“But you don’t want to,” he says, looking away. “Clearly.”
I just stand there like an idiot.
“I’m sorry that I kissed you that day,” he says. “It was a mistake.”
“Donal,” I say.
“I’ll catch you later,” he says, and I can hear the hurt in his voice. He turns and starts running back toward the field.
“It wasn’t a mistake,” I say, but he’s too far away to hear.
When I get home Mom is in the kitchen, prepping for dinner. She asks how school was, as usual, and as usual I tell her it was fine. Better than it’s been in a while, except for the incident with Donal. The sourness of that like a smudge on an otherwise spotless day.
“Where’s Sam?” I ask. We hadn’t said much to each other since Thanksgiving weekend.
“Out back, drawing,” she says.
Of course. Every day, he’s out there—even in the cold—with that sketchbook. It’s like he hates being indoors.
“You should go say hello,” Mom says.
“I don’t think he’d want me to,” I say.
“Don’t be silly,” she says.
Today, I don’t feel like arguing. Plus, I think Mom’s right. It’s what I should do.
Like Shelley and Dad said—Sam needs me.
I set my bag down and walk out to the patio. “Hey,” I say. He glances up at me and I can tell he’s unsure why I’m there.
“Hey,” he says, then goes back to his drawing.
“Can I see?”
He shrugs. I move behind him. It’s the start of a drawing of Josh. “That’s really good,” I say.
“It could be better. I need him to sit one more time.”
“Cool,” I say. I don’t know how to talk about drawing. “So, would you want to kick the ball around?”
“The soccer ball?”
“No, the golf ball,” I say, trying to be jokey. But he doesn’t smile. “Yeah, the soccer ball. I need more practice.”
“I’d like to finish this,” he says.
“Oh, okay. Some other time, then.”
“Sure,” he says, but he’s just humoring me.
He keeps sketching, acting like I’m not even there, and I walk back inside. I guess I can’t blame him. Mom’s on her cell, and so I take my bag and walk back to my room. At the end of the hallway, Sam’s door is open—it’s usually closed. I set my bag inside my door and look toward the kitchen. I can hear Mom still on the phone. I walk into my room and look out my window and see Sam still at the patio table.
Quickly, I walk into Sam’s room. It doesn’t seem very lived in—no dirty clothes on the floor, and the bed is tightly made. On his little desk a few textbooks and notebooks are stacked in an orderly way. I walk over and flip open one of the notebooks, but it’s just study notes from his tutoring, some stray doodles.
I guess I’m looking for something—something that can help me figure out the new Sam.
I go to his closet and ease the door open. It’s pretty bare in there, with just his new shirts hanging, a few sweatshirts. All the old stuff is gone—maybe thrown out, or donated somewhere, put in the attic. The hamper is filled halfway with dirty clothes. And next to that, kind of squashed in a corner, is a knapsack. The one he brought back with him from Anniston. I creep back to the doorway and look down the hall and still hear Mom on the phone. I go back to the closet. I think about grabbing the knapsack, opening it, but right then I hear the door to the patio squeak open. I shut the closet and dash quickly back to my room and shut my door, my heart pounding.
===
On Saturday, I’m taking a break from homework and watching some girl-in-peril movie on Lifetime. Sam’s outside as usual, with Josh. Finishing that portrait, I guess.
The phone rings. I hear Mom answer in the kitchen, where she’s at the table going through receipts or something. She sounds upset, so I turn the volume on the TV down slightly so I can hear.
“No, I don’t think that’s possible,” she says. “I’m sorry, no—” and then she’s quiet again. On TV, a blond girl is running up some stairs. “Look, I told you, that’s not a good idea. How did you even get this number? . . . Uh-huh. Well, I’m sorry. . . .”
I put the TV on mute.
“No,” Mom says in a louder voice. “Please don’t call here again, I mean it.” Then she hangs up.
I turn the volume back up a bit on the TV. The girl is bawling, slamming a door. “Who was that?” I shout.
Mom doesn’t say anything at first. Then she shouts, “A telemarketer.”
I get up off the couch and walk in there. She’s just staring off. “You okay?” She seems not to hear me. “Mom?”
“Yeah,” she says, finally looking at me, then back down at the receipts and checkbook spread before her. “Yeah,” she says again. I don’t push her, even though I know she’s lying to me. I go back to my movie. I sit on the couch just as the blond girl swings a baseball bat and knocks a guy on the head.
===
Monday, at soccer practice, Coach announces that Ainsley is out with the flu. She’s our usual goalie. And Ronda, the backup, has a doctor’s appointment. “Beth, I need you to fill in today,” Coach Bailey says.
“Me?” I protest.
“Yep,” Coach says.
I put on the pads and accept my fate. It’s not bad at first, even if my hands start to hurt, not used to the ball slapping them so hard. I make a lot of blocks though. And each time I prevent a goal, I start laughing. I guess I’m surprised I’m so good at it.
Then it’s Chita’s turn. She’s our best kicker; she scores the most. I bounce on my heels as she lines up her shot and connects with the ball. I guess right, catching the ball with a thud against my chest. I can tell by her expression that she’s pissed.
“Nice job!” Coach Bailey yells.
A few minutes later, Chita’s back. I ready myself, as she lines up again. She runs toward the ball, then stops short, dribbles, then takes her foot back and kicks, sending the ball right at me. I can’t get out of the way, and then—BAM! The ball smacks me right on the side of the head. Dazed, I cup my hands to where the ball hit, just above my ear, and I stagger to the side. Soon everyone surrounds me. Coach Bailey gently peels my hands from my head, looks at my face. “You okay?”
I nod. My head throbs, but I’m fine. Just a little shell-shocked. “Here, let’s get you seated,” Coach says, taking me by the shoulder and guiding me to a bench on the sidelines.
“I’m sorry,” Chita says. But I know she’d been aiming right at me. I give her a quick scowl. Someone gives me a cup of water and I take it and chug.
“Okay, everybody, back out there. Beth, you’re done for the day,” Coach says, heading back to the field. But Chita stays and sits next to me.
“I said I’m sorry,” she says again. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Yeah you did,” I say, cutting her off.
For a few seconds, no one says anything. But then Chita says, “Well, you gotta admit, I have pretty good aim.”