Defending Irene (13 page)

One good thing that resulted from that supposedly cancelled, rainy practice was that Federico had suddenly moved out of Matteo's orbit. Now he was following Emi. In a few weeks, the youngest of the
Esordienti
had turned back into the friendly, enthusiastic boy of the second practice.

I still wished that Matteo would twist his ankle, sprain his wrist, or come down with a mild case of salmonella poisoning from a bad piece of tiramisu. Just for one practice—or better yet, a game.

I don't know if I would have made it through October and into November without Giulia. She sympathized. She let me vent. She let me whine. And she never told me that I was being unreasonable. But sometimes, I wondered: How stupid was it for me to let one person poison my entire experience? Two, if I counted Giuseppe.

Well, picture a drink of two parts sewer sludge and twelve parts water. Shake it up. Fill it with ice. Sound refreshing? Feel thirsty?

But practice followed practice, and game followed game. I crossed the dates off on my calendar until there were only four more practices and two more games.

I stood in the goal, defending it from Luigi. Above our heads the four massive stadium lights brightened slowly. Full dark wouldn't arrive until midway through the practice, but ever since daylight savings time had ended, Signora Martelli always had them turned on by the time I arrived.

“Ready?” Luigi asked from the centerline. Without waiting for an answer, he drove forward. I watched him, my knees bent, my arms extended, and my feet shuffling to adjust for his every change in direction.

Stay in the goal or charge forward to meet him? That was the question. It was always the question. This time I waited, coming only a few steps out in order to make the goal look smaller.

Luigi dropped his head, a clear signal that he was about to shoot. He brought his right leg back and kicked the ball from the top of the penalty area.
Whump!
In a great curving hook, it flew toward the upper-left corner. I dove, but it was hopeless. I didn't even get a fingertip on it.

Still, I was improving. A little practice as goalkeeper might come in handy someday. I only hoped it wouldn't be in Italy. Other than Matteo and Emi's turns on that rainy Monday over a month ago, I had never seen anyone but Luigi in the goal. Going into the game as his backup was my worst nightmare, one that I actually had a few times. The game never ended until my alarm clock rang. On those mornings, I didn't hit the snooze bar.

As I rolled over to pick up the ball, the air around me brightened. Beams of light slanted across the valley to the north and struck Dorf Tyrol, a small town three hundred meters above the soccer field. It had been in shadow too until the sun had moved far enough northwest to shine through a gap in the mountains.

Footsteps thudded to a stop beside me. “Goal!” Luigi said. “The sky applauds.”

“Ha!” I said, and tossed him the ball.

“Molto bello,”
Luigi said, looking north. “Very pretty, like a painting, no? Ready to change?”

“Sí.”
I peeled off the goalkeeper's gloves and handed them to him. Then I pulled off my jacket and threw it behind the net.

I started by taking a few shots from close in. Luigi caught most of them and whipped the ball back to me. But a few found their way into corners. Players from the other team started filtering onto the field.

“
Ciao,
Montegna,” Luigi called. “It was very entertaining on Saturday, no?”

I rolled my eyes. On Saturday, we had beaten Montegna's team, our regular scrimmage partners, in an official game.

Montegna stared past Luigi, but waved at me. “
Ciao
, Irene.”

“Ciao,”
I echoed.

Ever since that day I had crashed into him in the school courtyard, Montegna had made a point of saying a few words to me at every practice: greetings, observations on the scrimmage, even a few compliments.

“Luigi, that was not very nice,” I whispered.

Luigi's eyes glinted. “I know. It was revenge. You did not hear what his team said when they won last spring.”

Emi and Federico came through the gate next. For once, the
mister
was not standing over the bag of balls with his arms crossed and his face an unreadable mask. So Emi and Federico pulled a pair of balls out of the bag themselves and dribbled them over to us.

“
Ciao
, Luigi. Irene,” Federico said. “I have a joke.”

Luigi stepped out of the goal. “Tell me.”

Emi rolled his eyes. “It is not very good. He made it up himself.”

“It is a beautiful joke,” Federico protested. “Listen, what can Matteo do at any time except during a game?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“Luigi?” Federico asked.

“Wait. I must think a little.” After a few seconds, Luigi shook his head. “I don't know either. Tell me.”

“Pass the ball.”

I giggled. “That's not a joke. It's the truth.”

Luigi snickered. “Matteo can do it, you know.”

“I have seen it,” Emi said. “One or two times.”

“I have not seen it ever,” Federico said.

“Me neither,” I added.

“It is a beautiful joke. Eh, Irene?” Federico cocked his head at me.

“Agreed.”

“Uh oh! The
mister
comes,” Federico said. He darted away.

By four-thirty, our entire team had arrived for practice. But only ten players were warming up on the other side of the field.

“They are embarrassed to show their faces here after Saturday,” Luigi whispered.

“
Dai
, Luigi. We won by only one goal,” I pointed out. “It was a good game.”

It had actually been a very good game, with a larger audience than normal. Parents, brothers, sisters, and classmates, including Elena and about half of her giggling followers, had come to watch the
Esordienti
of Merano I take on the
Esordienti
of Merano II.

“
Brava
, Irene! But how dangerous!” Elena had said, hugging me. “You are the craziest girl. I don't know how you do it.”

During the pause between the drills and the scrimmage, I learned why so many on the other team were absent. “Some of my players are home sick today,” I heard their
mister
tell ours. “Will you give me a
calciatore
?”

“Let me see…” Luigi's father was silent for a moment. “I'll give you a
calciatrice
.”

“Va bene.”
I could hear amusement in the other man's voice.

“Irene!” the
mister
called.

I turned and blinked, as if I had heard nothing.

“You'll play with the other squad today. They don't have enough players.”

“Okay,” I said.

The other
mister
motioned to me. “Come with me, Irene, and we'll talk.”

I followed him to the other side of the field. A circle gathered around us.

The Merano II coach began with me. “We'll put you on defense, Irene. You have watched our system?”

I nodded.

Montegna put a hand on my shoulder. “Remember, Irene: Matteo is the enemy.”

“That will not be difficult to remember,” I said.

I heard snorts of muffled agreement. It appeared that my feud with Matteo was more public than I had realized.

A grin spread across the coach's face. “Ah,
sí
. I have an idea. Irene, you mark Matteo. Everyone else play zone. If Matteo gets past you, Irene, don't worry. Someone will help you. If it doesn't work, we will change things. All right. Venturi, Beccari, Montegna: attackers. Gasperi, Corte, Sartoi: midfield. Tedeschi, Zanella, Ritter: on defense. Irene, what is your last name?”

“Benenati,” I said.

“
Va bene
, Benenati. You have D'Andalo. Is everyone ready?
Dai!
”

I found a place in front of the three defenders but behind the midfielders. I wouldn't shadow Matteo until after the kickoff. The whistle blew and the scrimmage began.

Montegna and Venturi pushed the ball forward about twenty feet across the centerline before Gianlucca tackled and lofted the ball to Matteo.

Instead of running forward to meet the ball, Matteo went off on an angle to match speeds with it. No one would be near him, he must have reasoned. No one usually was.

But I darted in front of him. With a one-touch pass, I sent the ball flying back toward Montegna.

Matteo walked up the field and to the right. I trotted after him. He looked over his left shoulder, saw me, grimaced, and moved again. Grinning, I followed. This might be fun.

“What are you doing, Irene?” Matteo asked.

“Nothing.”

He bolted left, sprinted two-thirds of the way across the field, and stopped. I jogged after him. Montegna still had control of the ball, so there wasn't any immediate danger. I took up my position behind Matteo's right shoulder this time.

“Leave me alone,” he said through his teeth.

“No.”

“
Stupida!
You're not playing midfield.”

“Today, no,” I said with no further explanation. Matteo was smart. He would realize soon enough that no one was yelling at me for being out of position.

I continued to shadow Matteo up and down the field, staying between him and the goal. He was fast; I was completely outclassed. But all I had to do was slow him down and make things as difficult for him as possible until Tedeschi, Zanella, or Ritter came along to help out.

He broke away from me every chance he got. Once I let him go and even drifted a few steps in the other direction. Emi sent a crossing pass into the box and Matteo slammed it in for a goal.

Matteo held up his fists and swung around to face me.

A whistle blew. “Offsides,” Luigi's father called.

“No!” Matteo mouthed. He stomped off to midfield to await a free kick from the spot of the penalty.

Tedeschi, Zanella, Ritter, and I came together to exchange high fives. Then I struck out after Matteo.

Overall, the plan seemed to work fairly well. Matteo only scored once. During the last ten or fifteen minutes of the scrimmage, Matteo walked with his hands on his hips. His bursts of speed were shorter and less frequent. The rest of my usual team, Merano I, didn't look much livelier. They might have been suffering from letdown, but Merano II—led by Montegna with two goals—had something to prove. When six o'clock arrived, the informal score was 2 to 1.

“
Brava
, Irene. You stopped Matteo,” Montegna said as we walked over to the goal nearest the clubhouse for the usual round of penalty shots.

I would have loved to take the credit for shutting Matteo down, but I couldn't. “No. He stopped himself.”

Montegna's eyes narrowed. “Maybe he is coming down with the influenza. It could be. Several others in our class are out sick.”

Montegna's guess was right. Tuesday morning, Matteo left class midway through third period. Wednesday, he did not come to school. Thursday brought the practice I had dreamed about: a Matteo-free zone. Giuseppe was present but silent.

Federico took over the center forward position. Emi and I played on either side of him. The
mister
yelled at me almost the entire time: “
Dai! Dai! Dai!
Lengthen your legs. Pass, pass pass. Center it! Make the cross!” But it was the same way that he would have yelled at Emi, Luigi or Matteo. I couldn't ask for anything more. Except to score a goal or two. That didn't happen, but at least I made the goalkeeper work, and Emi scored off a rebound from one of my shots.

The
mister
's closing lecture was a bit different from his usual one. “Wash your hands often,” he told us. “Drink lots of water and juice. Avoid sick people. Get plenty of sleep. We will see each other at fourteen-thirty, not later. Until Saturday.”

I turned to go with the rest of the team. Then the
mister
called me back. “Wait, Irene. I have a question. When does your family move back to America?”

“In June. After school finishes,” I told him.

“Fine. You are able to play with us next spring.” It was a more of a statement than a question.

Able to play: yes. Want to play: no. But I had planned to slink away between the fall and spring seasons, not announce my plan to the
mister
. I had two seconds to pull together an answer.

“
S-s-sí
, I can.”

The
mister
made a mark on his clipboard. “Thanks. It is going well. We'll see each other Saturday.”

I smiled, nodded, and felt like I was about to throw up. Step by step, week by week, game by game, I had nearly made it to freedom. How could I have committed myself to three more months of Matteo?

Go ahead, a small voice inside my head dared me. Turn around. Tell the
mister
that you can play but you won't. Tell him you've been counting the days until soccer was over.

But I couldn't.

I expected sympathy from Giulia on Friday morning. Instead, she laughed.

“Ehi!”
I protested. “It's not funny.”

“I know,” she said and continued to giggle.

“There's nothing to laugh at. This is serious!”

“I know. But fortunately, you want to play soccer.”

“When I return to America, yes, I want to do it. But here…no.”

Giulia shook her finger at me side to side like a metronome. “You're wrong. You enjoyed yourself this week, true?”

“Of course. Matteo was absent yesterday.”

“Don't forget Monday. You enjoyed yourself Monday.”

“
Sí
, but—”

“
Dai
, Irene. Think. Matteo said all the same things as usual, but they did not bother you.”

“It was different.”

“How?”

“We were not on the same team.”

Giulia tilted her head and waved her hands in encouraging little circles. “What else?”

I looked up at the bare tree limbs for inspiration. “I don't know.”

“That's clear.”

I changed the subject. “I haven't seen Matteo yet this morning.”

“Maybe he is still sick.”

“If only. Too bad the team has need of him.” A worse thought struck me. “Where is Luigi?”

This was the first sign that my dream (no Matteo) and my nightmare (no Luigi) were about to collide.