Out of Nowhere (22 page)

“Didn’t you get the memo, Lila?” I smiled at her. “We broke up.”

Lila opened her eyes wide. The lashes were crusted so thickly with black mascara they looked like tarantula legs.

She leaned against me as we walked and spoke into my ear.

“I was talking about me.”

There was absolutely no good answer to this. Whatever I said
would be relayed to Cherisse ASAP. Minus Lila’s come-ons, of course.

“I didn’t do much this weekend,” I told her. “Unless you count community service hours and homework.”

“All work and no play,” she said, singsongy.

“Makes Tom a dull, dull boy,” I said sadly.

Lila smirked at me wickedly.

“You’re lying, Tommy. I can tell. You’re no good at it. Cherisse told me you’re seeing someone else.”

I shrugged.

That’s what I’d come up with the night Cherisse got voted off the island. It wasn’t particularly kind, but given what I could have said, it was humane: “I realize this probably isn’t the best timing in the world, but you should know I’m seeing someone else.”

The timing in question was the end of that evening’s episode of
Survivor
, after which Cherisse flicked off the lights in the den and attempted a little lip-lock action before my mom started prowling around. Maddie had never come back.

It’s probably not great to break up with a girl midkiss.

“Who??” Cherisse demanded. “Who is she?”

I thought it was interesting that her first instinct was to discover who the competition was, rather than to mourn the end of our relationship.

“It doesn’t matter. You don’t know her,” I said.

“I know
everyone
, Tommy,” she said between her teeth in a fairly scary and not particularly attractive way.

“Not this girl. And besides, I’m not going to tell you, so give it a rest.”

There was some pretty colorful language after that. Mom
heard, and came busting in just as Cherisse was busting out. She slammed the door as she left the house.

“What was that?” Mom exclaimed.

“Hurricane Cherisse,” I said. “Be happy. I’m gonna go upstairs and study physics now.”

I hadn’t said a word to anyone at school, but I hadn’t needed to. Don’t telegraph: tell-a-Cherisse.

“So go on. Who is she?” Lila persisted. We’d reached the classroom. I shrugged at her again, smiling, and took my seat. Lila looked pretty annoyed. I didn’t know what she was hoping to gain from our little conversation … information? A date? … but she came up empty-handed.

Given that I supposedly can’t lie, it was pretty funny that Cherisse believed the one I told her about seeing someone. Which, ironically, morphed into the truth. I pretty much at that point considered myself to be seeing Myla.

Anyway, the afternoon of game day was perfect. I don’t usually stop and smell the roses, so to speak, but you couldn’t have asked for more perfect weather to play soccer: the trees still held all their leaves, and against the blue, blue sky every one was some shade of orange, yellow, or red. The air was cool and smelled like cut grass. The gorgeously manicured Maquoit fields were deep, rich green.

Deep. Rich. Like the Maquoit soccer team. Whose second-string benchwarmers could probably have defeated most of the boys’ varsity teams in Maine.

An insane number of spectators showed up, for both sides. Usually I spot my parents on the sidelines or locate Cherisse and her posse (not anymore), but it was like a sea of people on that side of the field and you couldn’t tell who anyone was. The Maquoit
fans formed the biggest bloc, in their black and red, but a legit number of Chamberlain fans had staked out blue territory.

The ride over was quiet. I don’t know, maybe I should have been whipping the guys into battle readiness, a little foot stomping to piss off the driver and some Maquoit hate chants to get the adrenaline going. But I’ve never been that guy, and never been that captain. I’m more the get-in-the-zone sort of athlete. So I listened to my iPod. Got into game mode with Dr. Dre and Eminem …

Lose yourself in the moment …

You only get one shot
.

As we stepped off the bus in the Maquoit parking lot, Saeed filed out right in front of me. He was a hell of a lot quieter than he’d been that morning. We walked together toward the field.

“How you doin’?” I asked him.

“Good,” he said firmly, eyes fixed on the ground before him.

He’s exhausted already
, I thought.
Shit
.

Is this what you want, God? Allah? Whoever? Yet another victory for ever-victorious Maquoit by hitting us over the head with Ramadan in October? Thanks
.

As we walked, neither of us spoke. I tried not to imagine how thirsty he might be. On the bus, nobody ate or drank, not even the white guys. All of us had made a point of not eating or drinking in front of the Somalis that month, so we made sure to chug some water and eat snacks away from the locker room. During the game would be an exception: you couldn’t ask the non-Muslim guys to not drink at halftime, or on the bench.

Here was the bottom line: the brave new world of Chamberlain soccer needed Saeed. Full-throttle Saeed, in all his fast, crazy glory. And the other Somali guys, too, if we were gonna stand a
chance. As we walked to the soccer field, I wanted to say something, anything, to communicate that to him.

I wanted him to know that I had faith that he’d deliver. Even if it was only a shaky half faith.

“Ramadan pushing you?” I said quietly.

Saeed raised his head and looked at me.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, Tom.”

So I shoved him. Just a little.

“You push back,” I said, and grinned.

He looked startled for a second. But when my words sank in, he smiled broadly.

“I push back!” he exclaimed, delivering a return shove that made me stagger.

Okay, then.

Me, Mike, and Jonnie jog-trotted to the center of the field. Alex and his goons were already there, with the refs. This was the coin toss to determine which team would start with possession, and the usual warnings to play safe, show good sportsmanship, et cetera. Plus we’d shake hands.

My stomach was doing unnatural things. Everything around me seemed intensified: the crowd noise was palpable; the colors were in high definition. I willed myself to breathe in deeply, to fill my lungs to capacity, then fought back the urge to exhale in a swift whoosh. Let it out slowly.

Coach had taken me aside.

“You look nervous, Tommy,” he said quietly. I stared down at the ground. My cleats. The grass. I was trying not to look across the field at the packed bleachers.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “I am nervous.”

“Well, a little nervous is understandable. Even desirable. Don’t want to be complacent.”

I laughed.

“Against Maquoit? Never, Coach.”

He looked at me curiously.

“So what’s going on today?” he said.

“I’m just worried that Saeed and Ibrahim and the other guys aren’t going to be at the top of their game. We need them today. We can’t beat Maquoit if they’re draggin’.”

He shook his head.

“I don’t think we have anything to worry about on that score,” he said. “You’d be surprised at how their bodies adjust. I’ve noticed it just this week. They’ll do fine. You concentrate on
your
game, and project confidence for your teammates. Tom, if they sense panic from you, it won’t matter how well fed and well hydrated anyone is. Understand?”

I nodded firmly. Confidently. Or so I hoped.

The Maquoit guys were expressionless as we approached. None of their typical snide bluster, the mind-game crap they’re known for in our league. Once, before a game, they were being such jerks a referee asked one of the captains if he’d like a yellow card right then and there for being rude.

“I could do it, young man,” he’d said severely.

It didn’t help that Maquoit had gone on to beat us six-zip that day. Even though most of the calls had gone our way.

I tuned out as the ref spoke; it was the usual riff, and I knew what was expected and how to behave. Instead, I tried to make eye contact with Alex … but he was staring intently at the ref,
focused on his every word. Right. Like Stripes was saying something new and different?
C’mon, Alex, you see me. You know you want to flash me some attitude. Go on, do it, bro …

And then he did it. The blink. Those rapid blinks like he had something caught in his eyes.

Wow
.

Alex Rhodes was nervous. No, correction: I was nervous. He was
freakin’
nervous.

He thought we could win.

It was like someone whispered in my ear:
hope
.

They won the coin toss, but it’s not like I cared. As we jogged back to the huddle, my mind raced as I tried to figure out some way to channel my amazing optimism. I only had seconds and I only had words, which are pretty useless most of the time. How would I tell them what I’d just seen so that they could feel what I felt? This overwhelming sense that our destiny was in our control and we were not going to get rolled that afternoon?

I realized I was just thinking too much.

“Get in close. Closer!” I demanded when I reached the guys on our side of the field. We laced arms around each other’s shoulders. Our heads bumped.

“I got a secret for you boys,” I began. “We
rock
.”

“Yeah!” everybody started yelling. I waited until they settled down.

“I’ve got another secret,” I continued. “Up until a minute ago, I didn’t believe. Yeah, I wanted this. I worked for it, and all of you did, too. But deep down I never thought we could do it. Then one minute ago, I saw something that made me
believe
.”

No yells then. I had their attention.

“They. Are. Scared,” I said loudly. “I know these guys. You know I know them. And I have never seen such fear on their faces before. Never. Ever. Maquoit is never afraid, but let me tell you, they are petrified right now. Because they’ve seen us play, and they know: we can
beat them
!”

The guys ignited. Yelling, fist pumps, our usual chant. Yeah.

We headed out onto the field.

Within thirty seconds Alex made a mistake. He’s a great ball handler, it’s almost impossible to strip him when he’s got possession, but for some reason he wanted to get out early and score right away. Even though no one challenged him, he tried to pass off to a man behind me. Who wasn’t expecting Alex to pass just then … so I intercepted it. Stopped, settled the ball, and just beyond Alex and the encroaching Maquoit front line I saw our guys: Saeed, Double M, Mike Turcotte. I booted it, high.

The ball lofted over Alex, and Double M had it. He took off, while Mike and Saeed flew ahead of him. The Maquoit defense collapsed on Double M, and he looked for an open man. Someone who hadn’t outrun the defense, because that would be offside. Saeed was screaming. He was way off to one side, his hand up, but he was so far out of scoring position that it seemed pointless to direct the ball that way. His closest defender didn’t even think it was worth sticking too tightly to him there, and had given him plenty of space.

Double M knew better. As well as I knew Saeed’s game at that point, and as much as I’d come to expect from him, I didn’t see what he saw. I sure as hell wouldn’t have done what Double M did: he waited, slowed the action so that the defenders, smelling blood, rushed him. Then he did this thing—I can only compare it
to a chip shot in golf—where you strike the ball at such an angle it floats up, then out. Right to the unguarded Saeed, who turned it around instantly and sent one of his on-the-wings-of-angels shots toward the goal.

And of course it went in. High, in the corner, a perfect shot the goalie couldn’t possibly reach.

We think we’re all playing the same game, but we’re not. Saeed and the guys? They try things we don’t try. They have shots and they do stuff they learned playing dirt-yard pickup soccer in Kenya. Nothing they’re teaching us here in Enniston, or from a private coach with a British accent in the heated dome in Portland. Maquoit couldn’t defend against that. Couldn’t anticipate it coming.

It was
so
sweet.

And that’s how it went, for 110 minutes of play. Chamberlain pulling up with this unexpected, wild-ass soccer we’d never played before, and Maquoit battling back, because they were, after all, Maquoit. One hundred and ten minutes of running our guts out for two halves and two overtimes. One hundred and ten minutes of yellow cards, good calls, crap calls, and fans screaming themselves hoarse. And after those 110 minutes the score was tied, 1–1. Which meant it came down to PKs.

Penalty kicks. The most godawful, heartbreaking way to end a game. All that effort, and it’s decided with the five best kickers from each team doing battle, one-on-one, against their opponent’s goalie. They each line up, take aim, and fire the ball. It almost always goes in: it’s nearly impossible for a goalie to block a penalty kick.

So you wait, pray, hope, for a mistake. Some kicker to blow the
shot by going wide and ricocheting the ball off the side of the goal, or blasting it high over the top. Or aiming it directly at the goalie, who can’t help but stop it. Sometimes the goalie makes an incredible save off an awesome shot, and that’s cool. But pretty much a game that ends with penalty kicks is about someone screwing up.

Which sucks, no matter which side you’re on.

Coach chose the five: me, Saeed, Ibrahim, Ismail, Mike Turcotte. Pete LeBourdais was in goal. We headed out.

Maquoit kicked first, with Alex Rhodes starting. Pete faced him, hands out to his sides, feet planted wide, knees bent. He was totally ready to dive, leap, whatever it took, when … 
pow!
Alex fired; Pete hurled himself to the right. But Alex faked him out but good, because he’d just lasered the ball into the left corner of the goal. Maquoit: 1. Spectators screamed ferociously.

I was up next. Their goalie was a senior named Luke Hanson. Enormous guy with great reflexes. He played center for the Maquoit basketball team in the winter and could get some serious air when he tried. He was not as good down low, however. I took aim and shot in the opposite corner from where Alex had just shot. Luke didn’t get anywhere near it: 1–1. Equally ferocious screaming.