The Beast (6 page)

“Mom, everything
is
fine. I was just knocked out. It happens all the time—”

“Alan was just telling me about a kid who
died
from getting hit in the head with a puck. I felt sad for a grand total of five seconds and then forgot all about it. It's settled. Your mother is a horrible person.”

“I didn't get hit with a puck, Mom—”

“I can't believe I let you go to sleep. You should never let someone with a head injury go to sleep. That's common knowledge. What was I thinking?”

“You didn't even know about it, Mom. And besides, the doctor said it was fine for me to slee—
ow!
” Mom's got my hand in a vise grip again.

I think this is the worst I've ever seen her, and it's my fault. If I'd kept her informed all along, she might have been able to worry one day at a time. Instead, she's spent the last few minutes crying three days' worth of tears.

“How do you feel right now?” she asks.

If I've learned anything, I'll admit to her that I'm still suffering from dizziness and sometimes headaches. It's better to tell her now than have someone else tell her later.

“I'm fine, Mom. Really. No symptoms at all.”

I guess I didn't learn anything. Either that or I'm just a chicken. I can't bear to make my mother cry any more than she already has.

“Really, Mom,” I say again. “I meet with the doctor on Tuesday. That means I'll probably get to play on Wednesday. Then you'll see that I'm completely, totally fine.”

It's official. I'm insane. Why would I make a promise that I'm almost for sure not going to be able to keep? But it's the only way I can think of to get her to stop crying.

And it works. Mom finally takes a couple of deep breaths and wipes away the tears with her free hand. She even releases her grip. I shake my hand to encourage circulation.

“I'm going with you to your doctor's appointment,” she says and starts the car.

Great. Now I just need to convince my doctor that my injured head is completely healthy. Actually, that'll be the easy part. The hard part will be destroying Becca Miller before Wednesday's game.

I need advice from an evil genius.

5:02 PM

From: Alyssa

To: Ruth

mission not accomplished. any more gr8 ideas?

5:08 PM

From: Ruth

To: Alyssa

hmmmmm let me think about it

1:08 AM

From: Ruth

To: Alyssa

i know how 2 get your goalie jersey back

“W
ait,” I whisper to Ruth. “You meant
literally
get my jersey back? Like, steal it?”

“It'll be tough for Becca to play goalie without a jersey,” she murmurs.

We're sitting in the girls' locker room before the last bell on Monday. More specifically, we're sitting in front of Becca's locker. We're almost positive we're the only ones in here, but one can never be too careful while plotting another person's decline. And this place won't be empty for long. The Copperheads have an afternoon game today, so our teammates will be heading down here as soon as they get out of their final classes.

“How is that supposed to work?” I ask. “Do you have a lock cutter?”

“Even better,” Ruth says. “I have the combination.”

She actually lifts her eyebrow a couple times. She really
is
an evil genius. “How'd you manage that?” I ask.

“Because it's not her lock—it's mine. I swapped them while she was in the bathroom after PE. When she came back and found her locker closed, I think she just assumed she'd locked it herself.” Ruth stands up triumphantly, spins the combination, and takes off the lock.

“Wait,” I say, “if you had time to switch the locks, why didn't you take the jersey too?”

“Because,” Ruth says, “this is
your
mission, not mine. If you want to get Becca off the team, you're going to have to do it yourself.”

The final bell rings.

“Clock's ticking,” Ruth says. She swings the locker door open. I can see the jersey, folded neatly and resting on top of Becca's sports bag.

“It
is
my jersey,” I say, standing up and reaching for it. “I should be able to take it back whenever I want, right?”

“Makes sense to me,” Ruth says.

“A
lyssa!” Coach shouts.

“Yeah, Coach?”

Rubbing his buzzed head, he barks, “Where's Becca? The game's about to start!”

“I don't know, Coach.”

“Well, was she in the locker room?”

“I think so.”

More head rubbing. “You think so? What do you mean you think so?”

I rub my chin as though I'm thinking about his question. “Yes, I'm almost positive she was in the locker room, Coach.”

“Well, go in there and get her, would you?”

I hadn't planned on this. I wonder if I'm going to go in there and find Becca searching endlessly for something that's not there, the contents of her locker all over the floor.

“Did you hear me, Duncan? Go in there and find our goalie!”

“I'm right here, Coach.”

It's Becca's voice, but it trembles more than usual. When I look at her, I see why. Her eyes are red and raw. The skin around them is puffy. She's been crying.

“Where have you been, Miller?” Coach demands. “And where's your jersey?”

She's wearing her regular home uniform—the one that's navy blue. “I can't find it, Coach.”

“What do you mean you can't find it?”

“It's not in my locker. I had it in my locker, but I don't know where it went.”

I do. It's in my soccer bag.

“You lost the jersey. Is that it?”

Becca is about to start crying again. I'm sure of it. When you have a mom like mine, you get to know all the signs. First, eyes begin to wobble in their sockets. Next, the eyes mist up. Then, the floodgates burst open. It's like clockwork.

Becca's eyes have gone through the first phases, and it's only a matter of time before tears start running down her face. Or so I think. Instead of crying, Becca just gulps. Then, with surprising strength, she says, “Yes, Coach. I lost the jersey.”

Coach Berg is as angry as I've ever seen him. He can't even scream for once. In fact, he can barely talk. “I told you to spend the weekend getting your head right,” he sputters. “But instead of being more prepared, you tell me you've lost your jersey. Do I have that right?”

Becca swallows a couple more times and nods. “I'm sorry, Coach.”

“Sorry doesn't cut it, Miller. You've let me and your team down. Do you even want to play goalie?”

The right answer is clear:
Yes, Coach
. But Becca doesn't say that. She doesn't say anything. Maybe she's too scared of what will happen if she says the wrong thing.

“Well, do you?” Coach asks again.

Finally, Becca gives the response he's been looking for. “Yes, Coach.”

“And how are you going to do that without a jersey?”

“I don't know, Coach.”

Coach Berg rubs his buzzed head again and walks away. When he returns a moment later, his voice is a little softer and a little calmer—but not by much. “You'll have to use Erin's jersey,” he says. “It won't fit very well, but it'll have to do.” Turning, he yells, “Erin, where are you?”

She runs up and says, “Right here, Coach.”

“Erin, I need you to—”

Just then the buzzer sounds. It's time to start the game.

I can almost see Coach's thoughts. He wants to send Erin and Becca back to the locker room to get Erin's jersey so Becca can wear it. But if he does that, he won't have a goalie for the start of the game.

Ruth's plan is working out so well I have to remind myself not to feel sorry for Becca.

“Hey, Coach!” a voice says. “She can use mine.” The voice is coming from the bleachers—and it belongs to Rick Morris.

For once, he's wearing a real shirt—his yellow, goalie jersey—but not for long. Pulling it off in one swift motion, he says, “My traveling game's not until later tonight. Becca can wear this 'til halftime and then switch with Erin.”

He balls up the jersey and throws it to Becca. The crowd cheers loudly, either for how nice Rick is or for the surprise muscle show.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Miller?” Coach says. “Get that jersey on and get out there.”

I
t's official. Becca Miller won't get out of the way. Not out of the goalie's box and not out of my boyfriend's sights.

We're playing Greenridge again, and they still stink. Becca only has to make a few plays during the whole first half, but she looks good making them. One time she has to come off the line, and she goes all out.

“Keeper!” she shouts, then smothers the ball under her body.

Another time, when Greenridge crosses the ball, Becca covers the length of the goal in a couple of long strides. Unlike the last game, she stays on the balls of her feet, shading opponents one way or the other. Good goalkeeping is a beautiful thing, and Becca definitely looks beautiful.

Of course, let's be honest—she'd look good even if she played horribly. Just ask Rick, who spends the whole first half cheering for her.

During halftime, Becca changes into Erin Hamley's jersey. Becca is taller than Erin. I knew the jersey wouldn't fit Becca's long, slender body as well as it should. As we wait for her to return from the locker room, I think that maybe, for once in Becca's beautiful life, she won't look absolutely perfect.

I should have known better.

The shorter shirt is that much more formfitting. It almost looks as if Becca's wearing her own Under Armour.

We win the game 4–1, making the jersey drama seem, within a few moments, like a distant memory. But for me, the only thing that made the game bearable was that I had closed my eyes for most of it.