by Bob Krech
I take my seat and get out my language arts journal. I like a boy. He is cute. He is funny. He is a great soccer player. And he likes me! Word Power says something sublime is “outstanding, supreme, grand”! This is the most sublime day of my life.
“I had a dream last night!” It’s Jasmine calling across the room in her little drill voice. She sometimes just calls out like that.
Becky calls back, “Thank ye, Martin Luther King, Junior.”
Jasmine starts again. “Stewart, you were in it.”
Stewart doesn’t look, but in a bored voice he says, “Super, Jasmine.”
She’s using her crazy, mad scientist voice. It’s getting higher and shriller. “Sometimes I’ve dreams and I kin see the future. Tha’s how Nostradamus did it, and me, too.”
Gordon yells over, “Yeah, ye kin be Nostra-dumb-us.”
Jasmine keeps going. “This dream was all ’bout a weddin’.” She looks up at the ceiling, like she’s having a vision. “There was a big weddin’ and ye and Andrea was gettin’ married and ye were kissin’ and—”
Stewart wads up a notebook paper and quick bounces it off of Jasmine’s head.
Jasmine covers her head with her hands and cackles. Her glasses are falling off. “I’m jist tellin’ ye me dream. I didn’t say ye were married. I dreamed it.”
Stewart shakes his head. “You shouldn’t eat right afore bed, ye loon.”
Jasmine isn’t done yet though. She peeks out from under her hands. “What? Ye don’t want to go out with Andrea?”
Mrs. Watkinson walks back in from the hall. “Good morning, everyone. I want you to take out your language arts journals and begin copying the new spelling words from the board. I have one more thing to do in the office and I’ll be right back.”
She takes a paper off her desk and moves back into the hall. Teachers are like that here. They’ll leave you alone for a couple of minutes, not like in my old school, where they would tag-team off to go to the bathroom.
Molly calls over to me, “Hey, Andrea, do ye want to go out with Stewart?”
My whole body tenses, but I say nothing. I try to copy the first spelling word.
Molly won’t let up. “No, really. Do ye?”
Then I hear—“I think she does.” It’s Becky.
I try to write, but my hand is shaking. I sneak a glance at
Stewart. He grins at me and raises his eyebrows. What does that mean?
“Sounds awfully noisy in here for people copying spelling words.” Mrs. Watkinson is back. “Settle down now. You’ve work to do.”
The morning moves on with my stomach in a vise and my head spinning. At recess I jog straight out to our soccer field. Lynne comes along with the ball. She puts it on the center line, looks over at me, smiles, and shakes her head, “Boy, Andy. Stewart has really got to ye.”
Becky gets on my other side and laughs. “Must be a drag havin’ a boyfriend.”
I can feel myself turning red. My throat tightens up. My voice squeaks out. “He’s n-nu-not.”
Lynne winks at Becky. “I don’t know.” She passes the ball to Becky. “Looked like ye were gettin’ pretty close at the concert.”
I am getting hot and mad. Why are they doing this?!
Becky flips the ball up with her toe heading it a couple of times. She seems to be enjoying herself. “Oh, yah! I saw ye talkin’ to his da, and his sister, and ye were like kickin’ each other. It was weird.”
I can’t believe they were spying on us! That’s it! The anger dam breaks. Words shoot out of my mouth. Loud, smooth, and very clear. “Shut up! Stop being a couple of jerks!”
The ball falls to the ground. It is suddenly very, very quiet. I can hear birds and kids in the distance. Becky’s big blank face is staring at me in awe. Then she smirks and says, “Off with yer boyfriend, then. Certainly ye don’t want to be seen with ‘ jerks’ like us.”
Lynne narrows her eyes at me. I turn and walk back toward the school. Behind me I hear Becky say to Lynne, “See? I told ye she was a twit.”
I look over and see Stewart is playing football as usual. I go back to my old spot against the wall. Becky and Lynne start the game up. I spend my recess standing and staring and not sure what to do exactly. When we get back in the room I try to catch Stewart’s eye, but he’s not looking my way. It’s like nothing happened.
Why can’t I be happy for just twenty-four hours? Just a day. Is that too big of a request? I can’t even sleep. I replay everything in my head. What could I have said? What could I have done differently? Faith snores peacefully across the room. Her biggest problem is what kind of snack to pack in the morning. If only my life was that simple again.
I put my hands behind my head, and look up through the skylight at the stars. You can see the stars really well at night here. The sky gets pitch black and the stars just jump out.
Maybe if I give Stewart a little distance for a while, Lynne and Becky will lay off and forget all about it. I’ll still be friendly with Stewart, just not as obviously. It’s the best plan I can come up with, even though I realize it’s already pretty much the same plan that’s not working too well at the moment.
The next morning when I walk in the coat closet, Stewart is there waiting. He smiles and says, “Hi.” I pull my raincoat off. Water drips off to form a little puddle on the floor.
Before I can answer there is loud snickering. Like somebody snickering onstage in a play. It’s Becky. She and Lynne are perched on the windowsill at the back of the room like a couple of vultures. They’re not even supposed to be here yet! The E bus always comes way later than this.
I mumble “Hi” to Stewart and move right out and over to my desk. I don’t wait for him to walk with me. All morning I keep my head in my books and try to focus on Mrs. Watkinson. At recess I walk out right behind Lynne. Becky follows me out the door and says, “Ready for some football, lover girl?”
I say, “Yeah, yeah,” and put on a grin. I’ve got to shift this conversation. Breathe. Go slow. “I, uh, just found out—I’m going—to soccer camp this summer. In New Jersey.”
Becky says, “Is Stewart going, too?”
I counter that quickly. “M-M-Mia Hamm—is going to be there.”
Lynne says, “No way.”
“Yep.”
“Yep.”
This is a huge pack of lies, but Lynne gets so interested that at least she stops bugging me. Once the game starts I don’t have to talk anymore. I think maybe I can get them to forget about this whole Stewart business.
At dismissal, I go out and wait for my dad to pick me up. I’m standing near a tree by the walkway, but when I glance over at the bus lines, there’s Stewart heading straight for me. Yikes, Stewart! I bend over and work on adjusting my shoe strap, even though it fits fine as it is.
He comes and stands right next to me! In front of everybody! He shakes his head and smiles. “Jasmine is a real nut, y’know?” he says.
“Yeah.” I stand up and sneak a quick peek around.
Stewart watches this, then gets very quiet. He kicks a stone. Then in a very annoyed tone he says, “Are ye not supposed to talk to me, then?”
I feel queasy. “What?”
He stops as if he’s trying to decide whether to keep going or not. “Andrea. I thought we were . . .”
“Are you two breakin’ up or what?!” It’s Becky yelling from over at the swings. And Lynne is on the swing right next to her! What are they doing here?! They should be long gone.
I stand there with my mouth open. Stewart reads my mind. Real flat he says, “Their bus has a new route.”
Lynne cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “You go, girl!”
My shoulders go up around my ears. I don’t know what to say! I don’t know what to do! Packs of little kids run by screaming. I’m feeling dizzy. I must get out of here. I mumble, “I have to go.”
Becky calls, “She’s over ye, Stewart!”
His neck and face go red. He makes the moose antlers on his head and yells ov
er, “Shet up, ye moose!”
Becky just laughs at him.
Then he turns back to me. “Y’know, yer quite the coward. Ye can’t even talk to people ’less those two give ye the okay.”
I am mad! And scared! And embarrassed! The anger dam breaks again and I yell at him, nice and clear. “What are you talking about?!”
“You’ve no clue?” He says it like I’m stupid!
I put my hands on my hips and lean forward. More nice, clear yelling. “No. I don’t!”
“Never mind, then.” He turns and walks away. He doesn’t look back. He gets in his bus line and stares straight ahead at the bus.
What was he bugging me about? What was I supposed to do? Stewart obviously doesn’t understand about the complex world of girls. I mean—
All the air goes out of me. I want to run and hide somewhere. And cry.
He’s right. I’m a coward. And I’m not normal. I don’t deserve a cute, cool boyfriend. And now I’m not going to get one.
23
DIDAIN
To look with scorn on, to have contempt for.
DAD gives us a big smile and a thumbs-up as Faith and I get out of the car at school. “Have a great day, you two.”
Yeah, right. How am I ever going to have a great day again? I always said coming here would be a disaster.
For the past three days, Stewart has made it clear he disdains me. It’s the perfect word from Word Power. It means “to look with scorn on, to have contempt for.” He walks right by me. It’s totally depressing. And last night at TGFC practice Lynne and Becky didn’t even look at me. And tonight is our biggest game of the year.
We have to play Thistle Juniors again. They beat us last time. We are playing to what they call “avoid relegation.” If we lose or tie we have to move down to a lower league. If we win, we stay in the Premier League, which is a big deal over here. It’s part of a special playoff.
I sit down and begin copying the assignment off the board when Margaret comes in and pulls up a chair. She sits down backward in it across from me with her chin on my desk. She really has a big wide face with round cheeks. “Ye look very down, Andrea.”
I shake my head. “I’m okay.”
“Ah’m comin’ to yer game tonight. Should be good.”
“Yeah.” At least I can count on that.
Mom drops me off at the top of Union Street. “We’ll see you at the game. Good luck, honey,” she calls.
We are actually playing in the stadium where the local professional team plays. Probably no one will be there, but it is under the lights and it is a real stadium.
As I get near the stadium I see Margaret. She has an extralong blue-and-white scarf wrapped all around her neck and down to her knees. She spots me and waves a blue-and-white ski cap over her head. “Hwr’ye?”
I walk over. “Okay.”
“Good luck, ay? I’ll be cheerin’ fer ye.” Margaret gives me a hug.
“Ta,” I say. And we both grin over that.
Margaret goes up into the stands, and I go through this tunnel and onto the field sideline. There is a boy’s game on the field. Maroon and gold. Thistle! And there’s Stewart. I look up at the scoreboard. Thistle Boys are winning 3-0 and there’s only two minutes left on the clock. They are playing a green and black team, Aberfoyle.
Stewart is running down the center of the pitch. He’s smiling. They’re all smiling on Thistle. They know they’ve won. A pass goes to Stewart. He takes it and starts zigzagging around defenders. He passes it out and then the wing passes it back to him. They are playing keep-away from Aberfoyle. The Aberfoyle boys make desperate slide tackles and grabs, but the Thistle boys are too quick and skilled.
Then the Thistle crowd starts to count down the seconds as Stewart dribbles around. “Three—Two—One!” As the whistle blows, Stewart flips on his back and bicycle-kicks the ball into the stands. The rest of the team piles on him. They roll around cheering and screaming till the coaches herd them off to the sideline.
Finally I notice my team waiting in a clump on the opposite sideline. I jog around the perimeter of the field and join them as the announcer says, “Final Score, Thistle Boys United 3, Aberfoyle Rovers, nil.” There is a pause and then his big booming voice again: “Our second match this evening will feature Tristen Green Girls Football Club and Thistle Girls United.”
I drop my backpack along the bench and look up into the lights. This is the big time. This is what I’m all about. I’ll put us into the Premier League and Becky and Lynne will be all over me as friends again.
Lynne reaches out a hand for me to slap her five. I do and we nod to each other. This is about soccer now. I get in the circle and do the stretches along with Mr. Alloway. We do all our warm-ups including these ball drills till we’ve worked up a sweat. I keep looking to the side for Stewart. He will actually get to see me play if he hangs around. The Thistle boys are putting on sweats and hoodies and going up into the stands. After they all sit down, they start doing all these club cheers, clapping and chanting stuff you can’t understand because it’s all like slang or Scottish or something.
Then I spot him. He is in the middle, clapping and chanting along. All right. He can see me play. I’ll dominate. And he’ll be right here to see it. Somehow that will make things better. I’m not sure how, but I know it will. Soccer makes everything better.
Mr. Alloway calls us to the side. The referee inspects our cards and checks our cleats. Then he goes over to do Thistle.
Mr. Alloway gathers us in. “Okay. Ye know what this is about. This is about stayin’ a premier team. Or not. It’s up to you, isn’t it? How bad do ye want it, ay? We’ll find out tonight. But I think ye want it well enough. In fact, I think ye’ll take it. Are ye ready then?”
Everybody shouts, “Yeah!”
Mr. Alloway smiles big. “All right, then. Who are we?”
“TGFC!”
We charge out to the midfield and take our spots. We’ve beaten Thistle before, but they’ve beaten us, too. It will be tough.
The whistle pierces the night air. I center it to this girl, Vicki. We have a routine already where I give to her and then sprint for the right sideline. She boots it over there if it’s clear and I pick it up and look for her in the middle. Or I carry and try to get a shot off.
It goes just like that, too. I get it from her and pass back to the middle. She takes a shot and the keeper stops it, but it was a nice play. The keeper rolls it to a wing, but I’m waiting. I come in on an angle behind her and take it away. I turn and fake the fullback to the right, two steps left and blast a shot. It curves wide! Darn! Too much spin on the ball. Next time. Still, not bad. Inside of five minutes, we’ve had two good shots on goal.
The whole first half goes like that. We have maybe ten shots on goal. They’ve managed one. At halftime the score is nil-nil though. Mr. Alloway has us sit in a circle around him. “Keep shootin’, girls. Jist a matter o’ time. We keep shootin’, somethin’ll go in.”
In the second half, Thistle comes out much stronger. They push harder up the field and penetrate more. We get our shots but just miss on a few nice chances. Then I get open in the middle and rocket a shot from the eighteen. The goalie leaps up but it just goes over the bar. The whole crowd goes, “Oooohhh.” It’s cool to hear that in a stadium.
But then their goalie kicks it in and it goes up the side to this one girl streaking along. She is heading right in for a shot, but at the last second Lynne slide tackles her and it goes out of bounds. It was a nice defensive play, but they get a corner out of it. We’re all running back and getting set in front of the goal, marking our players. Becky is yelling and waving, “Move out! Give me some room here! Move out.”
You can only move out so far. You have to stay with the player you’re marking and mine is planting herself right in front of the goal. And then comes the kick out of the corner. It’s coming up high and curving toward the goal. My girl jumps to head it. I jump with her. We both arch toward it. She gets a piece of it
and it deflects forward toward me. It glances off the side of my head and then there are screams and yells and the Thistle Girls are running around jumping in each other’s arms.
The ball went in.
Off my head.
Becky is screaming. “Ye put it in yer own goal, ye, ye . . .”
Lynne steps in waving her arms. “Shet up. It went in. All right. Play on. C’mon. Line it up.”
Becky points at me. “Didn’ I tell ye to move out!”
Lynne yells, “Shet up!”
We dash back to the middle. There’s not much time left. Oh my God. I scored an own goal. There wasn’t much I could do. I mean it just ricocheted off my head.
I play in a daze the last five minutes. We do some desperate stuff, but we don’t even get a good shot off. Thistle plays all defense after their goal. Everybody is back to defend.
The whistle blows and Thistle goes crazy. It’s over. 1-0.
We trudge back to our side. I glance up at the Thistle Boys rooting section. Stewart is there cheering and clapping. He saw it. He had to have seen it, and he’s cheering and clapping?! After we shake hands with the Thistle girls, Mr. Alloway has us sit down in a circle. All of the girls are crying. Except me. I am like too stunned.
Mr. Alloway lets out a breath. “Now, don’t cry, girls. Yer mascara will run. You’ll look like a bunch o’ raccoons.”
A few kids laugh.
Then he shakes his head. “Ye played fine. Ye really did, ye know. Some games are like that. You beat a team in every facet of the game and then a flukey goal goes in and you lose anyway. Tha’s football. The beautiful game, ay? We’ll be back next year, girls. Don’t ye worry.”
Becky spits on the ground.
Mr. Alloway says, “Okay, then. We’ve had a tremendous season. I’m more proud of ye then I kin tell ye.” Then he shakes our hands one by one. When he gets to me he leans in and whispers, “Don’t ye ever think that was yer fault. ’Cause it wasn’t.”
I nod. And that’s when I finally cry.
On the way out of the stadium I meet up with my parents and Faith. We all hug. They are wearing their blue-and-white scarves. Margaret is standing on the side, so I call her over and introduce her. My voice is shaky. My hands are shaky.