Over the End Line (7 page)

I crawled back through the attic door. The air in my bedroom felt cool on my sweaty skin. I grabbed a towel, dried off, then sat at the end of my bed. I looked toward the window, wondering what Kyle was doing, what girls he was hanging with. I thought I heard voices, laughing and joking. But my mind was teasing me. The circle was certainly too far away. Much too far.

Pennyweather stood at the center circle, jotting down notes on a clipboard, a duffel bag at his feet. The JVs were sitting in the stands. I looked around the field. New lime had been laid down on the sidelines and end lines, and flags marked each of the four corners. Something was definitely up.

"Bring it in, fellas," Pennyweather said.

The varsity team gathered around him. On Pennyweather's cue, the scoreboard lit up.

HOME
0
AWAY
0 15:00.

"This is the roster we're going to war with," he said, his eyes sweeping over each player. "From this moment until mid-November, Millburn Soccer is your life. You go to sleep with Millburn Soccer on your mind. You have dreams about Millburn Soccer. You wake up hungry for Millburn Soccer. Everyone expects you to go undefeated. Newspapers do. Opponents do. The town does. That doesn't leave any margin for error. So I'm not gonna waste any time waiting for you guys to get in game shape. We're going all-out today."

A man wearing black shorts and a black and white striped shirt jogged in from the parking lot. "You remember Mr. Scolari," Pennyweather said, gesturing to our old junior high gym teacher. "He'll be refereeing today."

Pennyweather grabbed an armful of jerseys from the duffel bag. "We're scrimmaging. White versus blue. White'll be the home team." He tossed a white game jersey to each player as he called out their names. "Stuart in goal. Maako, sweeper. Jones and Solomon, fullbacks. Maynard, stopper. Midfielders, Brad, Kyle, and Dennis. Wingers, Gallo, and Richie. Pete, striker."

I waited among the others, stretching my legs to ease my nerves. It was starters versus backups. Them against us. Bright scoreboard lights. New lime. A uniformed referee. JVs watching from the stands. This was serious. I glanced at Kyle. He had his game face on.

"The blue team..." Pennyweather named the goalie, defenders, midfielders, and wingers. Each guy grabbed a blue jersey and slipped it on. Finally, Pennyweather said, "Fehey, striker."

I took my jersey and sprinted into position. The few guys left took seats on the varsity bench.

"Let's make one thing clear, fellas," Pennyweather said. "No one's spot in the starting lineup is set in stone."

But we all knew better. There was no way the blue team was going to win—we were going up against Kyle, Maako, and Brad, for God's sake. And if the blue team did win, so what? Pennyweather wasn't going to dump the entire starting team for backups.

Still, every practice, every drill, every lap was a chance to let Pennyweather know that my skills had improved since last season, and that I was sure as hell ready to contribute more than just giving a first-stringer a breather a couple times a game.

"Who's gonna show me something today?" Pennyweather said. He turned and walked off the field. "Get yourselves organized. Mr. Scolari will blow the whistle."

***

"Fehey." Maako laughed. "Have ya even
touched
the ball yet?"

A striker's job was to score goals; a sweeper's job was to stop that from happening. Maako was doing his job infinitely better than I was doing mine. Halfway through the third quarter, the white team led 2-0 on a goal by Pete off a scramble in the penalty area and another on a direct kick from Kyle. Most of the play had been inside the blue defensive zone, where our back line struggled against Kyle and his midfield control. The few times the ball did come my way, Maako was there to shut down the threat. On both sides of the field, our blue team looked every bit like a bunch of second-stringers—unorganized and overmatched.

"Didja hear me, Fehey?" Maako taunted.

"I'll get my chances."

"Gee, ya think?" Maako said. "Before the game ends?"

"Drop dead, Maako."

"Good comeback. Think of that all by yourself, or did ya have to get permission from Kyle?"

The ball came up the sideline.

"Don't bother," Maako said, shadowing me. He was fast, insanely strong, and had an overwhelming arrogance that made it clear that if you and he were in a battle to get a loose ball, he expected to win every time.

But I saw an opening. "Through, through!" I called out to a blue teammate.

I heard Maako's footsteps behind me as we chased the pass into the corner. With my back against him, I gained control, pushing the ball forward and backwards, waiting for my wingers to move into our offensive zone. But while I was looking and thinking, Maako knocked me off balance with his elbow, then cut in front to steal possession. With a few quick strides, he opened up space between us. I tried to catch him, but he passed the ball to Solomon, who one-timed it to Kyle at the center circle. And just like that, the white team was on the attack again.

As I jogged by, Maako said, "Fehey, just take a seat on the bench. The two of you are such close friends."

***

The scoreboard clock showed 00:00. Mr. Scolari blew his whistle to end the game. Final score, 5-0.

I ripped off my jersey and tossed it at the duffel bag. It had been a long, lousy sixty minutes of Maako making me look like a goddamn JV. I wanted to get out of there, but Pennyweather started with another of his inane pep talks, reminding the team that no one was guaranteed a spot in the starting lineup when we had all just experienced why the eleven players on the white team were pegged for first string, while the rest of us remained scrubs.

When Pennyweather was done, I said to Kyle, "I'll be at your car," and I started toward the school parking lot.

***

I slammed the garage door shut, put on the stereo, and cranked the volume. I dropped a soccer ball to the cement floor nudged it forward with my sneaker, then let loose a shot. The ball banged against the inside of the wood garage door, careening back to me.

Again, I reached my right foot back and drilled another shot. One after the other. Right foot. Left foot. Each time the ball smacked the door, shaking the metal runners that ran along the ceiling. Each time I imagined Maako's face taking the full impact of the ball.

Five blistering shots.

Then ten.

Then twenty.

The music was thundering and the garage door was shaking and the runners were clanking, and all I wished for was one of my shots to bring down the whole damn garage. When I looked up, my mom was standing in the doorway. I turned off the stereo.

"Who're you mad at?" she asked.

"Just practicing," I said.

"Didn't you have practice earlier?"

"I need more work," I said. "I need
a lot
more work."

My mom didn't push it. "Well, we really can't afford to have you break the garage door," she said with a muted smile. "Maybe you can get 'more work' another way."

"Sure, Ma," I said.

***

I threw on my sneakers. My body was tired, but my mind was wired. I started down Lake Road, still pissed off about Maako. How was he able to dog me so badly in the scrimmage? I had to remember his strength. His speed. His quickness. I had to remember that obnoxiously smug look on his face. I wanted it to be branded in my brain so that Maako—or anyone else—would never beat me like that again.

My sneakers pounded against the pavement as I passed between North and South ponds. Up ahead, Lake Road arced to the right and crossed over Redemption Bridge. I thought I could see a girl with willowy, light brown hair on the other side. My feet suddenly didn't feel quite as heavy.

As I got closer, I could see she had a delicate face, soft eyes, and an odd habit of walking with her forearm across her waist. I slowed down. The girl glanced at me. There was something familiar about her. Our eyes locked. I realized then she was the girl who had been sitting with Trinity and Stephanie underneath the bridge a few weeks earlier.

With a flick of her hand, she waved. "
Ciao.
"

Chow? What was that supposed to mean?

I nodded to the girl—like I would to a teammate. A moment after I did, I knew how stupid that must've looked. And a moment after that, I was past her.

My stomach fluttered and my thoughts were going a mile a minute. Should I turn around? What would I say? Would she stop? She probably didn't know who I was. Or worse, knowing my luck, Trinity and Stephanie had already told her everything about me—at least, everything they thought they knew. I looked over my shoulder, almost tripping over my feet, but the girl had already crossed Redemption Bridge and was continuing up Lake Road.

My run slowed to a halfhearted jog. I tried to reignite the anger I had for Maako, but my mind was distracted. Forget about the scrimmage. Forget about Maako. Forget about getting my ass whipped. There'd be other practices to obsess over. I stopped and sat on the curb. All I could think about was this pretty girl walking farther and farther away.

I was glad to be done lifting weights. Benches, curls, deadlifts—that was my Saturday night. There was a party going on in town, but I didn't know where. Not that it mattered. That was for Kyle and other people.

Between sets, I thought about the girl on Lake Road. Maybe she was sleeping over at Stephanie's tonight. I tried to come up with an excuse to knock on the Saint-Claires' door, but it was much too late. Maybe tomorrow I'd see her leaving the house from my bedroom window. Maybe then I'd run outside and say hello.

I closed the basement door, turned off the kitchen lights, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The television was on in my mom's bedroom.

"Jonny, could you come here a second?" she called.

I stood at the doorway. My mom was sitting upright on the bed, with a checkbook and bills spread out in front of her. She took off her glasses and placed them on the nightstand. "Did you lock up?"

"Yeah."

"And the lights?"

"All off."

"I bought the notebooks and pens you need for school," she said. "They're on the kitchen table."

"Thanks," I said.

"I'm going to need your help around the house on Saturday," she said. I guess I didn't look particularly thrilled, because my mom shrugged and gave me a sympathetic look. "There's no one else but us, Jonny."

I understood. I turned to leave but stopped. "Uh, Ma, do you know what the word 'chow' means? I'm not sure how to spell it."

"
Ciao,
" she said. "It's Italian."

"Italian?"

"It means hello, or goodbye."

"Oh," I said. "How do you know which one?"

"Depends on the situation," she said. "You have to figure out what the person meant. Why?"

"No reason," I said. "I heard it somewhere. On a TV show, I think. I was wondering, that's all. I'm gonna go to sleep. Good night."

"
Ciao,
Jonny," she said with a curious smile.

I slapped the alarm clock off. Morning sunlight angled through my bedroom-window curtains.

"Damn..." I muttered.

My hope for an instantaneous skip in time to graduation day had been an exercise in futility. As had my more modest wish for a freakish thunderstorm to tear down trees and power lines and flood the high school grounds.

I sat up, feeling a twinge in my lower back and stiffness in my knees. It was soccer season—I couldn't have expected to feel any better. A short-sleeved shirt and tan pants were folded on my desk chair; shoes were lined up below. I peed, took a shower, and, a short time later, sat at the kitchen table eating a bagel with cream cheese.

And so began the countdown of days, weeks, and months until I'd escape Millburn High for a college somewhere far away.

Outside, Kyle beeped his car horn.

"Gotta go, Ma," I said, putting the dish in the sink. "See ya later." My mind was already out the door.

"Wait a second," she called out. "Wait just one second."

My mom and I didn't have to make this some grand bon voyage. Later tonight there'd be time to answer questions about classes and teachers. Besides, there'd be plenty of other school mornings. One hundred and seventy-nine to be exact.

My mom rushed down the stairs, buttoning her blouse and straightening her skirt as she entered the kitchen. "You look very nice," she said.

"Thanks for putting my clothes out," I said. "How 'bout we go back to me doing it myself, okay?"

She smiled and nodded. "First day of senior year. How do you feel?"

"Like crap."

"Language, young man." She wrapped her arms around me. "Nervous?"

"Ma, please." I started to pull away, but she held tight.

"I wake up one morning," she said wistfully, "and I've gone from being a teenager dreaming of making the Weequahic High cheerleading squad, to a wife and mother. I wake up another morning and my son—that little boy with the runny nose I always had to wipe—is all grown up."

"Kyle's waiting," I said.

"He'll wait a little longer," she said. "You think your mom's a little crazy, don't you? You'll understand when you have a son."

"Tomorrow will be like today," I said, opening the front door, then adding, "Thursday will be like tomorrow," as it closed behind me.

I could see Kyle tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. I jumped down the front portico steps, jogged across our lawn, and opened the passenger door. Stephanie, sitting in the back seat, greeted me with a disinterested pout. She was wearing thick makeup, painted-on black jeans that hung well below her belly button, and a black tube top across her chest. Trinity's influence was unmistakable. I climbed in.

"Ready?" Kyle said.

"As I'll ever be."

Kyle cranked the stereo and gunned the engine. The BMW spun out until the tires caught hold of the pavement. He went from first to fourth gear in the blink of an eye, his arm jerking backwards, then forward, then back again.

The car rumbled over Redemption Bridge, then down Highland Avenue, taking the curve around the Racquets Club like a Matchbox car on a grooved plastic track. Twice over the summer, Kyle had been pulled over by Millburn police for speeding; twice he got off with just a warning after they recognized him. People at school thought it was only a matter of time before he got into an accident, but I never worried, confident God would never take away one of his best.