The Beast (3 page)

Just then, a soccer ball shoots toward me. As I duck out of the way, another tidal wave of wooziness crashes into me and I stagger backward. Luckily, someone catches me.

“You all right?”

The voice belongs to Ruth Middleton, the girl who drove me to the hospital the day before.

“Fine,” I say, hoping I sound casual enough not to worry Coach.

“Oh, my God. I'm so sorry, Alyssa.”

My vision is blurry, and at first, I can't see the person who's apologizing. When my vision clears, none other than Becca Miller is standing over me. Framed by long, beautiful eyelashes, her blue eyes are showing what looks like deep concern. I feel like vomiting and not just because of the dizziness.

“I was trying to punt,” Becca says, “and I've never really done that before. As you can see, I need to work on my accuracy.” She smiles, and I notice her dimples for the first time. The dimples make me want to puke too.

“Like I said,” I tell her, “I'm fine.”

“You sure, Duncan?” It's Coach who's talking now, but if I say any more words I really am going to barf.

“I'll take her home,” Ruth offers. I'd forgotten she was there, but now I realize she's still propping me up. “Alyssa, you probably just need to lie down for a bit.”

“Good idea, Middleton. Thanks for the help.”

“You got it, Coach,” she says. “It's the least I can do.” Then she mutters, “Or maybe the
most
.”

Becca says sorry one more time as Ruth drags me away from the field.

When we finally reach the parking lot, I hear Coach yelling my name one more time. “Duncan! Hold up!”

Ruth and I wait for him to catch up to us. “Yeah, Coach?” I say.

“You mind helping Becca out these next couple weeks?”

“What do you mean?”

“With her goalkeeping,” he says. “Like I said, she's still a little rough around the edges. Mind smoothing her out for me? Teaching her some real technique? You know what I mean—footwork, tactics, that sort of stuff?”

I hear Ruth snicker behind me. “I guess so,” I say. “I mean, yeah—of course. I'll do what I can.”

“Thanks, Duncan. Oh and one more thing.”

“What is it, Coach?”

“I think your yellow jersey will fit Becca better than Erin's. Make sure you get it to her before Friday's game, okay?”

“H
ow you feeling?” Ruth asks me.

I'm lying in the backseat of Ruth's car as she drives me home. It's a big, old boat of a car—a Buick from way back—but I still have to bend my knees to fit in it lengthwise. My head's resting on the edge of one of the worn leather seats. Ruth adjusts the rearview mirror so she can keep an eye on me.

The combination of her question and her attentive eyes makes me think she's truly concerned. “Pretty dizzy,” I admit. “And my head is pounding.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she says. “But that's not what I meant. How do you feel about losing your spot?”

The comment catches me off guard. It's almost like she's reading my mind. “It's only for a couple weeks,” I say weakly.

For the first time, Ruth's snicker isn't under her breath. It's so loud that it feels like it's echoing in my skull. “That's what I told myself too,” she says.

“What are you talking about?”

“Did you know I used to be a starter?”

“For who?”

“For us,” Ruth says. “The Copperheads.”

I try to think back to a time when Ruth played in games. It's true that I just had a profound head injury, but still—I've been on varsity for two years now. You'd think I'd remember her on the field. But I don't. At all. “I thought you weren't on the team until this year.”

“I actually made varsity as a freshman,” Ruth says. That would explain why I don't remember her. She's a year older than me, so I was still playing middle school soccer when she was a freshman. “Right or left on Berkstrom Road?”

“Right,” I say. I hold onto the edge of the seat as the car turns.

“After a few games, the girl ahead of me got mono, and Coach put me into the starting lineup,” Ruth continues. “I did pretty well too. But then I screwed up my back and had to sit out the rest of the season. The next year I tried to come back, but Coach had already replaced me with Juanita.”

“So you quit?”

“It didn't feel like I had a choice. Do I take Wilkens Avenue, or do I keep going?”

“Keep going,” I say. “You were only in tenth grade. You had plenty of time to earn your way back on the field.”

“That's what I told myself for a while. But it was like Coach didn't even notice me in practice, no matter how hard I worked.”

“Juanita is a great player,” I add. “There's no shame in losing your spot to her.”

“She's a great player
now
. But back then, before she specialized in soccer, we were about the same. I'm not trying to rag on Juanita—she's better now than I ever was, definitely. I'm just telling you how it was then.”

I'm starting to feel dizzy again. “What's your point?”

“My point is, why do you think Juanita specialized in soccer? Left or right on Dobbins?”

I answer her second question—“Left”—but I can't remember the first.

Ruth goes ahead and answers it herself. “Because she wanted to keep her spot on the roster, that's why. She had to be better than all the younger players coming up.”

“That's how all teams work,” I say.

“No, on most teams a player just needs to be
as good as
a younger player to keep her spot. On this team, Juanita's only chance was to be better than the younger player.”

Ruth asks me which way to go a few more times. Other than that, we drive in silence. My brain feels all wobbly, and it helps to have the peace and quiet. By the time she's idling in my driveway, I've formed two questions to ask her.

The first is: “So why'd you rejoin the team this year?”

“Because screw Coach Berg,” Ruth says. “He may get to decide whether I play in games, but I'm not going to let him decide whether I'm on the team.”

My second question: “What are you telling me I should do?” I'm still lying on the backseat because I'm afraid that getting up will send another wave my way. I can see Ruth's eyes looking at me in the rearview mirror.

“Ask yourself whether you're better than Becca,” she says.

“And if the answer's no?”

Ruth gets out of the car and walks to the back door on the other side. She opens the door and offers me her hand. “If the answer's no,” she says, “come talk to me. We'll do what it takes to get your spot back.”

W
hen I get inside my house, I'm surprised to find my mother making spaghetti in the kitchen. A big pot of water boils on the stove as Mom places a tray of garlic bread in the oven.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Well, hello to you too,” she says.

“You know what I mean. Aren't you supposed to be working?”

Mom has had two jobs ever since my father died—which is to say, for as long as I can remember. During the day, she's a secretary at a law firm. In the evening, she's a waitress at a sports bar. Or at least she
was
a waitress. “Did…you lose your job or something?”

“Just the opposite,” she says. She hands me two napkins to place on the table. “I got a promotion. I was going to tell you last night, but you were already asleep.”

I don't want to talk about last night, so I change the subject back to her. “Did Alan finally retire?” Alan's the restaurant manager.

“No, but he gave me a raise,” Mom says. She hands me two forks and adds, “He also gave me Wednesdays off.”

“Nice,” I say and take two plates from her.

“It's better than nice, Alyssa. At last, I get to see the Fraser Copperheads' star goalie.”

She's talking about me, of course, but for a split second I think she's talking about Becca Miller. Then I realize she doesn't even know who Becca is or, for that matter, why she's taking my place in front of the net. When the hospital called last night and asked to speak to Mom, she was still at work. Rather than take a message, I told the nurse to hold on a second. Then I did my best impression of my mother's voice. I did this for my mom's sake. She can get really worked up over bad news, especially when it involves me, and I didn't want her to worry.

One time, when I was a little kid, I fell from a jungle gym and broke my pinkie. Mom cried the entire way to the emergency room. She has never forgiven herself for not doing a better job spotting me. My pinkie is still a little crooked. Every once in a while, I catch Mom looking at it and her eyes well up. Besides, the last thing I want to do is tell her that I'll be warming the bench for the foreseeable future. The only reason we're able to afford my playing soccer is because she works so much. The idea of sitting on the sidelines while she's working two jobs makes me feel really guilty.

“I checked your schedule,” Mom says. “You have a game next Wednesday. Hope there's room for one more person in the stands.”

She takes a noodle from the boiling pot and flings it against the wall. It sticks, which means the pasta is ready. She turns around with a huge smile, but I doubt it's because of her spaghetti success. After all the shifts she spent waiting tables, she thinks she's going to get to watch me play. I know I should tell her that she's probably wrong. I just don't want to do it tonight—not when we're having dinner together on a weekday for the first time in forever.

“See you there, Mom,” I reply.
Maybe I'll sit next to you
.

A
m I better than Becca at goalie?
That's what Ruth told me to ask myself, and I spend the next day doing exactly that. I think about it instead of thinking about English or history or math or science. (Although it turns out I couldn't focus on those subjects even if I wanted to. Whenever I watch my teachers write something on the chalkboard, waves of wooziness start lapping against my brain and stomach.) I think about it while eating Italian dunkers at lunch. I think about it while everyone else plays badminton in PE. I think about it while I sit in study hall.

I'm still thinking about it when I go to practice. Coach Berg has sent Dayton Frey, Becca, and me to work on goalkeeping fundamentals. He wants me to give Becca pointers while Dayton shoots at her.

It only takes a couple of Dayton's kicks to answer the question that's been plaguing me all day. Yes, I'm definitely a better goalie than Becca Miller. For now, anyway.

Yesterday, Coach said Becca's skills needed some fine-tuning, and he was right. Her footwork is all over the place, and so is her positioning. Her grasp on angles isn't great, either.

Of course, she's able to make up for some of her poor fundamentals because of how athletic she is—that girl has some serious range. And because of how hard she tries. After only ten minutes, she's dripping with sweat and grunting loudly. Her long legs are scuffed and grass stained. There are grass clippings in her wavy, blonde ponytail and dirt smudges on her chin and elbows.