late-afternoon chill in the air. I shiver.
“Nah. They’re here for Luc,” I say. “And definitely Grundy and Kalleres.”
Luc won’t look at me. We know they’re not here for him. He’s good. Carson City good. Maybe Nevada good. Not college good.
Coach clears his throat. “Duke. UCLA. Maryland.”
Some guys whistle.
“No shit,” Luc says, and starts pulling grass from the field, his jaw tense.
“No shit,” Coach says, and clears his throat, mumbling, “Excuse my language.”
After a brief silence Coach says, “You’re all great players. All of you. But I don’t want anybody being a hotshot out there. Do your job on the field like you have every game this past year.”
“In other words, stay out of Martin’s way,” Diaz says, and laughs. “Fucking scoop. Never saw that coming.”
There is no I in team .
“See you tomorrow.” Coach looks at me. “On time, Martin. Saturday’s too important for the team.” You , though, is implied. Saturday is my future. Ninety minutes of my life on a field will decide everything—college for Coach and Dad.
Peace for me—a weightlessness and calm I only feel out here. And I have to make sure it lasts a lifetime.
Saturday I can’t screw it up.
We stand up and stretch. Practice wasn’t so hard. We’re just tired from having to condition at dark-thirty in the morning.
Luc shrugs and mutters, “Asshole doesn’t even care about scouts. Guevón .” It’s an affront to him that his nut best friend is better at soccer. He once told me that being Colombian meant he had the right to be better because the soccer fans down there were for real—not some white-collared assholes following the latest sports trend. In Colombia it’s do or die.
I’m just glad he’s not Argentinian or I’d probably be crucified by the Maradonians, Year of Their God, AB 51.
I close my eyes and try to recapture that moment before everybody got all hung up on the future. But it’s gone now and the spiders are working their way up my neck again—mad web spinners trapping all my words, fogging my thoughts.
I keep my eyes shut until I feel Luc kicking on my side. “Let’s go out with Tanya and Amy before dinner. Maybe to Comma Coffee or something.” Luc pulls me up and we head to the locker room and shower up.
Amy and Tanya are waiting for us in the parking lot. I can’t help but think about Ren Höek. “Luc,” I venture. “Does Tanya remind you of something ?”
I do a mental list of famous Chihuahuas because I don’t think Luc’s ever seen Ramón, Sarah Merckley’s little rat dog. He’s gotta know Ren from Ren and Stimpy and Mojo the diarrhea dog from Transformers .
Luc elbows me. “Yeah. Tanya Reese. You know what they say about Reese’s.” He smirks.
“What? It’s more than a mouthful?”
“No, guevón, that’s Whatchamacallit. A Reese’s is even better.”
“Yeah. You would probably know.”
He shakes his head. “Unfortunate last name, however appropriate.”
We both laugh. I squint, trying to picture Chihuahua Tanya and me getting horizontal. Maybe if I just close my eyes and listen to her talk. That would be hot.
Just then Mera walks past us, her violin case banging against her thigh.
“Holy ‘Colors of the Wind,’ Pocahontas,” Tanya says.
Mera’s wearing these worn-out boots with fringes, a mini jean skirt—real mini—and a heavy wool sweater.
Tanya makes an obnoxious Indian sound like in those Old West movies.
I cringe and stand away, trying not to be with them, but trying not to look like I’m not wanting to be with them. Pretending again.
Tanya continues, “The other day she refused to partner up with me in class, saying I didn’t have enough EFAs in my diet to feed my brain, so my work is substandard. Then she handed me an avocado. Like, ewww.”
I stifle a laugh. Mera’s the only high-school loner/orchestra geek/nerd I know who has a superiority complex.
“As if anybody else in class wants to partner up with her.”
“Nah. They’re here for Luc,” I say. “And definitely Grundy and Kalleres.”
Luc won’t look at me. We know they’re not here for him. He’s good. Carson City good. Maybe Nevada good. Not college good.
Coach clears his throat. “Duke. UCLA. Maryland.”
Some guys whistle.
“No shit,” Luc says, and starts pulling grass from the field, his jaw tense.
“No shit,” Coach says, and clears his throat, mumbling, “Excuse my language.”
After a brief silence Coach says, “You’re all great players. All of you. But I don’t want anybody being a hotshot out there. Do your job on the field like you have every game this past year.”
“In other words, stay out of Martin’s way,” Diaz says, and laughs. “Fucking scoop. Never saw that coming.”
There is no I in team .
“See you tomorrow.” Coach looks at me. “On time, Martin. Saturday’s too important for the team.” You , though, is implied. Saturday is my future. Ninety minutes of my life on a field will decide everything—college for Coach and Dad.
Peace for me—a weightlessness and calm I only feel out here. And I have to make sure it lasts a lifetime.
Saturday I can’t screw it up.
We stand up and stretch. Practice wasn’t so hard. We’re just tired from having to condition at dark-thirty in the morning.
Luc shrugs and mutters, “Asshole doesn’t even care about scouts. Guevón .” It’s an affront to him that his nut best friend is better at soccer. He once told me that being Colombian meant he had the right to be better because the soccer fans down there were for real—not some white-collared assholes following the latest sports trend. In Colombia it’s do or die.
I’m just glad he’s not Argentinian or I’d probably be crucified by the Maradonians, Year of Their God, AB 51.
I close my eyes and try to recapture that moment before everybody got all hung up on the future. But it’s gone now and the spiders are working their way up my neck again—mad web spinners trapping all my words, fogging my thoughts.
I keep my eyes shut until I feel Luc kicking on my side. “Let’s go out with Tanya and Amy before dinner. Maybe to Comma Coffee or something.” Luc pulls me up and we head to the locker room and shower up.
Amy and Tanya are waiting for us in the parking lot. I can’t help but think about Ren Höek. “Luc,” I venture. “Does Tanya remind you of something ?”
I do a mental list of famous Chihuahuas because I don’t think Luc’s ever seen Ramón, Sarah Merckley’s little rat dog. He’s gotta know Ren from Ren and Stimpy and Mojo the diarrhea dog from Transformers .
Luc elbows me. “Yeah. Tanya Reese. You know what they say about Reese’s.” He smirks.
“What? It’s more than a mouthful?”
“No, guevón, that’s Whatchamacallit. A Reese’s is even better.”
“Yeah. You would probably know.”
He shakes his head. “Unfortunate last name, however appropriate.”
We both laugh. I squint, trying to picture Chihuahua Tanya and me getting horizontal. Maybe if I just close my eyes and listen to her talk. That would be hot.
Just then Mera walks past us, her violin case banging against her thigh.
“Holy ‘Colors of the Wind,’ Pocahontas,” Tanya says.
Mera’s wearing these worn-out boots with fringes, a mini jean skirt—real mini—and a heavy wool sweater.
Tanya makes an obnoxious Indian sound like in those Old West movies.
I cringe and stand away, trying not to be with them, but trying not to look like I’m not wanting to be with them. Pretending again.
Tanya continues, “The other day she refused to partner up with me in class, saying I didn’t have enough EFAs in my diet to feed my brain, so my work is substandard. Then she handed me an avocado. Like, ewww.”
I stifle a laugh. Mera’s the only high-school loner/orchestra geek/nerd I know who has a superiority complex.
“As if anybody else in class wants to partner up with her.”
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