I’ve always loved watching Matt play. He has a grace that most athletes just don’t have. You can be good at a sport without it—good, but not great. Mom says Dad had that grace with basketball, before he tore his ACL his first semester of college; he was on track for the NBA when it happened, Mom says. That’s always been hard for me to picture, since I’ve never known him as anything but a horse doctor and trainer. Honestly, he’s so good at that, it doesn’t seem possible or fair he could’ve ever had another talent of that caliber. Right now, all Jack cares about is football, but a part of me wonders what secret talents he might discover if he couldn’t play anymore—and then I try to cast that horrible thought from my mind so I don’t accidentally will an accident on my baby brother.
Getting lost in Matty’s big moment almost makes me forget about the dream, but then it happens again: a flicker on the field, right beside the eight seniors lined up next to Coach. Suddenly, at the end of the row, there’s a ninth. Only that’s not quite right, because every time he flashes into view, the others vanish, leaving only him.
Tall, broad-shouldered, full mouth, long dark hair, and serious hazel eyes.
The two images flicker alternatingly four or five times rapidly, as though two giant invisible hands are taking turns covering first the team, then the other boy. When the glimmering stops, it’s the team that remains in sight.
I look around the crowd, searching for signs that anyone else saw the ninth boy appear on the field, but everyone remains riveted by Coach’s speech, totally unbothered by the way the world just shuddered.
“Nat?” Megan whispers.
“Did you see him?” I ask.
“Who?”
“That guy on the field?”
Her blue eyes dart over to Coach, and she maneuvers her posture to see around either side of the podium, but when I look back to the field, the boy’s already gone.
“I’m going crazy.”
“You are not,” she whispers back. “You said Grandmother’s in town. Couldn’t it be one of her friends?”
“I don’t know if she has friends.”
“Of course she has friends. What do you think angels are?”
“I’m not sure she’s like that God.”
“She tells you stories from the Bible, doesn’t she?” Megan’s always acted like Grandmother is Jesus in a mask. I, on the other hand, have never known what to think about where her God ends and where mine begins. Sometimes when Megan talks about her faith, I think yes, exactly, but Grandmother’s stories have made me feel like the concept of God is too big for a book or a group of bodies lined up in pews or even a world religion. God is a thing I know when I see, and I see It all over, in Megan, in the night sky and the morning sun, and especially in Grandmother.
“Yeah . . . sometimes. But she also tells me stories about people named Squirrel and Chipmunk. Are those people from the Bible? Did Grandmother Spider steal fire in the Old Testament or New, because I thought that was a Choctaw story.”
Megan knocks her elbow into mine. “Fine, I don’t know how all this stuff fits together, but the point is, I know you. You’re not crazy. Grandmother’s real, and whatever’s happening to you now isn’t just a figment of your imagination. We’ll figure all this out, okay?”
I dig my teeth into my lip and nod. I slide my phone out of my purse to pick up where I left off on the ongoing Google search, and the battery icon onscreen practically frowns at me. Just then I remember the charger I left in my locker, with the rest of the stuff I planned to clean out next week.
I’m about to tell Megan I’m going to run up to the school and plug my phone in when Coach finishes his awards and the crowd erupts into applause. As soon as the football players start filing back up to the bleachers, everyone else stands to fan themselves and shake out their sweaty shirts. Matt bounds up the steps to us and hooks an arm around our necks, kissing the sides of both of our heads, though I can’t help but notice how long his friendly forehead kiss lingers on mine.
“Ew, you’re sweaty,” Megan says, pushing him off.
Ignoring her, he says, “You guys wanna go get food?”
“Sure,” I say. “I just need to get something from my locker first.”
“Better hurry; they’re gonna lock up as soon as they’ve got the podium back in the gym.”
Mom and Dad have made their way down the steps to us now, and they’re hugging Megan and Matt. “Oh, how fun to see the three of you together again,” Mom says, squeezing Megan’s elbow and putting on that smile that earned her the real estate license. “Isn’t that fun, Patrick?”
Dad nods, says nothing. Coach thinks he’s a man of few words, but I’d like to see him spend a day at the stables with Dad. Mom turns to me and assumes an expression filled with so much empathy I think her soul must hurt to make it: “Was that hard for you, to watch the dance team perform?”
“It was hard for me,” Dad interrupts quietly. “I thought Rachel Hanson’s eyeballs were going to pop out of her head. What do they call that stuff she does with her face?”
“Facials?” Megan says.
“I think they call that particular facial ‘sharting while doing a grand jeté,’” I say.
“Natalie,” Mom says.
“When a horse makes that face, you know she’s in fight-or-flight,” Dad muses.
“When Rachel dances, everyone’s in fight-or-flight,” Megan agrees thoughtfully.
Mom buries her face in her hands. “She comes from a broken home.”
“Yeah, so did War Horse and Seabiscuit, Mom. That’s no excuse.”