The Field (5 page)

“Thanks. You, too!” I say and wave at him mockingly. Then I crouch down and do a couple squat-jumps.
Focus. Next one is DENIED!

The rest of the scrimmage goes pretty well. I make some good saves. Brett gets scored on once, too, but it was really bad. When the ball was shot, it caught him totally off guard. He didn't even move. He just stood there and watched it go by. It was totally savable. He did get in a couple good saves, though. It's hard to tell who the coaches will go with to start tomorrow night.

After practice, as we walk to the parking lot where his car is parked, Will asks, “What do you think about Dr. Auberge and that Energy Field stuff from AP Enviro?”

“I thought it was pretty cool, but a little ‘out-there.' I mean, it's incredible to think about it, and as my little brother is always saying, ‘anything's possible.'”

“Yeah, totally. I was thinking we might sign up for that study he's doing with pairs, since we're teammates. It might help with the internship, and we could make some money. Maybe get you in good with Renee's dad, too. You interested?” He stops to unlock his car with his key and gives me a sly look. The Taurus is so old, it doesn't have a remote opener.

“Sure, why not? But I don't think getting in good with Dr. Auberge will get me anywhere with Renee.” I slide into the passenger seat and put my bag on the floor by my feet. “I asked her
if she wanted to get together after the game tomorrow night.” My turn to give the sly look.

“Whoa, dude! What'd she say?” Will slaps his leg and then puts the car in reverse.

“She said ‘yes.'” I can't help smiling.
She said yes
.

W
ILL DROPS ME
off in my driveway. I grab a drink from the fridge in the garage on my way into the house and drop my bag by the laundry machine. My soccer clothes need immediate attention. I'm supposed to be doing my own laundry, but I've discovered that if I leave my dirty clothes in the laundry room my mom will usually do it for me. Hope springs eternal. In the kitchen, my mom is talking on her cell phone and still wearing her work clothes. She's crashing around with the pots and pans, too. The total multi-tasker. I'm about to head upstairs to shower when she stops me. “I need you to pick up Drew from his soccer practice after you shower.”

“Aww, come on Mom. I need a break. I've been gone all day,” I say, knowing it probably won't work, but it's worth a try.

“Well, I've been gone all day, too, and my meeting went late, and now I have to get dinner on the table, so if you want anything to eat, you'll help me out here.” The pots crash more loudly.

“Alright, alright, I'll go. Where's his practice?”

“Cherry Street Park. Today's my day to carpool, so you'll have to drop off two other boys, Hunter and Evan. You need to be there in half an hour. Thanks.” Now her head's in the refrigerator.

“Okay.” I take the stairs two at a time, grab a quick shower and change into a pair of shorts and a M
ONROE
H
IGH
S
CHOOL
V
ARSITY
S
OCCER
t-shirt from my bedroom floor. A little wrinkled, but not smelly—passable. I'm starving, so I snag a bag of pretzels from the pantry to eat on the way, and then stop in the laundry room and shove a load of really rank soccer clothes into the washer. I'm feeling in a helpful mood. Then I start up the minivan, and plug my iPhone into the console and hit the road.

The park is on the other side of town, and I decide to drive through the center of town instead of taking the bypass. It takes a little longer, especially now during rush hour, if you can call it that, but there'll be a lot of people hanging out and I like the scenic route. Since this is a college town, the downtown has a lot of restaurants and shops and even a few art galleries along with several bars frequented by the college students. The sidewalks are wide to accommodate pedestrians and bikes and to encourage shopping. A lot of kids from the high school hang out on the main street after school.

I'm stopped at a red light jamming out, rapping my fingers to the beat on the steering wheel, and checking out the crowd to see if I know anyone, when I see Will's dad coming out of a restaurant. I'm about to roll down my window to call out to him when I see that he's not alone. He's holding the door open for a young woman, which would be okay, except that it's not okay. Something about the way they're acting gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. My greeting dies in my throat. She's very attractive and much younger than Will's mom and she's laughing and leaning into Will's dad in a flirty kind of way. They turn onto the sidewalk and Will's dad puts his hand in the small of her back to guide her around a group of students. Then a car honks behind me and I look up to see that the light's changed to green.

I drive the rest of the way to Drew's practice on autopilot.
Did I just see Will's dad with another woman?
I'm pretty freaked,
since I've known Mr. Asplunth since grade school and spent countless hours at their house hanging out or sleeping over. He's almost like an uncle to me. And what do I say to Will?
Should
I say anything to Will? I didn't really see anything, anyway, right? They were out in broad daylight in the middle of town where anyone could see them. I know I'm trying to convince myself because my clenched gut is telling me it wasn't right.

Drew's team is still practicing when I pull into the gravel parking lot, so I park the car and get out to watch the eight year olds play. I walk to the front of the van and lean against the hood, still warm from the engine. The boys are scrimmaging; half of them have on orange ‘pinnies' over their t-shirts. At this age, they're still not doing much in the way of plays or strategies, but its way better than the five year olds who all go after the ball in a bunch like a swarm of bees.

That thought brings me back to Will's dad again. He was our coach for a couple years before we started playing travel soccer. We would've been just about Drew's age. I think about Will's mom … and then I don't want to think about Will's mom.
Shit
. I kick at a clod of dirt. It's so dry that it bursts into a cloud of dust.

A honking noise brings my eyes overhead. A group of Canada geese in V-formation flies past, low over the fields and players, honking loudly. The ‘V' is a bit ragged; one side is shorter than the other and a few birds straggle behind. It seems too early for them to be practicing flying south, but then I'm not sure if they ever migrate at all, as there always seem to be geese on all the ponds and lakes, even in winter. I start thinking about what makes them fly together like that. I mean, some of it must be instinct, but how do they communicate with each other while they're flying about who is going to lead and which direction to
fly? Is it just by sight or do they sense something more? I remember watching a show on Nova one time that showed how when large flocks of birds fly together you can actually see the waves of movement roll across the flock when it changes direction and that the wave moves faster than the birds could react by simply observing their neighbor and then changing course.

The show didn't really have an explanation for it, just a lot of theories, one of which was that the birds knew what to do from observing the birds farther away in the flock, but I didn't think that made sense. The wave moved so uniformly across the flock, I just felt like the birds had to be communicating another way.

The coach stops play and calls the boys over. They get drinks from their water bottles and gather their gear while he talks to them, and then they separate into groups of two and three and start walking slowly toward the parking lot and the waiting parents.

“Hey, Drew, over here!” I call out and wave. He sees me and starts running over. There's enough of an age difference between us that I have a sort-of demi-god status in his eyes. Even more so now that I'm on the Varsity team.

“Eriiiccccc!” he calls out, slamming into me and encircling my waist with his arms. It's good to be loved.

“Hey, buddy,” I say, and give him a playful wrestle. Two other boys come running over.

“Are you on the Varsity soccer team at Monroe?” one of them asks.

“Yup,” I answer.

“That is so cool,” the other boy says.

“He's the goalkeeper.” Drew says proudly, standing with his arm around me possessively.

“You guys should come to the game tomorrow night. We play Northbrook at 7 o'clock.” I slide the doors of the van open with the remote. “Hop in.” They scramble in, chattering about going to the game. I pull out of the parking lot and hear honking coming from behind us. The geese are taking another practice run, and as they come into view and glide past, higher in the sky, I see that this time they form a perfect V.

O
NE COOL THING
about being on the soccer team is that we all wear our jerseys to school before home games. We don't get the same attention as the football players, but it still feels good to walk the halls and have people know that I'm on the team. The real reason for wearing our jerseys is to drum up attendance from the student body at the games. My clothing selection is pertinent today, as Cole and I are designing a survey for Psych class on “What Do You Find Attractive,” or as Cole calls it—the Hot or Not survey. We have to put together a poster with charts and present our findings to the class.

“So, we need to come up with four or five articles of clothing or appearance for both guys and girls as our ‘hot-o-meter' selection criteria,” Cole says. The class has broken into teams of two, and we've pushed our desks close so we can work together. “I'm thinking we could use the survey to ask veiled questions about the stuff we like to wear to determine its attractiveness to chicks.”

“Okay … like shorts and jeans and t-shirts?” I ask, since that's mostly what I wear.

“No, everybody wears shorts and t-shirts. I mean like glasses.” He writes this down on the list. Cole, of course, wears glasses. “And sports team jerseys. More specific.”

“We should ask about things we don't like that girls wear so maybe they'll get the message and stop. Add body piercing to the list.” I tap the paper with my pen.

“Right, but I think we should have two categories, because belly-button piercing is definitely hot.”

“Okay, and put down those boots that all the girls wear—Uggs, I think. Definitely not hot.”

“We need more for guys.” He looks me over for ideas. “Long hair. Do we need categories for that, though? Short, medium, long?”

“Sure, why not? Should we add flannel shirts? It's too warm now, but I wear those in the winter.”

“Ummm … okay, I'll put it down.”

We keep brainstorming and come up with a pretty good list for the survey. The fun part is the data gathering, where we get to ask all the students their opinions. At lunch we ask the guys sitting at our table the questions about girls. The general consensus is that mini-skirts and tank tops are Hot, and Uggs are Not. No real surprises there.

A
FTER SCHOOL, WE
do light warm ups to get ready for the game. JV plays at five and Varsity has to watch their game from the stands, so now I'm suited up and sitting with the guys on the top of the bleachers chilling out until our game. The sun is high in a perfectly blue sky and it feels awesome—not as hot as it has been. There's pretty good student attendance for JV. It's Friday night, which helps, and there's always a core group of soccer
fans that comes to the games. More if it's on a Friday or Saturday, and if it's a tight game, like tonight. Of course, the parents are out in force. Some of them are pretty rabid fans. Yelling at the players and refs from the sidelines. I like it that my parents come to my games, but I want this to be for me, not them. Fortunately, they don't yell a lot. I'm trying not to think too much about whether I'm starting or not, but I'm definitely nervous. Brett is sitting with some of the Seniors at the far end of the risers looking unconcerned. Paul's right in front of me, and I have to comment on the fact that he's spiked his black hair into a Mohawk.

“I didn't know you have Native American blood,” I say, as I lightly touch my hand to the pointy tops of his hair.

Paul turns to look at me, his almond eyes squinting even more into the sun. “One hundred percent Asian American, man. I just thought the 'hawk looked aggressive. Psych them out, y'know?”

“You definitely look scary,” I say, deadpan.

“Yeah, well imagine how scary you're gonna look when we make Regionals and we shave your head.”

“Sorry, no can do. I'm like Sampson with my strength in my hair.” I laugh. I turn my attention to the game. “If their Varsity plays as good as their JV is playing, it looks like Coach is right about Northbrook being tough this year.” Our team is holding their own, but its zero-zero at halftime.

“They're always tough. It's their All-State striker we're gonna have to mark. You'll need to be on your best game.” He says it matter-of-factly and looks away. I wonder what he knows, but I don't say anything more.

About halfway through the second half, Coach Vince calls us down from the stands and we file down the aisles, our cleats
ringing loudly on the metal risers. “Go Monroe!” call out some of the spectators when we pass by. As we're walking around the field, I see my parents, Drew and his two friends from soccer, and Marcie and her friend Sara, arriving. It's like the whole entourage. No pressure here or anything, but I'm glad they came. They're here early to watch the warm-ups.

“Hey,” I say casually and stop to see them.

“Hey, bud,” my dad says. “Just do your best and have fun tonight.” He cuffs me lightly on the shoulder.

“Have a good game, honey,” says my mom.