Field of Schemes

by Coburn, Jennifer

  Dave nodded his head and pursed his lips as if he were about to agree, but also added an optimistic twist. He looked as if he were going to tell me that kids grow emotionally from losing “the big game.” I thought he might also share a statistic about the low percentage of penalty kicks that make it. (God, I hoped it was a low percentage!) Instead, he leaned in and whispered, “She’ll choke under pressure.” I looked at him in mock horror, and he winked. “Ten bucks says it’s wide.”

  Unfortunately, thanks to psychologists like Dave, kids like Mariah were unflappable, mentally balanced, grace-under-pressure little buggers. I got to watch the whole thing in slow motion, frame by frame. First, the young Jodie Foster look-alike sniffed while shrugging her shoulders to loosen them. Already, I was intimidated by her and the way she paced around, scouting the spot from which she would begin her approach. A year ago I would have thought the kicker simply stood in front of the ball and took a single chip at it. Through the intense faces of twelve-year-old strikers, I learned that there was a whole technique to this. And an entire psychological dance that goes on between the shooter and the goalkeeper. In the match-up between Mariah and McKenzie, the winner was pretty clear. McKenzie probably peed.

  At the sound of the whistle, Mariah ran toward the ball from an angle and reached her right leg back. With the slow-motion effect, I could see the ropy definition of her quads. It was like something from a biology classroom poster. I was also struck by the tension in Mariah’s neck as she contorted her face with determination.

  When Mariah’s foot connected with the ball, the impact sounded like thunder. I’ve seen her shoot beautiful arches where the ball drops down into the corner of the net, and I’ve watched Mariah shoot straight, fast, hard shots into the upper corners of the net. Today she was shooting arches, which reminded me of Cupid’s arrow being released from his bow. There was no way any goalie could have caught Mariah’s shot. I almost wish she hadn’t tried because it was embarrassing for everyone when McKenzie fell back and got her arms tangled in the back of the net. She appeared almost Christ-like when her head dropped to her chest as her hands splayed in the ropes.

  With the referee having blown the two-minute warning whistle just before the foul, Mariah’s goal had probably ended the game. “There’s still time,” Dave said, patting my hand as if he had been reading my mind.

  “It’s over,” I said.

  “I’ve got a good feeling about this game,” he said.

  “Me too,” Darcy chimed in. Ron sneered at her as if he had something to be angry about.

  Looking at Dave, I said, “Look how your last prediction worked out.”

  As we were talking, Rachel stripped the ball from Sissy and passed it to Kelly. Oh my God, they’re going to do this! The referee looked at his stopwatch, then looked up at the field. A girl I only knew as the Scab Defender approached Kelly, who made a move around her and then passed the ball to Violet, who was out wide, just outside of the eighteen. “If they tie this game, we’re still in,” I said to Dave.

  As the theme to Chariots of Fire began playing in my head, Rachel ran in slow motion to the center of the box. The girl was in perfect position to score. In the movie version of my life, Violet would give Rachel the perfect pass, and she would lob it into the net.

  The reality went somewhat differently. Violet did indeed pass a beautiful ball to Rachel, who wound up and took a nice shot on goal. Unfortunately, it was not quite nice enough, and hit the post and bounced back.

  All of the formerly sane parents from our side were on their feet, shouting, “It’s still live! Shoot, shoot the ball!” Violet, who was now in front of the net, kicked the rebound, which rolled slightly left of where Cayenne was standing. “Oh my God! It’s going in!” I cried. “We’re gonna score!”

  Like the sound effect of a closing vault, I heard Cayenne’s body fall to the ground with the ball underneath her. As she lay on the goal line, I wondered why I was the only parent cheering.

  There was a collective gasp from both sidelines as the referee began walking toward Cayenne.

  “Dave, why is everyone silent?” I asked, noticing that the only sounds I now heard were coming from another game. Cayenne’s body was perfectly placed on the goal line, which meant the ball under her had to have inched over the line, I explained urgently, as if my telling him this would set everyone straight.

  Darcy leaned toward me, but never took her eyes off the field. The referee continued walking toward Cayenne after instructing her not to move a muscle. “Claire, the ball needs to fully cross the line.”

  “It did cross the line!” I said.

  “Maybe,” Dave said.

  “Not maybe, it’s over the line.”

  “Claire, the ref needs to see if the back end of the ball made it completely past the line,” Dave explained.

  “Oh my God! Is he serious?!” I said, panicking as I watched him inspect Cayenne’s catch of the game. “That thing is so clearly in, it’s got to be a—”

  “No goal!” the referee shouted, seeming a little too happy about it for my taste. Wasn’t he supposed to be impartial? I wanted to swat that bumblebee clear across the field, no goal. That was such a goal. That was absolutely, positively—

  The whistle blew in a series of three. The game was over. Mimi and her girls began screaming and running onto the field. They lifted Cayenne and started cheering “hip hip hooray!” Oh please. It’s just a soccer game, you man-eating bitch.

  Speaking his first words of the game, Ron sighed at Darcy and me and said, “Guess that’s what happens when you tear the team apart, ladies.”

  Darcy turned to him and said, “Ron, the depth of your idiocy makes me wonder why I ever married you in the first place.”

  “You were pregnant,” he snapped back.

  I squelched my first impulse to say, “Oh my God, Rachel was a shotgun baby too!” and just glared at him instead.

  Dave said, “At least we’ve got our weekends free now.”

  “I wouldn’t make plans just yet, Dave,” Darcy said.

  “Oh boy,” Ron said. “I’m outta here. Darc, you taking Kelly back to Santa Bella or am I?”

  Darcy smiled a saccharine grin and looked at her watch. “Closing ceremonies are in an hour. I wanna be a good sport and watch Mimi’s team take their fist full of medals at the podium.”

  “Suit yourself,” Ron said before changing his demeanor and approaching Kelly with his swell-dad persona.

  “Well, Darcy, we’re going to hit the road too,” I said of Dave, the girls and me.

  “No, no, stay. I insist,” Darcy implored.

  Dave explained that he needed to get Katie back to Santa Bella, but Darcy assured him that there would be plenty of time to watch the closing ceremony, catch a bite and be home well in time for a good school night’s sleep. “Okay,” he shrugged, giving me a look as if to ask why it was so important for her to stay and watch her nemesis receive accolades.

  I shrugged. “She’s got something up her sleeve.”

  A plump MC with a wrap-around hairline looked off to the side at Mimi and winked before announcing the results of our age group. Darcy looked around, frantically searching the crowd. “Where the hell is he?” she muttered several times. Dave and I exchanged glances as the team from Group A was called onto the stage and Darcy became more panicked. As the MC called Mimi’s team, the winners of Group B, up to the stage, a pimple-faced lanky boy trotted onto the stage and handed the older gentleman a note. He unfolded the paper, read it and grimaced. Darcy sighed. “Yes, perfect timing, Oscar.”

  “Oscar? Who’s Oscar?” I asked.

  Before she could answer, the MC turned to Mimi discreetly and showed her the note. She began shaking her head in denial.

  “Who’s Oscar?” I asked again.

  Darcy smiled. “My knight in shining armor. One of them, at least.”

  After a few minutes of quiet discussion between Mimi and the MC, she threw down her hands in exasperation and stormed off the stage, tak
ing the girls off with her.

  “I’m sorry for the delay, folks,” the MC said, smiling uncomfortably. “Because of administrative issues, the Kix Under Thirteen team has been disqualified.”

  The crowd gasped collectively. Murmurs of “What happened? What is he talking about? Why are they disqualified?” fluttered about the audience.

  “The team from Group B that will now advance instead ... ” the MC began, consulting his clipboard, “Ha! Well, wouldn’t you know, it’s the other Kix Girls Under Thirteen team.”

  Technically, they were the other team, but this was the least of my concerns. As Mimi descended the steps of the stage, she caught Darcy’s eye. My friend smiled brightly and mouthed girl power, giving Mimi two thumbs up.

  “What the heck’s going on, Darcy?” I asked.

  “Mimi needs to have a valid coach’s license and renew her risk management every three years to coach a team.”

  “Risk management?” I asked.

  Dave leaned in to me and whispered, “A perv card.” God, his breath against my hair suddenly felt so inviting. I scrunched my face to query the term. He clarified, “It means she’s okay to be around kids.”

  Darcy continued, “I did a little digging and little Miss Nike forgot to get hers renewed this January. Since she doesn’t have the risk management, her coaching license isn’t valid. You can’t ever coach a club team without a license, and you most certainly can’t do it at State Cup. If the coach isn’t licensed, the team is not valid. If the team isn’t valid, it can’t play in State Cup, much less advance to the next level.”

  The girls stared agape as Mimi stood by the side of the stage quietly arguing with a gentleman with the CYSA logo on his shirt. Dave whispered to the kids that they should come over and stand with us.

  Darcy said, “You know who I have to thank for this? Kelly was smarter than all of us at Manchester. She knew that Mimi ripped off Claire’s idea about the necklaces, but we were all too thick-headed to listen.”

  “I told you she was a bitch!” Kelly whispered.

  “Kelly!” Darcy scolded. “Watch your language. Mimi is a bitch, not was a bitch. Present tense. Honey, you’ve got great instincts about people. I’m sorry I doubted you. Listen to your gut, Kelly. You’ll go far in this world.”

  Dave looked at me and smiled. I cannot say what it was about that moment that made me want to kiss him. Certainly we weren’t under a starry, moonlit sky sharing a bottle of wine and a lazy night. He hadn’t said or done anything special in that moment, but it was the Sunday evening after the first weekend of State Cup when I began my slow descent into falling in love with Dave.

  “Oh, here comes the good part!” Darcy said as two men in dark suits approached Mimi and asked if she was indeed Mimi Shasta. When she confirmed, one flashed a badge and slapped handcuffs on her. The other began reading Mimi her rights.

  “You can get arrested for coaching without a license?!” I gasped.

  Darcy laughed. “No, but you can for certain types of importing,” she said, shifting her eyes toward the kids.

  “The rumors are true?” I asked.

  “That’s for the DEA to decide, but I have a feeling we won’t be seeing Mimi Shasta for another ten to fifteen years.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “No, not really,” Darcy said. “I’m sure the Shastas have enough people paid off to keep Mimi out of prison. Plus, she’s a mom and first-time offender. She’ll probably get a slap on the wrist and some community service. I’ll tell you, if it weren’t for Cara, I’d really fight to see justice done, but how can you do that to a kid, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure seeing her mother arrested at a soccer tournament is going to be a wonderful memory for her, Darcy,” I said.

  “Claire, that child has seen worse, and will continue to as long as her mother chooses to be a drug-smuggling, husband-stealing slut who stages coup d’états of soccer teams. She made her choices, and I’m sorry if her daughter has to learn the hard way that actions do actually have consequences,” Darcy said haughtily.

  Awkwardly, the MC continued, “So if we could have a representative from the Kix Girls Under Thirteen Team—”

  “Claire, go,” Darcy urged. “You’re the manager. You go up there.”

  “Yeah, Mom, go! We get medals for this round. Go get ’em for us.”

  “Come with me, girls,” I said to Katie, Kelly, and Rachel.

  “Is there a representative from the team here?” the MC asked.

  As I looked at the dumbfounded group of girls, I knew what I had to do. “Cayenne, Tandy, Mariah, Kylie, Cara, Sissy,” I said. “Come with us.”

  “What are you going to do to us?!” Tandy asked, terrified.

  “Tandy!” I said. “Just come up on the stage with us. The girls looked at each other and consulted with glances. In a moment, they agreed.

  As I stood on the stage, I looked out into the audience and saw Dave and Darcy. As they smiled giddily at us, the MC handed me—of all things—a fist full of medals. “Um, excuse me,” I whispered to the gentleman, looking at the team surrounding me. “I hope I don’t seem totally ungracious here, but I’m going to need a few more medals.” He looked baffled. “Our team just got a lot bigger.” The girls smiled. Cayenne, of all people, had tears in her eyes.

  “You want more medals?” he asked.

  “Yeah, is that okay?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never been asked for more medals before. I’m sorry, but I don’t think we have enough to give one team more medals.”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Emmett,” said Mariah. “Your team won, you guys take the medals.” Tandy and Kylie concurred vocally while the others simply nodded.

  “No, that’s okay,” Kelly said. “You guys would’ve won if your coach hadn’t been arrested and all. You take ’em.”

  “Okay, so shall I just give the medals to you?” the MC asked, hurrying us along.

  “No,” said Rachel. “I hope I’m not out of line or anything, but I don’t want my medal if the other girls aren’t getting one too.”

  “Me neither,” said Katie. Kelly agreed.

  “Okay, so now none of you want the medals?” the MC asked.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “We’re going to pass on the medals. Thank you, though. They’re lovely. See you next weekend.”

  The girls giggled victoriously and cheered as we trotted off the stage. Last off stage, I saw Dave at the bottom, waiting for me. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get out the words, I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. Hollywood style.

  The girls all stopped what they were doing and turned to watch. The giggling and cheering increased in volume. It ended only when Dave came up for air and asked, “What was that for?”

  “I’m ready,” I told him.

  “You are?”

  “I am.”

  Darcy clapped her hands and said, “Leave it to Claire to upstage Mimi’s grand exit.”

  Our team was in a gigantic huddle with Dave, Katie, Darcy, Kelly, Rachel, and me at the center. “Hey, should we call Gunther to give him the news?!” shouted Kelly, euphorically.

  I snorted a laugh. “I hardly think he cares about my kissing Dave.”

  “Oh my God!” Rachel said, laughing. “Of course he doesn’t, Mom! She means, do we want to call him to tell him the news about the team?”

  “That we turned down the medals?” I asked.

  Rachel laughed. “No, Mom, that we’re back in the game!”

  Sneak Peek!

  Read the opening chapter of Jennifer Coburn’s novel

  Brownie Points

  Chapter One

  August

  “Damn, this place is sweet!” Maya exclaimed, her face pressed against the back window of our car. “Gucci, Hermes, Chanel, Juicy!” Continuing her inventory, she gasped, “Look how cute! That bakery is called the Cookie Cutter.”

  “Wait till you see the school you and Logan are starting at next week,” Jason said, pleased that Ma
ya approved of her first sight of Los Corderos. “The field is bigger than Golden Gate Park.” Glancing in the rearview mirror, he asked Logan, “What do you think, buddy?”

  “It’s very clean,” he answered. I had to suppress a laugh because that was my first thought when Jason and I first came to look at Los Corderos last month. Logan’s delivery was neutral, so I couldn’t tell if he was pleased by or aghast at the immaculate appearance of the town. My son then shuddered as he saw a shiny white Nissan Armada pass our car. “I can smell that guy’s cologne from here,” Logan said of the driver, a young Turk conducting a seemingly very important cell phone conversation.

  “The windows are closed,” Jason scolded with thinning jocularity.

  The sidewalks of El Camino Real looked as if they were made from sand-colored granite; the roads were paved with virgin tar. A pristine mega-mall anchored the community with hundreds of high-end shops and chain restaurants. The only hint of regional flavor was the neat row of thirty-foot palm trees that lined the main drag.

  Logan perked up. “Look, they’ve got a Williams-Sonoma here!” This wasn’t the first hint that our son would very likely return to San Francisco in his adult life. We didn’t think much of it when Logan was three years old and referred to the evening skyline as “jewels.” A few years later, my friend Jorge raised an eyebrow after Logan told him that he was making canapés in his sister’s Easy-Bake Oven. When the twins were eight, there was no getting around the fact that our son was as queer as folk. Maya finished a make-up application on Barbie’s Dream Head in which Mattel’s trophy blonde wound up looking like Tammy Faye Bakker after a week-long bender. Logan shook his head in disgust, lightly shoved aside his sister and worked with a team of imaginary assistants. Twenty minutes later, the parakeet blue eye shadow was replaced with a nude shimmer directly above smoky liner smudged to perfection. Barbie’s disembodied head had what my third grader labeled a perfect day-to-night look, a term he must have picked up from one of my friends.