaration, the thrill of the win. His eyes scanned the crowd to find Alma, who stood on the sidelines with a bemused grin.
He looked around. The frenzied crowd was acting like the team had just won a state championship, not a midseason match in a rec league.
Evan untangled himself from the
players and jogged over toward Alma.
“First win of the season,” she said, smiling serenely. “Thanks.”
“Hell, Alma,” he said, “You don’t need to thank me. That was more fun than I’ve had in a long time—and your brother is crazy good.”
“He’s not the one getting all the attention,” Whit said, glancing around at the people pointing and gawking at Evan.
“Yeah, it’s a little weird,” Evan mumbled.
People gathered around, offering congratulations—some in English and others in Spanish. Trying to be polite, Evan responded with “Thanks, uh, gracias.”
Whit leaned in and mimicked his accent, “Graaciaas, mew-chas graacias.”
Throwing a dismissive glance toward Whit, Evan wrapped his arm around Alma and turned away.
“Your cousin speaks great Spanish, you know. Maybe you should take lessons from him,” she said.
“Never gonna happen. You might as well get used to being embarrassed by your gringo boyfriend.”
Alma laughed and threw her arms around his neck. Neither of them cared that he was sweaty, or that there were dozens of people gathered around them. He just hugged her in tight.
Evan saw Whit watching them. He was smiling in an odd way, almost genuine. Whit seemed happy here, so far away from their world. Evan was happy, too.
Overjoyed, in fact.
Alma led Evan over to where Raúl and Mr. García stood, beaming from ear to ear, with a group of men who looked to be Mr. García’s friends.
“Very good game, Evan. You are a very good player,” Mr. García said. He glanced at Raúl, an encouraging expression in his eyes.
“My dad wants you to join the team,” Raúl said. “But I told him you probably didn’t want to risk injury for the regular season.”
“Really? Your dad wants me on his team?”
“Uh, yeah,” replied Raúl, as if this were totally self-evident. “It would be awesome, but it’s no big deal if you can’t.”
Evan glanced at Alma, whose eyes were sparkling. He’d done it. He had earned the trust and maybe even the admiration of Alma’s dad. All it took was a few plays on the soccer field.
“I’d like that, Mr. García. Thank you so much,” Evan said.
“Welcome to the team,” replied Alma’s dad. “Now, we celebrate!”
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