Archenemy (7 page)

C

oach is still in his office when I get there, but there's no sign of Eva. I'm a bit surprised. I'd gotten so used to the idea of her spinning her lies that I assumed she'd be right where I last saw her, talking crap about me.

I'm so relieved she's not there that I actually reconsider my theory. Maybe she didn't stop in to bad-mouth me. Maybe Coach called
her
into his office. Maybe she'd been on her way to meet me at the soccer field, just like she said she would, when Coach saw her rushing by and pulled her aside to talk strategy.

Maybe—but not likely.

“Hey, Coach,” I tell him as I step inside and take a seat. “I don't know what you've heard, but I just got caught cutting class and—”

“I heard plenty, Williams,” he interrupts.

Uh-oh.

He rubs his buzzed head, something he does whenever he's feeling stressed. Or angry.

“Well, I wanted to warn you that I might be suspended and have to miss a few games. I'm really sorry, Coach, but—”

“You're not going to miss a few games.”

“I'm not?”

“Nope.”

More head rubbing. Maybe it's not anger after all—maybe he's here to support me. “Thanks, Coach. But I really want to explain why—”

“You're through, Addie. You're off the team for good.”

The words hit me like a soccer ball to the stomach from close range.

“Eva told me everything. You've been erratic on the field, and I've done my best to tolerate it. But I won't tolerate this. The situations you put her through off the field…”

“Coach?” The words barely make it out of my mouth. I'm not even sure he heard me.

“Who you're attracted to is none of my business. But the way you treat my players is. You have no right to harass Eva, no matter how you feel about her. As far as I'm concerned, you're done.”

 . . .

I walk out of Coach Berg's office in a daze. I tried and tried to explain what happened, to give him the truth, but he wouldn't listen.

You're through, Addie. You're off the team for good.

Nothing makes sense. How did this happen?

You have no right to harass Eva.

Me? Harass her?

I go over the conversation again and again. “She's lying, Coach,” I tried to tell him. “That's not what happened,” I tried to say.

But he wouldn't listen. He wouldn't even let me get the words out.

Save it.

It doesn't make sense. This can't be happening. But I know it is. It already did happen. I'm off the team. Case closed.

That's when I realize I'm no longer in the school hallways. I'm not in the principal's office either. I'm in the parking lot.

Actually, this
does
make sense. If I'm not going to be a soccer player, then there's no reason for me to be a student.

I spot my mom's car toward the back of the lot. She must be inside right now with my dad, waiting for me to return from Coach Berg's office. But I'm not going back to the principal's office. I'm getting out of here.

When I reach Mom's car, I dig in my pockets for the spare key she gave me. I click the unlock button. I put the key in the ignition and turn it.

I don't know where I'm going. I just know it's as far away from this school as possible.

I

don't decide where I'm headed until I'm well out of town. After unlatching the glove box, I take out my mom's GPS and plug it in.

Dad and I gave Mom the GPS this year for Christmas. Dad paid for it, and I entered the addresses to all the schools in Fraser High's conference. Mom works late hours and often can't attend my games. But just in case she got out of work early enough to catch the second half, Dad and I wanted to make finding the field as easy as possible for her.

My first stop is Ironwood, about twenty minutes away, but I only stay long enough to see that the players have started practice. I get back in the car and look up the way to Yeopin Valley. The players there are in their practice gear too. My next destination is Greenridge High, then it's Cardinal Creek, and then Willow Woods Upper School. I'm surprised by how quickly I arrive at each school. Pregame jitters always made the bus rides seem longer.

I'm not sure exactly why I'm doing this. Nostalgia? Is this a way for me to say goodbye? Whatever the reason, it feels good. Sad but good.

By the time I get to my last stop, Woodvine, the stadium is empty. I sit in the bleachers and look down at the field. I imagine I'm down there at the bottom of the valley, clearing a soccer ball out of Fraser High territory as a Woodvine player closes in on me. I imagine the crowd groaning as another potential goal is kicked away by Addie Williams.

Then I realize it's me groaning, not the crowd. I'm groaning because I'll never get to deny Woodvine or any other team from scoring again.

And yet there I still am, on the field, as Woodvine charges once more at Fraser's goal. The imaginary crowd around me gets more and more excited as a Woodvine forward crosses the ball to the middle. Of course, they shouldn't be excited. They shouldn't stand or cheer or hold their collective breath. Because I'm down there with my superhero calves, waiting to launch into the air and head the cross away.

Except I can't jump. I can't even move. Eva Riley has her hands wrapped around me and is holding me down. She's driving with her legs. She's tackling me.

The real me stands up from the bleacher bench just as the imaginary me falls to the ground.

All this time, I've been in a daze—driving from one field to another, trying to get used to the idea of never playing soccer again.

But I'm not dazed anymore. I'm mad.

I'm not the one who's going to give up her spot on the soccer field. At least, I'm not the
only
one. If I'm going, Eva's going with me.

I

t's getting dark by the time I pull into Eva's driveway.

The driveway's empty, as I knew it would be. Her family is at church like they are every night.

The front door is unlocked as usual.

I take out my phone and look at the time. 7:51
P.M.
They usually go to the seven o'clock service on weekdays, but I'm not exactly sure how long it takes. An hour, maybe? So I'd better hurry.

“You first, girl,” I say.

I'm talking to Belle, who I brought with me. I was worried my parents would catch me when I stopped at home to get her, but they weren't there. They're probably out looking for me, I know, but I can't worry about that now.

I have blackmail material to find.

I follow Belle into the house and let her go racing through the house to find her friend. They haven't seen each other in months, and Belle is frantic with excitement. She's got a great nose, so to her the whole house must reek of beagle.

I listen to her dash around the downstairs as I head up to Eva's room.

Truthfully, I'm not exactly sure what I hope to find in here. Something incriminating, I guess. Something that will prove Eva's the one who's been harassing me and not the other way around. A diary, maybe. I don't know for sure that Eva keeps a diary, but I think there's a pretty good chance. After all the letters she's written to me, maybe she writes to herself too.

Still, even if she does have a diary, it's not like I can just show it to the world—not unless I want people to know I trespassed in her house. But maybe I can blackmail her with it.
Unless you tell the truth
, I could tell her,
I'm going to make your FEELINGS public knowledge.

Yikes. Who knew I was capable of being this nasty?

A part of me thinks I'm not—that even if I find a diary, I'll never use it to blackmail Eva, no matter what she's done. But another part of me—the angry part—kind of likes this plan.

As I search the room, I can't help noticing how messy it is. Clothes are everywhere, which is strange. Eva's not a neat freak, but she's no slob either. What's even stranger is all the dresser drawers. The bottom drawers are open and look rummaged through. Pant legs and sweatshirt arms spill over the drawers' edges. The top drawers have been pulled completely out and toppled over. Balled-up socks and bunched-up underwear clutter the floor.

I spot an empty jewelry case just as the dogs start barking loudly.

“Woof!” Belle barks.

“Arf!” Skittles howls.

“Ow!” another voice yells from downstairs. I freeze.

This voice belongs to a human. And it doesn't stop: “Owwww!”

It doesn't sound like Eva or her mom or dad. Whoever it is, he's swearing now, something Eva's parents would never do. Without thinking about it, I bend down and pick up a soccer cleat that's lying on the floor.

I should stay up here. Even in my adrenaline-crazed state, I know I should. But I don't. Maybe it's because of the adrenaline or because the screaming voice sounds more pained than fierce—but rather than lock Eva's door I open it. I sprint down the stairs.

I race through the kitchen with the soccer cleat raised above my head like a tomahawk.

As I round the corner and enter the living room, I see that the shoe won't be necessary. The dogs have the situation under control. Each has her incisors deep into an ankle of the burglar, who is sitting on the floor and still yelping in pain. He's swatting vainly at the pooches, who are too busy chewing on his jeans to notice.

As for the burglar, he's nowhere near as scary as the ones on TV. In fact, he's just a pimply faced kid with his pockets full of jewelry and a couple laptops stacked next to him. My guess is the kid is thirteen years old. Fourteen, tops.

“Who are you?” I demand.

“He says his name is Tony,” a voice says from behind me. I turn and see Eva standing in the entryway, looking straight at us.

E

va's parents walk in a few moments later. They ask what's going on, and Eva says, “Ask him.” That's when Tony tries to escape but quickly changes his mind. For one thing, his ankles are well chewed and don't offer much stability. For another, Skittles and Belle lurch at him so aggressively that all he can think to do is get into the prone position.

Eva's dad says, “I guess we'll have to call the cops.” He looks at us. “Girls, why don't you help him wash out those cuts?” Leave it to Eva's parents to say something like this. They leave their door unlocked because they believe so much in community, so why wouldn't they treat a burglar like a guest?

“What?” Eva says. “Why would we help this creep?”

“Because everyone deserves to be helped out, Eva.”

“But—”

“Please, girls,” Eva's mom says. “I think the dogs really did a number on the poor kid.”

 . . .

“Owwww!” Tony says.

“Quit your whining,” Eva says, giving his ankle another splash of hydrogen peroxide.

We're in the bathroom, cleaning out the bite marks on Tony's leg. I can hear Eva's dad talking to the police on the phone. Eva's mom hung out in the bathroom for a few minutes but then decided no adult supervision was necessary. Tony's a little too pathetic to do anything worse than yelp in pain. In fact, he hasn't stopped shaking for a second since the dogs attacked.