Gracie (15 page)

“That's coaching crap,” I scoffed, turning away from him.

“Grace, quit if you want!” he cried, starting to get angry. “But quit because you're not good enough! Quit because you'll never be good enough! Don't quit because you got your feelings hurt. You've got to dig deep and come out as strong and tough as anyone.”

“I did!” I cried.

“No!” he disagreed. “I know what you can do, but it's not enough for me to believe in you. You've got to make them
all
believe in you!”

We stood there staring at each other. Then he turned and headed toward the house.

“How do I do that?” I yelled at his back, desperate to know the answer. I'd done everything I could think of. If there was something more, he had to tell me, because I had no idea what it could be.

He turned around to me. “You
know
what to do,” he said before going in.

My head fell forward in despair. I didn't know.

My nose throbbed and ached all along both cheekbones. My cleat-scraped shins screamed with pain. My hip and arms were bruised and burning.

It occurred to me very slowly as I stood there with my head hung in defeat and my body aching that it was possible I had miscounted the steps.

Maybe I
hadn't
failed at the last step because I hadn't come to the last step yet. These tryouts were simply
another
step toward my dream, not the final one. And if that was really the case, then I hadn't failed. I had
succeeded
in advancing to the next step, which was to play soccer on the boys' Junior Varsity team.

Junior Varsity soccer was definitely the B team. Even the field was second-rate, bumpy and weedy compared to the perfectly manicured Varsity field.

When I arrived for our first practice, the freshmen and sophomores on the team stared at me as though I were a creature from outer space. At least I wouldn't have to worry about them being much bigger than me. Without making any reference to me, Mr. Clark, who coached the team, simply blew his whistle for practice to begin.

I appreciated that he didn't make a big fuss. And, deep down, I also enjoyed the way he kept smiling at me, as if he completely approved of my being on his team and was even proud of me. After facing down so much negative attention, it was a refreshing change.

Another refreshing change was not being mowed down by hostile, fire-breathing opponents bent on my destruction. The guys on the JV team were good players, but they weren't as big and aggressive. Without Kyle in the lead, they weren't overwhelmed with resentment at the mere thought of my presence.

After practice ended each day, I stayed on to practice kicking on my own. It had always been what I did best, so I figured I should play to my strength and become
really excellent at it. It was the most direct route I could think of to become an invaluable player on the team. If I could be an outstanding player on JV, I could win a spot on the Varsity team.

It was often dark before I stopped firing balls at the goal. I stayed at school to practice because the field was bigger than my yard and the goalpost itself was exactly where it would be during a real game. I could blast balls into the goal from different spots on the field, too.

One night, someone pulled up to the parking lot and watched me practice from the car. Squinting over the glare of his headlights, I saw Coach Colasanti watching me from behind his steering wheel.

Ignoring him, I blasted a ball into the upper-right-hand corner. I knew he saw it. I was hoping he was regretting his decision not to let me play Varsity.

Another evening, just as the last of the light was dying out, Peter showed up carrying a white bag from a deli nearby. He stood on the sidelines, apparently wanting to talk to me. I just ignored him and kept practicing.

“Kyle didn't want me on the team,” he called to me. “He wanted to practice with me to improve his game.”

I know how that feels
, I thought bitterly. I was glad to hear that he'd gotten a taste of his own medicine, as the saying goes. Did he want me to feel sorry for him after he'd done the exact same thing to me? I kept kicking balls into the goal, pretending he wasn't there.

I could feel Peter watching me. Finally I couldn't resist taking a quick peek at him. The stricken expression on his face made me miss my kick. “Johnny…he left me,
too,” he said in a voice choked with emotion. He brushed his eyes quickly. He was crying!

That stopped me altogether. I had been so wrapped up in my own grief that I'd never stopped to consider how Johnny's death had affected Peter. But I should have. Johnny was his best friend.

He walked out between the goalposts. I shot one to him and he caught it. “Anyway,” he said. “I have a best friend again. And I'm going to stay here with her until she's done.”

He handed me the white bag. There was a ham sandwich and a soda inside. He'd brought it for me.

I ate the sandwich there on the field and then went back to practicing. Peter took out a flashlight and a book. He sat on the sidelines reading while I practiced.

I couldn't stay angry at him. He'd only wanted what I had wanted…to play Varsity soccer. And so what if he wanted to practice with me to improve his game? That had been why I wanted to practice with him.

Practicing felt a lot less lonely with Peter sitting there waiting. I was glad he came.

Once school was in full swing, there was more than just soccer in my life once again. I knew that I couldn't stay on the team if I failed anything, so that was all the incentive I needed to keep my grades up. Besides, school seemed less dull than it had the year before. Somehow I had found my way back to caring about my classes again.

One afternoon I had some time after school before practice began. Instead of going home, I went to the library to study for my big chemistry test the next day. I was at a table with a thick textbook in front of me when I sensed that someone had taken a seat across from me and was staring a hole through the book. “Heard that's a good book,” Coach Colasanti said.

I held up the cover to show him that it was my chemistry text. “Want to borrow it?” I joked dryly.

After that he got right to the point of his visit. “We drew Kingston as our first game. The whole town is coming out. I want you there.”

I lowered my book and tried not to let my jaw drop at the same time. “To play?” I asked cautiously, not sure I understood but hoping it was what he was saying.

“To support your team,” he said.

I should have known,
I thought, fighting my disappointment. “You mean sit on the bench,” I said.

He grimaced slightly and nodded. It was exactly what he'd meant.

He slid a black band across the table to me. “The team's wearing armbands for Johnny,” he explained. Instantly, a lump formed in my throat. In that case, I would definitely be there.

That evening, after practice and my extra kicking session, Peter drove me home. I told him about the armbands. He already had one. We agreed that even though the night would bring up a lot of emotion for both of us, we thought it was a good way to honor Johnny's memory.

Later, alone in my room, I noticed that the hawk seemed restless, banging around his cage. I wondered if his cage was too small now. Maybe he didn't even need a cage anymore. His wing should have been mended by now.

It was time to find out.

Everyone in the house was busy. Mom was doing laundry. Mike and Daniel were watching
The Brady Bunch
on TV. Dad was working the night shift. No one noticed as I left the house with the hawk in his cage.

Outside, I put him in the basket of my bike and rode to school. The night lights were on, making it possible for me to see way out onto the soccer field. I climbed up the bleachers to the top row. I set the cage down and opened the door.

Part of me hoped he wouldn't come out, but a larger part knew I had to see if he could fly. “Come on. It's okay,” I coaxed him. I extended my hand into the cage, letting him hop on. Carefully, I drew him out.

He blinked in the bright lights, confused. Slowly, he hopped up my sleeve. I moved my arm, hoping the motion would startle him into flying. He only held on, digging his talons into my jacket. “Go on!” I told him. “It's better out there.”

The hawk turned his head to me and blinked. He didn't want to go, and I didn't really want him to go, either.

Then why was I doing this?

Because I knew it was right for him. He couldn't stay in a cage forever. He was a wild bird—powerful, a hunter,
meant to soar in the sky. As long as he stayed in that cage, he could never experience the life he was born to live.

All at once, the hawk spread his wide wings. With a flurry of moving feathers, he rose into the air.

Tears stung my cheeks as he disappeared into the dark sky. He had been my confidant all through these long, hard months. Often, he was the only one I could talk to. He reminded me of Johnny, a loyal friend I could count on.

But, I suppose, when loved ones move on, you can't stop them. You can only hold them in your heart, never forgetting what they meant in your life. And, in that special way, the ones you love never really leave.

On the night of the Columbia/Kingston game, the soccer stadium was electric with excitement. The lights were turned on to full wattage. Beneath their white-hot glare, the school band pounded out a fight song. The cheerleaders pulled out all their best moves, cheering at top volume as they formed towering pyramids.

I was running late, probably because I'd taken my time at supper, procrastinating, not really sure I wanted to be there. For Johnny's sake, I wanted to attend. I was all for showing school spirit, but sitting with the Varsity team would be more than a little weird, knowing how they felt about me.

When I finally got there, everyone had left the locker room already. Only Mr. Clark was still there. He smiled as I hurried in and he took a uniform wrapped in plastic from a cardboard box. It was a Varsity uniform. He ripped open the plastic, handing it to me. “Grace, they told me to give you this,” he said.

I wasn't sure how I felt. I was going to put on a Varsity uniform, just for this one night. It should have been a dream come true, but instead it was confusing. Somehow it felt wrong to put it on and not really be on the team. “I know I'm not playing,” I told him.

“I have something else for you,” he said, reaching into his own gym bag. “Last season, after the big game, I found Johnny's jersey.” It was Johnny's, all right, washed but well-worn Number 7.

“They retired this number,” I reminded him, taking the jersey and holding it close to my chest.

“I think Johnny would want you to wear it,” he replied. “Coach C. said it would be all right. The number belongs to your family now. I've been keeping the jersey for you.”

I ran my hand along the smooth cloth, feeling so touched. Mr. Clark had kept it, sure that someday I would be worthy of it. It meant a lot to me to have the jersey, and it made me happy that he'd had so much confidence in me all along.

I thanked him and went to the girls' locker room to put on the uniform with the Number 7 jersey. Studying my image in the mirror was a strange experience. What did it mean that I was wearing this uniform, this number? I wasn't sure.

Before I went out, I took one last item from my gym bag: the black armband for Johnny. The tears that filled my eyes as I slipped it onto my arm surprised me. I'd thought I was past that, but maybe I would never be beyond tears when I thought of Johnny's death. It was possible that I didn't even want to put that stage behind me if it meant I had to forget him, even a little bit.

Heading out to the field, I saw the Columbia Cougars warming up, some kicking free shots, others heading balls in a circle. They were practicing, but
they were also showing off for the fans, getting the crowd psyched. All of them, including the two newest players who had beat me in tryouts, wore black armbands for Johnny.

With my eyes on the players out in the field, I made my way to the bench to sit with the other second-stringers. Principal Enright glowered at me as I passed. I could tell he wondered what I was doing there. From the corner of my eye, I saw him gesture to Coach Colasanti. I had the feeling he was going to demand that I leave.

The coach was over on the sidelines, talking to Mr. Clark. His eyes darted to Principal Enright and then to me, sizing up the situation. Then he turned back to Mr. Clark, as though he hadn't noticed us, although I knew he had.

Peter was already seated on the far end of the bench when I got there. He leaned forward and waved to me. Noticing the Number 7 jersey, he nodded with approval. It helped me feel less like an outsider knowing that he was there and that he was okay with my wearing Johnny's jersey. He beckoned to me to come sit beside him, which I did.