Poor Kearson probably still has no idea the shit her “friends” secretly talked about her last season. They pretended to be thrilled for her, of course, when Kearson first got called up to varsity to cover for Phoebe Holt after she sprained her ACL. But when Kearson completely choked, the JV team barely concealed their glee. Grace saw it firsthand, the way they clutched each other in the locker room, grins equal parts euphoric and morbid, as a classmate who’d been at the varsity game texted all the lowlights of Kearson’s debut. It was beyond gross.
Grace wriggles in her seat. It’s a relief to leave those girls behind. The varsity squad doesn’t operate that way. Coach wouldn’t stand for it.
“Ready, Grace?” Ali asks.
“Yup.” Grace’s smile widens, as if controlled by the stereo volume dial, which Ali turns up even louder. And feeling as much glee as relief, she discreetly watches in the side-view mirror as the JV girls crane their necks, tracking the Jeep until it’s gone from the parking lot.
“You said you live on Dormont Road?” Ali shouts over her music.
“Dorchester.”
“Right, sorry.” Keeping one hand on the wheel, Ali reaches into the center console and unzips a small makeup bag. Inside are a package of Korean face wipes, the same ones Chuck swears by, and she uses a sheet to blot her forehead and the sides of her nose. “Grace? Remember the girl you elbowed yesterday? What was her name?”
“Marissa Szabo.”
“Is she the one who went to prom with Ryan Durst?”
“I … I’m not sure.”
“Yeah. I think she did. I remember her dress was cute.” Ali wrinkles her nose. “Wait. Except the back was weird. It had these crisscrossing straps.”
“Just so you know, I didn’t elbow Marissa on purpose,” Grace clarifies. Even though Marissa’s been a total bitch to her since basically kindergarten, Grace still felt bad about the accidental contact, especially when Marissa made a big show of rubbing her jaw and wincing afterward.
Ali waves away Grace’s concern. “Oh. Without a doubt. I mean, if Marissa still hasn’t figured out that she needs to look at who’s coming at her and not down at the ball after a year of playing JV …” She pauses and shrugs half-heartedly. “She’s kind of a lost cause, you know?”
Grace presses her palms lightly to her warm cheeks. Everything Ali said is the truth, and yet this conversation feels surreal. Though Marissa and Grace are the same age, Marissa has already dated a senior and gone to prom and gotten a solo during the holiday concert. In any normally functioning high school social universe, Marissa would be the one in Ali’s Jeep, forging a friendship, not her.
And yet, Grace had barely stepped inside Coach’s classroom before Ali made a beeline for her, as if she’d already picked Grace out from the other new girls who’d made the team, the scrappy mutt puppy she was set on adopting. It had to be for how hard Grace had played this week. Any time that Coach had put Grace on the same team as Ali for a scrimmage, Grace busted her butt to clear every single ball she possibly could before it ever reached Ali in the goalie crease.
This is the magic of the Wildcats. The comradery of the West Essex varsity field hockey girls obliterates all other high school social hierarchies. In fact, while other sports teams at West Essex wear the same school colors and share the same mascot, it is only the varsity field hockey girls who are referred to as, simply, Wildcats. That’s how tight they are.
Ali stretches past her open roofline, momentarily changing the sound of the air. “Anyway, Grace, when I saw you strip that pass from Marissa, I knew you’d make varsity.” She reaches over and pinches Grace’s arm playfully. “I bet Coach starts you tomorrow.”
Though today’s workout was maybe the hardest thing she’s ever physically endured, Grace feels a sudden zip of new, excited energy pumping through her body, a transfusion brought on, perhaps, by so many of her dreams coming true in quick succession. She twists in her seat so she can look at Ali head-on. “Well. If I am that lucky, I want you to know that I’m going to be all over Darlene Maguire tomorrow.”
Ali stiffens. “Do you know her?” She turns down the volume of the music.
Grace clears her throat. “Me? No. Not personally.” But everyone knows of Darlene Maguire. She is the reason why the Oak Knolls Bulldogs beat the Wildcats in the championship game last season. Darlene scored on Ali twice, the only two goals of the match, a couple of seconds apart, near the end of the second half. Grace now wishes she hadn’t mentioned Darlene Maguire, but for whatever reason, she keeps talking, explaining. “I made a point to watch her at Kissawa this summer. She has basically one move, which is to make defenders think she’s slowing up to take a shot, but then breaking into a sprint and beating them into the key.”
Ali manages a small nod, too small for Grace to pretend it affirms anything she’s just said. Instead it appears to be punctuation in a conversation Ali is having with herself.
Grace turns back to the windshield. Shit.
Ali eventually says, “I went to a special goalie skills camp this summer. That’s why I wasn’t at Kissawa.” She swallows. “I mean, I don’t know if anyone said anything about me not being there.…”
“No,” Grace says. “No one said anything to me.”
She feels bad for even bringing any of this up. Of course Ali would take the Wildcats’ championship loss super personally. Though it’s not just on her. The defenders didn’t have her back. The offense didn’t score. Mel hadn’t managed a single goal after Phoebe’s injury, which was why the Wildcats tied the last two regular-season games before the championship game zero to zero. Though if Kearson had stepped up and played better in Phoebe’s stead, maybe Mel could have?
But there’s no way Grace is going to dig into any of that right now. Not when the atmosphere in the classroom post-tryouts was so exuberant. Not when Phoebe has been cleared to play again. Not when Coach came back for another season. Not when the Wildcats seem more determined than ever to make a comeback.
Ali seems to be thinking the same thing. She takes a deep, cleansing breath. “It’s going to feel so good when we beat Oak Knolls tomorrow.”
“So fucking good,” Grace says.
Ali cracks up laughing. And any lingering awkwardness floats up and out of the Jeep’s open top.
* * *
Grace kicks the front door closed behind her. “Nana! I’m ho-ome!” she sings, and sashays into the living room, excited to spill her good news.
Nana’s not in her favorite armchair, though the seat cushion remains concave despite her absent weight. Instead, Grace finds Chuck—or a lump of blankets she assumes is her brother—sleeping on the living room couch. He has the window shades pulled down, cartoons flashing bright colors on mute.
“Nana went to the store.” Chuck rolls over under the blankets.
“Shit. Sorry.” She sets her gear down quietly, leans her stick against the wall. “I didn’t think you’d be home.”
Before he ventured into the city with his friends last night, Grace told Chuck she wouldn’t need him to pick her up at the high school the following day. Her thinking? If Grace made varsity, one of her new teammates would take her home. And if she didn’t, she wouldn’t have to cry about it in front of him.