Lucy Doesn't Wear Pink (20 page)

“No!” everyone said.

Lucy was sure that was the only reason J.J. joined them. His eyes were in slits like knife slashes, and his jaw was set hard, but he was there.

It went okay at first. Dusty stayed far away from Lucy, and Gabe seemed to concentrate more on getting the ball past Emanuel, the Amigos’ goalie to replace Januarie, than on bopping J.J. in the head with it.

With more players, Lucy felt the challenge of scoring a goal surge through her. Playing right midfield, she tried to move up. That was when the trouble started.

“Play back,” Gabe called to her.

She pretended not to hear him.

“Lucy Goosey — play back!”

Lucy directed the ball Veronica passed her on first touch and moved up.

“Are you deaf?”

“Gabe’s talking to you,” Veronica called as Lucy dribbled the ball forward.

Lucy passed to Carla Rosa, who, of course, flailed at the ball with her foot.

“Back to me!” Lucy said.

But Gabe was suddenly there, smacking the ball away from Carla Rosa and heading for the goal.

“Heads up, Emanuel!” J.J. shouted.

Emanuel squinted from the goal line as if he couldn’t believe a ball was actually coming his way. Then to Lucy’s amazement, he got down on one knee. He was actually defending the goal — and Lucy didn’t want anything more than for her team to get the ball past him, right between the posts.

J.J. came from behind just as Gabe was getting the ball into position for a shot.

“Gabe — man on!” Lucy cried.

She hoped Gabe remembered that meant, “You don’t have time to settle the ball. There’s a player on you.”

Gabe gave the ball a direct kick. Although Emanuel f lung himself at it, hands out, he stumbled over his feet and fell face down. The ball shot into the far left corner like a bullet.

“Woo-hoo!” Lucy hooted.

Veronica and Carla Rosa tore with her to Gabe, who stood at the goal line grinning, as if he scored one every day.

“Cool,” he said.

“Very cool,” Lucy said.

“Wait — was that a foul or something?” Veronica looked back at Emanuel, who was still on the ground.

J.J. grunted and stuck his hand down to help him up. “It was foul, all right,” Lucy heard him mutter. He shot her a look that poked her hard on the inside.

“I had to help my team,” Lucy said to him as Carla Rosa ambled to the sideline for the throw-in.

“Which team?” he said.

Lucy put up her hand to Carla Rosa and said, “Everybody come here.”

“Who died and left you in charge?” Gabe said. But he joined the circle around her, and so did the Gigglers.

“Did you know,” Lucy said, “that if people just played soccer and concentrated on the game instead of who they hate, there wouldn’t be any wars in the world?”

Carla Rosa’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“No,” Oscar said, and then he looked at J.J. “Is that true?”

“What are you asking him for?” Gabe said. “He’s in the dumb class.”

“That’s what I mean,” Lucy said. She took a huge breath. Maybe they’d think she was trying to be the boss of everyone, but she had to say it. “If we would stop thinking about how you hate J.J. — for who knows what stupid reason — and how Dusty and Veronica can’t stand me — and how every Hispanic person thinks every person who isn’t Hispanic is like dirt or something — and we just played soccer like Mr. Auggy says — we could be awesome.”

“And there wouldn’t be any wars?” Carla Rosa shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

Gabe shrugged and looked at Lucy. “I don’t care about wars. All I want is for you to play back when I have a shot.”

“Fine,” Lucy said, “if
you’ll
move back and cover
me
when
I
run up to shoot.” She gave him a hard look. “And I do care about wars, because my mother was killed in one.”

Everything went quiet, and Lucy was sorry she’d said it.

“Did she get shot or something?” Veronica said finally.

“Shut up,” Dusty said.

Nobody buzzed. J.J. grunted again and marched away, off toward the bleachers.

“Where are you going, J.J.?” Januarie whined after him.

“Home,” he said.

“Why?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Lucy knew that stiff walk, that silence like a wall. He was mad at her again. Only this time she wasn’t sure she cared.

Januarie turned to Lucy, hands on her hips, face crimson. “He’s not gonna play anymore. I can tell. And that means I can’t come either.”

“Sorry,” Lucy said. She was still watching J.J. retreat, climb on his bike, look back, and growl, “Get over here, Januarie.”

He sounded like his father.

Januarie started toward him, and then she stopped again. When she faced Lucy, she raised her round chin. “I can make him come back tomorrow,” she said. “And I will if you’ll let me play.”

“Would you just — no!” Lucy said.

This time, she didn’t watch Januarie stomp off. She snatched up the ball and looked at the rest of them.

“I think I’ll go home,” Carla Rosa said, and ran.

Oscar, for once, didn’t say anything, and Emanuel, for once, did. He said, “Are we coming back tomorrow?”

“I am,” Lucy said.

“Whatever.” Gabe said. He jerked his head at the Gigglers.

Veronica followed him across the field, but Dusty hung back. She looked like she’d just gotten caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing.

“I’m sorry your mom got killed like that,” she said. “I don’t see what it has to do with soccer, but I’m really sorry.”

Lucy didn’t answer. A very old knot was forming in her throat, and she wasn’t sure she could speak, even if she’d known what to say.

When they were all gone, Lucy looked up and down the field.
Her
field — whether Gabe’s sheriff father said it was or not. Right this minute, it was hers, and with it all to herself, she dribbled — for as far and as long as she could without missing the ball.

Everything else disappeared except for the roar of the crowd she could imagine in the bleachers, which in her mind were no longer half falling down and prickling with splinters but sparkling under fresh paint and strong enough for the throngs of people who came to cheer her team on.

As she shielded the ball from imaginary opponents and fooled them with her fancy turns and faked those who came full speed, right at her, there was just Lucy and the goal, and when she made her shot — right at the edge where the goalie couldn’t possibly reach it — her crowd stood as one, and her mom’s voice rose over all the others. “That’s my little champion. That’s my champ!”

Again and again Lucy drove the ball down the field with dynamite dribbling — that was what Mr. Auggy called it — and made perfect shots around even the toughest of goalkeepers.

“Don’t tip the boat!” she could almost hear Mr. Auggy shouting to her. That, she remembered proudly, meant stay in your position. She did. She did everything right.

Until on the final drive down the field, feet moving so fast she could hardly see them, she was about to make her shot when her foot hit something that wasn’t the ball. She felt herself leave the ground, and before she could stop herself, she slammed forehead first into the metal frame.

She had watched characters in cartoons hit their heads and then see stars spinning in a circle above them. She saw those same stars now, and she had to wait for their light to snap out before she could even think about standing up.

When she did, the whole soccer field spun. In near darkness. Another minute passed before she realized the sun was almost down. She tried to run for her bike, but the ground slanted up to meet her. She sank to the dirt again, and then got up, more slowly this time. If she put one foot very carefully in front of the other, she didn’t fall down, and she made it to her bike.

“I hope I didn’t dent the goal,” she said out loud. Talking hurt her head. So did riding her bicycle. She grasped the handlebars and walked it, still going slowly and carefully as if she were on a tightrope. At this rate, it was going to be completely dark when she got home. And she was going to be in trouble.

That was fine, she decided, when she finally crossed Highway 54. Dad could ground her for being late, but she didn’t want him to know about the head-banging incident. Maybe she could just tell him she was tired and go straight to bed. Lying down, going to sleep — those things sounded wonderful right now.

As she neared the house, her heart sank. Every light in the place was on, which wasn’t like Dad at all. He never turned on lights — he didn’t need them. Had he already called the sheriff or something?

She shuddered at the thought and made her way slowly down the last block. Just don’t let there be anybody there who can see me. Just let it be Dad — just let him take away all my privileges — except soccer — but don’t let somebody see that I can’t stand up straight.

Lucy leaned against the inside of the gate and took some deep breaths. With one last big one, she headed for the back door. It opened, and a kind-of-familiar figure stepped out onto the stoop.

“Miss Lucy?” Mr. Auggy said. “Is that you?”

13

Lucy couldn’t move.

Her teacher was at her house? Teachers didn’t even call parents unless you were totally flunking or you were a “behavior problem.” You practically had to rob a bank for one to come to where you lived.

Was that thing in the cubby hall with Dusty and Veronica that bad? Wasn’t an apology good enough?

With visions in her head of Dusty and Veronica’s mothers storming the school, screaming Spanish at Mrs. Nunez and demanding that Lucy be hauled into court, she walked toward the back door. She knew if she moved any slower she’d go backward. She wasn’t sure being a natural-born soccer player was going to count for anything when she got there.

Especially when she saw Dad behind Mr. Auggy, face pinched around his triangle nose. She hadn’t seen it do that since the very first day he came home without Mom. She felt sick.

“Are you okay, Miss Lucy?” Mr. Auggy said. The small smile didn’t appear.

“Sure,” Lucy said.

He seemed to let out all his air and stepped back into the kitchen, leaving Dad like a silhouette in the doorway.

“You’re not hurt,” Dad said.

Not if you didn’t count the headache. “No,” Lucy said.

“Come on inside.”

She would actually rather have spent the night in the toolshed. Even Dad’s voice was pointy, and that almost never happened. But she trudged up the steps and followed him into the kitchen. She heard Mr. Auggy talking in the living room.

“Who
else
is here?” she said.

“No one.” Dad leaned against the counter as if he were very tired. “It’s dark, Lucy. We have a rule about that.”

“I know — I lost track of time — you aren’t supposed to wear a watch when you play soccer so I — ”

“You couldn’t look up at the sky?”

“Sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“No,” Dad said. “You won’t.”

Lucy glanced over her shoulder toward the living room where Mr. Auggy was now quiet. Couldn’t they discuss this when her teacher wasn’t there to hear her get grounded for the rest of her life?

“J.J. and Januarie got home two hours ago,” Dad said.

“How did you
know
that?” Something big shifted in Lucy’s head. She held onto the counter and waited for the room to stop spinning.

“What’s wrong?” Dad said.

“I’m fine.” The table slid back into place, and her eyes cleared. She moved closer to her father. “Dad, why is Mr. Auggy here?”

“He was out jogging when I was outside worrying about you.”

“He just happened to be in the neighborhood?” Lucy said.

“At the right time. J.J. and Januarie passed us when we were talking, so we waited for you,” Dad’s face darkened. “We were about to get his car and come looking when you finally got here.”

“Oh,” Lucy said. The room took another tilt. “I’m gonna go put my stuff away, okay?”

“Let’s go in the living room first. We have something we want to discuss with you.”

Wishing the room
would
turn upside down and dump her out somewhere, Lucy followed Dad into the living room. Mr. Auggy sat in Dad’s chair, murmuring to Lollipop, who was curled up in his lap. There was something very wrong with that, especially if he had come there to ruin Lucy’s life. Mr. Auggy ran his hand down Lollipop’s back, and she melted right into it. The traitor.

Dad sank into the Sitting Couch, and Marmalade appeared from nowhere to fit herself into his lap. Lucy would have headed for the Napping Couch, but she knew Dad wouldn’t have it.

“Luce,” Dad said, “I’m going to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the absolute truth, even if it means breaking a promise to somebody else.”

The pinch was gone from his face, and he put out his hand to squeeze her wrist. His skin was cold and damp, the way hers got when she had to take a test.