“Whose turn is it?” Holly asked as she nervously checked the monitor above our lane.
Then Cole placed a hand on Meeka’s shoulder and said, “You’re right. She feels victimized. And it’s a shame she’s suffering through those feelings.”
Meeka took a long, deep breath and then put her hand on top of Cole’s. She squeezed tight, like she cared. Or maybe she was angry. I wasn’t sure which.
Grayson cleared his throat, grabbed his ball, shuffled down the lane, and promptly rolled a strike. The sound of the pins and his triumphant howl pulled us away from the conversation and we didn’t return to it for the rest of the night.
It was a good night after that. We had fun.
* * *
• • •
Was it a boy or a possum? I drive the dark roads looking for either, hoping for any moving thing to test against my memory. The woods are as impenetrable as velvet curtains and yet I keep searching. As much as I don’t want to, I go by the rail trail lot, around the Malvern Loop, and past Meeka’s place, retracing our route, hoping something will pop out and skitter across the road. When fog rolls in, I can’t even fight the darkness in front of me. My headlights barely cut through and so I drive slow and my heart goes fast. I want to be home in bed. I keep driving and I don’t see much of anything but the fog. Thankfully I know my way.
When I get home, Mom is still up. It’s not a surprise because she watches a lot of movies. Or if there’s a big news story going on, she flips from news channel to news channel. Tonight, she’s watching something old, in black and white, with violins on the soundtrack. She turns it down when she hears me walking past the family room.
“Hey, bud,” she calls out.
“Hey,” I say, and I poke my head in.
“Good party?”
“Eh.”
She pulls Dad’s book off the armchair and places it on the coffee table, which is her way of asking me to sit down. I want to tell her I’m going to bed, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to for a moment who actually cares about how I’m feeling. Even if I can’t tell her how I’m feeling.
I flop into the seat and rub my eyes.
“Better not be drunk,” she says.
“Tired,” I reply.
“You were safe?”
“I drove as slow as humanly possible.”
She pauses the movie on the blond heroine, who’s all curls and winks. “Was Holly there?”
“Yeah, but I hardly talked to her.”
“She’s such a great kid,” Mom says, and I know she’s not saying it because she wishes I was still dating Holly. It’s almost like she wants to be a teenager again herself so she can be Holly’s friend. Not that I blame her. Everyone loves Holly, especially the people who don’t really know her well.
“I wish I could sleep for a week,” I tell Mom.
She smiles proudly and says, “There’s no rest when you’re trying to change the world.”
It’s eleven thirty on Friday night and I have to be up at five thirty so I can go with Dad to Montpelier and have a “business” breakfast with some state senator who’s supposed to help me find political support for Logan’s Heroes. I’m thankful for this. There’s no question about that. I realize how privileged I am to have a dad who can actually set up a breakfast with an elected official. But it doesn’t mean that these things aren’t still physically and mentally exhausting.
I know. It beats working at a fast-food joint, which I can confirm because that’s something I’ve done. And even though it was probably as good a fast-food job as a teen could get—it was an organic, locally sourced burrito place called Rita’s Ritos, after all—the hours sucked, the kitchen was always boiling hot, and the customers were hardly ever appreciative. Working food service will teach you a lot about the world. Dad told me that, and I learned how right he was my first day on the job. It’s not something I ever want to do again. The nonprofit life is the one for me. So if that means waking up early and talking to stuffy people over crepes to achieve my goal, then I’ll count myself as blessed.
* * *
• • •
I’m in bed, arms crossed over my chest. The temperature is dropping but the heat hasn’t kicked on because oil prices are inching up and there’s no reason to keep a house above sixty degrees at night. At least that’s my parents’ attitude, and I really can’t say anything about it until I’m “the one buying the oil.”
I pull the covers to my chin and I recross my arms underneath. I imagine the covers are a layer of pebbles, covered in a layer of dirt, covered in snow. Mom left the porch light on and its glow creeps across the lawn and into my window. Outside, a few flakes are falling.
I’ve averaged about three hours of sleep each night for the last week. I don’t think my body can handle so little for much longer. At best, I might get five hours tonight.
I close my eyes.
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 5
SEVEN DAYS AFTER
HOLLY
THE GROUND IS FROZEN and the ball skip, skip, skips across midfield and onto my foot. Good first touch and I’m off. A lot of turf in front of me but no D nearby, so I give the ball some space. Sprint sprint touch, sprint sprint touch.
Kaci streaks down the right wing. She’s open, but there’s no chance. Her foot’s been a brick all day. Shots too high, crosses too wide. Riley calls for the ball, but I don’t see her and she’s rarely where she needs to be. I’m taking it myself.
The stopper is on me.
Quick stepover and her feet are in concrete.
Like that, I’m at the top of the circle.
“Holly!”
“Holly!”
“On your right, your right!”
They’re delusional. I’m in the box, I’ve come this far and . . .
Drop a shoulder, chop the ball, sweeper’s beat.
Me and the goalie. Fake left, then pop it with the outside of my right foot.
Pop, skip, side net.
Hat trick.
Forty-eight. Forty-eight. Forty-eight.
My record. My record. For as long as—
Cole.
There are patches of time when he’s out of my head. Adrenaline will chase him away. But as soon as it fades, he’s back. He’s all I think about for the final minutes of the game. As we clear the ball and stall, as we exercise restraint. No reason to keep the pressure on now that I’ve got the record. Now that I’ve got the record, Cole is all that matters.