by Mary Amato
Right before the game starts, some clouds swing in and cover the sun.
“Perfect way to play,” Langley says.
I look up at the clouds. “Yeah, I ordered them on eBay.”
He laughs.
“Hey, what was Stevins saying about Xander and some catalog?”
“Xander was on the cover of last month’s Eurogear catalog.”
I can’t believe it. I thought Xander looked like somebody who stepped out of a catalog, and it turns out to be true.
Bam. Ball in. Game starts.
Langley is first to the ball. He passes it to me. Diamond is on the other team, and she gets right in my face, trying to distract me. “You can’t stop me now,” she’s singing, she’s actually singing on the field.
I pull the ball back. “New strategy, huh? Sing in your opponent’s face?”
“You can’t stop me now!” she sings.
“Want to bet?” I sing back, do a smooth little fake, and leave her in the dust.
Diamond laughs.
I’m not worried about her. It’s zip-lipped Juan, who is playing for the other team. He’s real little, but he’s unbelievably fast. Every time I get the ball, he’s on me. I pass the ball to Langley, who tries to score twice. Finally we get one in. Langley does this funny victory jump.
The ball goes to their team. Juan fights off Langley, but Langley is determined to get it back. Juan passes it, Langley intercepts and pulls the ball away. He passes it to me, and I score before they know what hit them.
McCloud and Musgrove!
I let loose with my crazy victory dance, legs all wobbly, which makes everybody laugh.
Ball in again. Now Juan is on fire. He scores.
“Where did he come from?” Langley asks.
“Let’s get it back,” I say.
Now it’s like Langley and I are connected by an invisible line and we can read each other’s minds. I steal the ball, and Langley positions himself just right. My pass is high, but Langley jumps up and heads it in.
We get one more in before the whistle blows. Four to one.
I break into another victory dance. McCloud and Musgrove!
Sometimes life is so good it feels like you’ve got joy running inside your veins instead of blood.
On our way in, Langley and I walk together, passing a ball back and forth, and he notices the Musgrove on my shoes and goes crazy when I tell him I did it myself. “What are you, like, a professional graphic designer?”
I tell him he’ll be MVP for the school team and ask him how their season was last year.
“I don’t know if we’re trying out,” he says. “Xander and I are on The Plague. It’s an MCS Elite travel team. What league are you playing in?”
My mom says truth gets you respect and lies get you trouble, but sometimes I think you have to spruce up the truth a little to make the right impression. I can’t tell him that I’ve never played anything but street soccer, so I tell him I haven’t found a league yet because I just moved.
It works with Langley. “We’re down a striker,” he says. “You should try out. Tell your dad to check out the MCS Elite Web site or have him call my dad. He’s one of the team managers. We’re having the last tryout this Wednesday after school. Buckingham Park.”
“Sure,” I say, and nod like it’s no big deal. Inside I’m doing the craziest victory dance ever.
Xander joins up and starts in with a play-by-play of his game as we head back toward the school. I imagine that there’s a movie camera above us, capturing this shot of three incredibly skilled soccer players talking and laughing and passing the ball back and forth as they walk down the field. Pierce, McCloud, and Musgrove!
“Hey,” Langley says. “Musgrove is going to talk to his dad about trying out for The Plague.”
Xander stops the ball. Unexpected silence.
“You should see him play,” Langley says quickly. “We need another good striker.”
I’m freaking out because it seems like Xander doesn’t approve for some reason, but then Langley says, “Trust me. This guy can play.”
Xander nods like it’s cool and passes Langley the ball. I breathe a little sigh of relief.
“We missed first place last year because of a penalty kick in the last five minutes of the game,” Xander explains to me. “It was a total crock. The ref was so biased. This year, we have to make first.”
Langley passes me the ball and says to Xander, “He’s thinking about trying out for the school team, too. Right, Musgrove?”
“Yeah.” I pass Xander the ball.
He stops it. “No. You don’t want to do that. Coach Stevins doesn’t know squat. He was a football player.”
I look around. Lucky for Xander the coach isn’t close enough to hear.
Langley shrugs. “I still think it might be fun.”
“No way. We have to focus on taking The Plague to the top.”
Langley pops up the ball and starts to dribble it. “The school team does have the worst name in the history of school names … the Toilets. Can you believe it?”
“No way.”
“It’s really the Toilers, but everybody says Toilets.”
“You can’t play for the Toilets,” Xander adds. “It’s just the dregs on that team. Besides, all the scouts come to check out the MCS Elite games.”
Langley boots the ball over to the side, where the coach is collecting them. “Have your dad talk to my dad. Bring your shin guards and cleats on Wednesday and you can walk over to the field with us.”
“We both live in Buckingham Heights,” Xander says. “Right over there.” He points. “Where are you?”
I don’t want to say Deadly Gardens and I don’t want to explain that I don’t have cleats, so it’s change-the-subject time. “Wait a minute, I have to do something.” I start doing my victory dance. “I’m reliving that second-to-last goal we got. Wasn’t that sweet?”
Langley laughs. “Musgrove gives me a perfect pass and I head it,” he tells Xander, and he breaks into his victory dance, too.
Xander starts talking to Langley about how his dad is taking him to The Soccer Loft to get new cleats tonight and about how the cleats are designed with a combination of ultrathin kangaroo leather and microfiber. “The whole team should get them,” Xander says. “We’d absolutely fry with those. Get your dad to bring you tonight just in case you make the team.”
“Then we could talk our dads into stopping at Mama Bella’s for chocolate gelato. My dad can’t resist my poor boy face,” Langley says to me, and makes this funny begging face.
I don’t know what gelato is, but I say, “My dad can’t resist mine, either,” and I give him my funny begging face. “Me needo my gelato.”
Langley laughs.
“Hey, maybe we’ll see you tonight,” Langley says. “I’ll text you when we’re going. What’s your number?”
“My number? I lost my phone.”
“Ouch. Get a new one, man.”
I get the address of The Soccer Loft. It would be unbelievably cool to meet up with them later.
5.
DAD
You never really know what another person is thinking because most human beings are good actors. I’m an excellent actor. If somebody is talking about a dad, like “My dad is going to buy me some new cleats,” I act like it’s no big deal.
Sometimes I say my dad is away on a business trip. Sometimes I say my parents are divorced. The truth is I don’t know what my dad looks like or where he is exactly. I know he’s in jail somewhere in Delaware, but I stopped asking my mom about him because she just says, “He blew it big-time,” and then she clamps her mouth shut. Sometimes I try to send out good thoughts to him so that maybe he’ll feel them and write me a letter or something. But sometimes I look out the window and feel bad thoughts streaming out of me like a virus on invisible lines. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
Nothing more to say.
6.
CLEATS
“No!”
Her voice falls like an ax.
“Pretty please with whipped cream and three cherries …”
“No.” My mom grabs her backpack. “Everybody needs to stop asking me for things.” She throws Michael a look, which means they must have been fighting about something. When she turns her back, Michael sticks his tongue out at her.
I get down on my knees. “This is all I’m ever going to ask for. Ever.”
“Trev, that lady who said she was gonna pay me to take care of her kids? Now she’s saying sorry, but she made other plans. I knocked on doors. I put up signs. Something’ll come through, but we have to scrimp right now.”
“I thought we moved ’cause this place was so cheap.”
“It’s cheaper than the old place, but it’s still more than we’ll be able to afford if I don’t pull in more. I got us a couple of camping mattresses at Save the Children, but we need other stuff, too. I don’t have enough to cover the cell phone bill this month. We can’t even think about getting a regular phone.”
Steam is practically coming out of Michael’s ears he’s so mad. “I need a new backpack.” He lays each word down like a brick.
“Oh, that reminds me. I need a notebook for science.” It’s out of my mouth even though I know it’s going to make her crazy.
“How come all my children were born without ears?” she screeches. “Michael, your backpack is fine. Trev, ask for a notebook at the office. They got supplies if you ask. And I’m sorry, but we can’t get shin guards and cleats right now. Tish, be good. I’m going to the store to get some milk and put up some more signs. Stay in here.” Bam. She’s out the door and banging on it from the other side. “Lock this thing right now, Trev. And keep it locked.”
Michael throws his shoe at the door. “Everybody says I’m garbage because I have a garbage backpack. Everybody has a superhero backpack but me.”
Tish looks at me like she’s going to cry, so I pick her up. Her diaper stinks.
“Okay, Little Man, keep your pants on. First of all, Mom is right. Your backpack is fine. How come I know? Because I’ve got the same one. It’s not a Nike, but you don’t see me complaining about that. It’s better than fine. It’s scorching red. Nice and plain. Tell those punks in kindergarten that’s the best kind. What we need here is a strategy and some food. I’m so hungry I can’t think.”
Tish bounces in my arms. “Me wan food.”
“No bounce bounce with that stinky diaper,” I tell Tish. “Why can’t you learn to use the potty?”
Michael grumbles, “I want a hot dog and root beer.”
“Me woo bee!” Tish bounces again and whaps me on the head.
“Ow! No bang bang on people’s heads, Little Cavewoman.”
In the cupboard, there’s one box of mac and cheese, one box of blue Jell-O, and one loaf of bread. All that’s in the fridge is a bottle of chocolate syrup.
Without milk the mac and cheese won’t taste right, so I make toast and drizzle chocolate syrup on it. To drink, I sprinkle blue Jell-O powder in sippy cups and add water. “Blue beer!” I hand it off. Michael actually grins and looks at me like I’m a high-class chef.
“Boo bee!” Tish says, and sucks her blue beer down.
“Booby! She said booby!” Michael’s eyes get real big and we all crack up. As Tish drinks, her two little teeth turn blue, which makes me and Michael laugh even more.
“Okay, now we need a plan.”
“For what?” Michael asks.
“To get on Mom’s good side. She has a little extra money saved up. She calls it the ‘emergency fund.’ We need to talk her into borrowing some for shin guards and cleats.”
I look around. I’d clean the place up, but Mom already scrubbed it—she even scrubbed the chalk drawing off the wall—and there’s nothing to put away. We might as well be living inside a cardboard box.
“What about me getting a backpack?” Michael asks.
“If I get shin guards and cleats, I’ll make this important team, and then I’ll get spotted by a scout and become a famous soccer player, and I’ll buy you whatever backpack you want.”
“A superhero backpack?”
“Yep.”
That gets him thinking. “We could make Momma a picture!” he says. “I made one but my teacher won’t let me bring it home.”
I don’t know if a picture is really going to do the trick, but Michael is all excited now, and it’s better than nothing. “Score one for Little Man!” I say. “Something to cover up that hole. It’s a start anyway, right?”
All we got are a few pens and four colored pencils. What I really like best are markers. “Come on. Let’s see if we can borrow some markers.”
“Momma says stay here,” Michael argues.
“She meant stay here most of the time. We’re just gonna go quickly and come right back. It’ll be a secret, so don’t tell her.”
I pick up Tish and we walk down the five flights. A couple of other kids are out, including Diamond. I’d ask her but she’s sitting on the curb getting yelled at by some huge mean-looking man. She’s definitely not singing now, if you know what I mean.
A big guy named Markus, who is in my Computer Applications class, is riding around and around the parking lot on a tiny bike, so I ask him if he’s got any markers I could borrow because my little brother has this project he has to do.
Michael takes his thumb out of his mouth. “Trev, you’re the one—”
“Don’t worry, Michael, I’m gonna help you with it,” I say real fast because I don’t particularly want Markus knowing that we’re planning to draw a pretty picture for our mommy.
“What do I get in return?” Markus asks.
“I could do your name on your shoe,” I say. “Graffiti style.”
I show him my name on my shoe.
“Nice.” He nods. He takes us over to his building and up to the second floor, where he lives with his grandma. Never seen so much stuff jammed into one room.
“Man, you must be rich,” I say.
“I get everything on discount,” he says, and wiggles his fingers. “The five-finger discount.”
I look at Michael to see if he knows that Markus is talking about stealing, but Michael just takes his thumb out of his mouth and whispers, “Smells good in here!”
“Grandma’s spaghetti,” Markus says. He pulls a drawer out of a desk and sets it on the dining table. It’s like a whole dang store full of markers, some looking brand-new.
Mom would kill me if she knew I was borrowing markers from somebody who stole stuff, because that was one of my dad’s problems. You can’t take what you want, she says, you have to earn it.
Markus sets a pair of shoes on the table, even nicer than the ones he’s got on. All white. “Show me first what it’s gonna look like,” he says.
He wants his first name so I design it on paper and make a deal that I can keep a handful of markers if I do one shoe.
He loves it.
“You got to do the other one now,” Markus says.
“I’ll do the other one for some paper. You got any bigger than this?”
“You don’t even got paper? Man, where you come from? Shelter?”
That last comment ticks me off. At least I’m earning what I got, I want to say, but crossing the line with Markus would just get me in the kind of trouble I don’t need.
I zip the lips and stay focused. Markus coughs up the paper, I do the other shoe, and we head back home.
Diamond is sitting on the curb, alone now, banging a plastic water bottle against the fence, saying over and over a word that Michael and Tish aren’t supposed to even know exists.
Michael grabs my hand because he’s scared, and you might think it’s ridiculous to be scared of a skinny girl with a bad mouth, but you haven’t seen Diamond. When she’s messing around she’s funny, but when she’s mad her eyes look like they could cut you.
I try to help Michael laugh it off. “That bottle must’ve done something bad,” I say, and Diamond looks up
.
“It was a joke,” I say.
“I know. I ain’t stupid.” She bangs it again.
“Who’s she?” Michael whispers.
“She’s a famous female recording artist from school,” I say. “Her name is Diamond.”
Diamond’s hard face breaks into a smile. She holds the plastic bottle like a microphone and sings, “Baby, baby, if you love me, set me free!”
I guess she got her groove back. The truth is she’s got a good voice, but I’m not about to tell her that because she’ll think it’s a marriage proposal or something.
“You trying out for the soccer team?” she asks.
“I’m trying out for a travel team. The Plague.”
“With Xander and all them?” She practically spits. “The only reason they win is because their heads are five times bigger than everybody else’s. Nobody can get around them.”
Michael laughs at that one.
“Well,” I say, “your head’s so big when you go onstage the audience is going to have a heart attack.”
“Oooh.” She throws the bottle at me. “You better not come to the Stars Show because Celine and I are trying out next week and I don’t want your big huge head blocking the view for everybody else.”
Michael laughs again.
“Hey, Little Man,” I say. “Whose side are you on?”
“I’m in B23. What apartment you in?” Diamond asks.
“D513,” Michael whispers before I can stop him. Great. Now Microphone Mouth knows exactly where I live.
Tish breaks away and heads for the Dumpster. The yellow tape is gone. I chase after her.
“Hey, Diamond,” I call back. “You know if that baby is still alive?”
“Ain’t you got no TV?” she asks.
“The 103-inch plasma screen I ordered hasn’t come yet.”
“Ha. Ha. He’s in that intensive care place over at Saint Francis.”
“Charlie?” Michael whispers.
“Yeah.”
“We got his name in our window,” Michael tells her.
Michael finally gets brave enough to talk and he decides to tell her about writing Charlie’s name in our windowsill.
