by Annie Bryant
“In those clothes?” Avery asked.
“Of course. I have to look my best for our team’s triumphant victory! Let’s go!” Maeve grabbed Avery’s arm and marched out back to the soggy, gloppy field.
Field of Dreams
“Uh…Maeve…what are you doing here?” Dillon asked as Maeve performed her best dramatic entrance onto the soccer field, avoiding puddles and a few clumps of brown snow.
She gave him her brightest smile and tried to hide her disappointment that Dillon didn’t look thrilled to see her. “I’m here to play, of course.”
Dillon glanced at Avery, who looked concerned.
“Play what?” Dillon asked.
Maeve stuck out her lip. Dillon’s face was so gorgeous, even when he was being a pain! “Soccer, silly. This game is the event of the week. After the Valentine’s Day Dance, that is.” Maeve dropped the hint with as much emphasis as she could, but it went right over his head.
“Do you even know the rules?” Dillon asked.
“Maeve,” Avery took over. “Our soccer games can be kind of intense. People get knocked around all the time. Maybe you should just, you know, watch for a little while?” she said in a worried tone. Avery hated to see people get hurt. She was kind of a softie that way.
“No way!” Maeve said. “I’m here to play, and I’m ready!”
She stomped one foot and cringed as her soft pink boots sent up a shower of gross mud. It went all over the sparkly fur and splattered her favorite pair of jeans! Maeve took a deep breath. Compose yourself. An actress must always maintain composure!
“You?” Maeve turned to see Anna kick her blue and yellow soccer ball as hard as she could. Maeve jumped out of the way, and Avery went running after the ball, yelling, “Use your head, Maeve!”
My head! Maeve thought, horrified. I have to sacrifice my hair to that ball of flying mud?
“I’m a captain and I pick first,” Anna announced. “Trevor, you’re with me.”
Avery passed the ball as gently as she could to Maeve. It came to a stop between her boots. “Okay, Maeve, you’re on my team.”
“What a waste of a perfectly good pick,” Joline whispered from the sidelines.
That’s when Maeve noticed Chelsea was there, toting her camera.
Maeve gave her a movie star smile, but she was starting to worry. Was she in way over her pink boots?
“I can play! Watch this!” Maeve picked up the ball and tried to twirl it on one finger. It actually worked for a second, but no one seemed to care.
“Maeve, you can’t touch the ball with your hands,” Avery whispered.
“I know that,” she shushed.
“I get Dillon,” Anna announced.
In the end, both Trentini twins, Henry Yurt, and two random guys from Maeve’s math class wound up on her side. The other team was all Anna’s eighth-grade soccer friends, plus Trevor and Dillon.
Maeve wasn’t entirely sure when the game began. It was like a tornado swept in, whipped her up in a chaotic whirlwind, then spun away laughing, only to come back for more.
“You’re on defense, Maeve! Go back, back!” Avery shouted.
“Here, take the ball away from me.” Dillon practically passed it to Maeve, earning a furious glare from Anna. “Stop trying to be nice,” she growled at Dillon as she swiped in and stole the ball before Maeve could even swing back her leg.
Was Dillon trying to make me look like a total loser? Maeve ducked as Anna sent the ball sailing over her head, straight into the goal.
The goalie, Henry Yurt, threw up his hands. “You’re supposed to stop it!”
“Here, try offense,” Avery suggested. “Just follow me, but not too close! I’ll pass it to you.”
Maeve managed to snag the easy pass, and Dillon low-fived Avery behind Anna’s back. “Nice pass, Ave!” Dillon whispered, and they both laughed.
Was this really happening? Her future husband was laughing with her best friend! And they weren’t even on the same team!
An eighth-grade girl came barreling down the field just as Maeve felt her toes cramping inside her boots. The soles kept slipping and sliding in the muck of partially thawed grass. Maeve didn’t dare look down. She knew her perfect pink boots were perfectly ruined!
With a grunt, she kicked the ball back toward Avery. Only Avery wasn’t there anymore.
“Thanks, Maeve!” Anna laughed, and Maeve heard Chelsea’s camera shutter snap. This was bad. She couldn’t believe Chelsea was actually documenting her misery.
Every muscle in Maeve’s body throbbed with pain. What made her think she could play soccer with the best players in school? She must have been suffering from temporary insanity! She felt the tears brimming up behind her lids when Joline whistled from the sidelines.
“Halftime!” Avery shouted, and trotted up to Maeve. “You could sit out for a while, if you want.”
“No! I’m fine!” Maeve snapped, dusting off her jeans as best she could. Her legs pricked from the heat of running and the cold of the air at the same time. A chilly breeze blew across the sweat building up beneath her hair, and Maeve shivered. Avery was smart to wear sweatpants and a ponytail, she admitted.
Maeve thought halftime meant at least ten minutes of rest and refreshments, but after just two seconds of slurping water from colorful bottles, her whole team was back out on the field.
Dillon stood in the opposite goal now, looking cuter than ever with his hair all slicked back and his goalie shirt sleeves rolled up. “You okay, Maeve?” he called.
She couldn’t tell if he was teasing or serious. Composure, Maeve reminded herself, and pranced into position. “Are you kidding? I’m better than ever!”
In reality, she wanted to die. She absolutely wanted to die. Whatever had she been thinking? Actresses could take on personalities, but not skills. She couldn’t just become a star soccer player because she wanted to. But there was no way she would quit now. Maeve Kaplan-Taylor was going to show the world she didn’t give up.
“Are we winning?” Maeve asked when she had a chance to stop and breathe for a second. Avery had stuck close through the second half, and now Billy Trentini was backing up for a corner kick. Before today, Maeve had had no idea you kicked anything from corners in soccer.
“We’re tied,” Avery said. “Look, if the ball comes to you, tap it back to me. I’ll run it up the side, and you get in front of the goal—got it?”
Avery made some sort of signal with her hands. Maeve didn’t understand, but she’d do anything to get this nightmare over with.
“Okay,” she said, and looked at her fingernails. The pink polish was chipped and dirty, and so were her nails. Oh well, I’ll just pick a new color tonight…maybe magenta?
“Maeve!” Henry Yurt shouted.
The ball was arcing straight toward her! Maeve backed up, but the ball hit her flat in the chest. “Ouch!” she yelped as the muddy missile hit the ground in front of her.
“To me!” Avery yelled.
Maeve tapped it back, and watched her sporty friend weave in and out, dancing effortlessly past Anna, Trevor, and an older girl. Maeve trotted up the center, watching with growing jealousy. Maeve could memorize a complicated dance move in a few minutes, but no way could she dodge so many angry, shouting faces and kicking feet!
Suddenly, she was right in front of the goal, face-to-face with Dillon.
He grinned, and gave a two-finger wave. Is he grinning at Avery or me? Maeve didn’t have time to figure it out.
“MAEVE!” Avery screamed.
Suddenly, the ball was right there, bouncing across the mud. This is it! Maeve glowed inside. I’ll make a goal, and Dillon will lift me up on his shoulders! It didn’t matter that he was on the other team; Maeve knew he had to be cheering for her. She’d show him what she was made of, then he’d ask her to the dance!
Maeve stared at that ball as hard as she could. Timing was everything, in dance and in soccer. She swung back her leg…and timed it perfectly. One dirty pink boot hit the ball
, but the other…went slipping, sliding, and then flying up into the air! Maeve hadn’t noticed the giant puddle directly in front of her feet.
As she fell, Maeve watched Dillon double over as the ball sailed past his head into the goal. He could have stopped it, but he didn’t. He was laughing too hard. Everyone was laughing! Even Avery. Maeve could hear her trying to hide her familiar high-pitched giggle. Flashes from Chelsea’s camera topped off the greatest public humiliation of the century.
Maeve could feel mud clinging to her hair, dripping down her nose, and oozing between her fingers. Anna and Joline were beside themselves whooping and hollering. As her team began to surround her, it didn’t even matter that people were actually cheering, too. Her dream crush was laughing. That’s all the late, great MKT could concentrate on. That and the disgusting feel of icky, oozy mud. Even the new boy, Trevor, was laughing so hard he could barely stand.
But Avery was the worst, kneeling in the puddle beside her, holding back great gasps of laughter.
“I…I’m sorry, Maeve, but that was the…the BEST goal…I have EVER seen!” Avery held out a hand, but Maeve ignored it.
“We won! That flip move totally saved the day!” Avery flopped down in the mud too, and splashed around a little. “See? It’s not so bad to get dirty sometimes! Hey, can I coach you? You could be really good! But you’ll have to ditch the boots.”
Maeve turned away and slowly, painfully got to her feet. “You’re crazy! I don’t want any more of your kind of coaching, Avery Madden.”
Just then, Dillon walked up. “Nice job, Maeve. No one EVER gets it past me when I’m in goal. That was quite the move. And that face plant? Awesome!” He reached out to high-five her.
Composure, she thought, trying to ignore a large drop of mud trailing down her cheek.
“Thanks,” Maeve said. “I planned it all along.” And she high-fived him right back.
Then she dashed away from the field, to walk home—alone…covered in mud…with tears running down her face.
Notes to Self:
Try to forgive Avery the Traitor.
Future movie stars must be gracious and kind.
Stay away from soccer. Forever.
Make Dillon fall hopelessly in love with MOI!!!! A goal is a goal, after aall.
Convince my dad to have an Audrey Hepburn Film Festival.
Stay away from soccer. FOR ETERNITY.
Check out the new sales at Think Pink!
Learn the new line dance I saw on YouTube and teach it to the BSG—but maybe not Avery.
Practice acceptance speech for the Tony Award I plan on winning after earning my Oscar. And don’t invite Avery!
CHAPTER 5
One Sad Little Dude
Charlotte closed the front door behind her and climbed the winding front stairway to the second-floor apartment she shared with her dad. Where was Marty? Usually the little dude was waiting right there at the foot of the stairs, barking and wagging his stumpy tail with excitement—as if he hadn’t seen her in a month.
“Marty?” she called out. But there was no pitter patter of little dog feet. Where is that little dude? Charlotte went to check the kitchen. When Marty chowed down on his dog food, the house could fall down around him and he’d never even notice.
“Marty!” she shouted, but when she entered the sunny kitchen, there was no Marty. She glanced over at the answering machine to see if there were any messages. Maybe Nick had tried to call when he FINALLY got through with whatever he was doing with Chelsea. She sighed when she saw the red zero blinking on the answering machine screen.
She grabbed an oatmeal cookie from the cookie jar and went back into the living room. Surely the little dude would come running for an oatmeal cookie treat!
“Marty!” she yelled out again.
Okay. Maybe he was in her dad’s bedroom. Oh, no. Charlotte hoped he wasn’t chewing on her dad’s bedroom slippers again. The last time her dad left his slippers out, Marty chewed a huge hole in the left toe. Mr. Ramsey hadn’t been happy. “Those slippers have been around the world…twice,” he complained loudly to a cowed Marty.
“Marty,” Charlotte called in a singsong voice. Mr. Marté always came for her baby-dog voice. Except this time…he didn’t.
“Marty!” she cried louder, her voice growing unsteady. This wasn’t like him at all. Charlotte hunted frantically through the rest of the house, until there was only one more place to look: her dad’s office.
She pushed the door open and rushed inside. Then she saw it…a little furry foot poking out from under her father’s desk. She fell to her knees. “Marty? What’s wrong, little puppy?”
Marty stared at her with sad eyes, barely able to lift his fuzzy head. His tail weakly thumped against the floor.
Charlotte scooped him up into her arms and held him close. “Oh Marty, poor baby. Are you sick?”
Heart thumping, Charlotte raced back down the stairs to their landlady’s apartment and pounded on her door. “Miss Pierce! Miss Pierce! Something’s wrong with Marty!”
Thankfully, the door opened right away and Charlotte’s landlady stood in the entrance. “What’s wrong, Charlotte? Are you all right?”
Charlotte tried to steady her breathing as she looked up at Miss Pierce. She cradled Marty’s face next to her shoulder. His warm body trembled in her arms as if he were standing in a freezer. “Marty’s sick, and I don’t know what to do.” Tears sprang to her eyes, and her words came out in a rush.
Miss Pierce motioned Charlotte inside. “Come in, Charlotte dear. Let me see him.”
Miss Pierce took the dog from Charlotte and settled him on the living room sofa. He huddled on the cushions and whined.
“Charlotte,” she said as she looked up, “I agree with you. Marty is not acting like a well puppy. You’d better ask your dad to take him to the vet as soon as he gets home. Would you like to stay down here with me until then? I’ll make us some tea. How about that lovely lemon tea you like?”
Charlotte snuffled back a tear and nodded as she gently stroked Marty’s fur.
Poor Little Doggy
At five-thirty, Charlotte finally heard her dad walk through the front door. At 5:31, Charlotte threw herself at him. He stumbled backward as she grabbed his arm and dragged him into Miss Pierce’s apartment.
“Dad, Marty’s really sick. I mean really sick! We have to take him to the vet, like, right now!”
Charlotte’s dad took one look at a limp Marty lying curled up on the sofa and said, “You’re right. He doesn’t look like himself at all.” Scooping Marty into his arms, he ushered Charlotte toward the door.
“Have these two been down here with you all afternoon, Miss Pierce?” he asked.
“Yes, Charlotte came down directly when she discovered Marty in such a state. Do let me know what the vet tells you, Mr. Ramsey.”
“Of course,” he promised her. “And, thank you, Miss Pierce, for staying with the kids.” As a single dad, Mr. Ramsey was grateful for the kindly landlady’s support.
“Thank you so much!” Charlotte called out, never taking her eyes away from Marty’s sad face.
A Mystery Illness
When Charlotte, Mr. Ramsey, and Marty walked through the door at the Precious Paws Animal Hospital, the receptionist’s face creased with concern. “What’s up with Marty? This little guy’s not his usually bubbly self.”
“That’s why we’re here.” Charlotte sighed as she rubbed Marty’s ear. “We think he’s very sick.”
The receptionist nodded at Charlotte and her dad. “Go ahead and take a seat. The doctor will be with you as soon as possible.”
The animal clinic spilled over with animals of all shapes and sizes. A gray-haired woman by the door held a cockatoo in a cage on her lap. A fat bulldog squatted at the feet of a man reading a magazine. When the bulldog saw Marty, he lumbered to his feet, obviously anticipating a yap hello. Nothing. Marty was just too weak to greet his favorite park pal, Louie.
Charlotte began to get fidgety. It se
emed like Dr. Clayton was never coming. Even the talking cockatoo wasn’t funny anymore.
“If that bird asks ‘what’s your problem?’ one more time, I’m going to answer him,” Mr. Ramsey whispered to Charlotte. “Should I tell him about my student who’s failing, or my terrible singing voice?”
“Mr. Ramsey?” interrupted a friendly voice. It was Dr. Clayton. “Let’s check this little guy out.”
The vet directed them to an examination room, and Marty stood on the exam table obediently, watching Charlotte with a sorrowful expression while Dr. Clayton checked his heartbeat, eyes, and temperature. He didn’t even throw a fit when the vet had to poke him with a needle. It was as if all off Marty’s feistiness had leaked out of him!
The doctor left the examining room with a tiny vial of Marty’s blood.
“Do you think Marty has…you know…a serious medical condition?” Charlotte asked in a worried voice.
“I just don’t know, honey,” her father answered. “Yesterday he seemed perfectly fine, and that’s a good sign. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s nothing Dr. Clayton can’t handle.” He gave her a reassuring hug.
Charlotte nodded, but looking at Marty’s hunched-up little body, she wasn’t really sure she believed him.
When Dr. Clayton returned, she was smiling. “I don’t think there is anything seriously wrong with Marty.” Charlotte heaved a sigh of relief. “But,” Dr. Clayton continued, “he does seem a bit subdued.”
Hello. Subdued! thought Charlotte. Marty is practically a zombie!
Dr. Clayton gave Marty a reassuring scratch behind the ears. “Let’s keep an eye on the little guy this week and make sure he drinks plenty of water and gets some exercise and rest. If he doesn’t perk up in a few days, bring him back in. We’ll do some more tests.”
“Thanks, Dr. Clayton,” said Mr. Ramsey.
Charlotte scooped Marty off the table and buried her face in his fur. “Thanks,” she mumbled.
During the drive home, Marty slept in Charlotte’s lap, snoring softly.
“I don’t understand, Dad,” said Charlotte. “What’s wrong with him?”