by Liz Fichera
I pulled out my wedge and pitched my ball right up onto the green, exactly as I pictured it in my mind. It landed with a satisfied plop and rolled within two feet of the hole. Easy putt, I thought, relieved. Someone on the cart path clapped, but I didn’t turn. I didn’t want to break my concentration. I was too busy picturing how I would sink the ball into the hole with my putter, just as soon as the other boys landed their balls onto the green.
I marched straight up to my ball and marked its spot with a penny, my marker, and dropped the ball in my front pocket. All of the other boys used gold and silver markers, probably engraved with their names like everything else. I should care but I didn’t. Not when I could taste the par I was about to make while the other boys in my foursome would be lucky to bogey. My fingertips tingled around my putter, waiting.
Ryan reached the hole in two strokes, but he had a long putt. The Hamilton High boys reached the hole in three strokes but with shorter putts. I was the only player with a reasonable chance at par. At the end of the cart path closest to the green, Notebook Guy scribbled furiously across a page.
Ryan putted first. His putter made a high-pitched clink when he struck the ball. The ball rolled several feet past the hole, and I smiled inwardly again even when I knew I should have been more supportive. Nate made his putt, making par; his partner did not. I waved on Ryan to make his putt. He sank it, saving par.
And then it was my turn. Notebook Guy stopped writing long enough to watch me. I took two practice swings, my habit before every hole, studied the green and looked for ruts or curves that would interrupt the line of my ball. Then I approached the ball, closed my eyes briefly and pulled back my old putter. It didn’t make the pretty tinkling sound that Ryan’s did, but a fancy putter didn’t matter when your ball rolled confidently across a green, caught the edge of the cup and then dropped right in as if there was no other place for it to go.
Lone Butte High School won the hole.
Chapter 14
Ryan
I SHOULD HAVE WAITED FOR FRED and walked with her to the second hole to discuss strategy, but I couldn’t. Graham Frazier was too busy yapping in my ear.
“Jeez, a girl on your team. That’s pretty brutal,” Graham said to me as if our team should be embarrassed. “I bet Seth was pissed.” He grinned as he chomped on an enormous piece of gum, spitting as he talked. My nose wrinkled from the overwhelming smell of peppermint.
I knew Graham was trash-talking, just like Nate was probably doing to Fred. I watched him gab to her on the fairway. The Hamilton High players were known for it. And why not? It worked. They’d succeeded in whipping our butts the past two years.
I noted with some satisfaction that Nate’s charms didn’t seem to be affecting Fred. It was like she was in a parallel universe with her frozen expression. Her eyes never stopped scanning the fairway. I bit back a satisfied smile. Her disinterest must have been driving Nate crazy, never mind that her swing had so far been pretty near perfect. She hadn’t given up a single shot. Nate and Graham had to be worried.
Oddly, Fred didn’t seem to notice that her golf bag had gained at least ten pounds since this morning. How could she not notice? I wished she would. I’d almost told her about it during the bus ride, but my words had come out all wrong. Instead of telling her about the bricks, I’d made up a lame question and a roundabout way of getting her some strokes on her score. I didn’t see how she was going to make it through the tournament without a little help. I am such a tool! If I had just been honest about the bricks, maybe we could have had a good laugh and moved on.
I caught myself before my emotions went whack and ruined my game. I shouldn’t be thinking that way about Fred. I shouldn’t be thinking about her at all. It was wrong, all wrong. Because of her, Seth had lost his spot on the team. I should despise her, not defend her. Let her fend for herself and find her own way.
“Maybe Fred is just having a little bit of beginner’s luck?” Graham snickered over his shoulder at Fred and Nate. He blew a wet bubble with his gum.
I nodded and forced a tight smile when I really wanted to take my club to Graham’s slimy mouth.
“Hey, is she Indian?”
I didn’t answer.
“Never seen an Indian girl golfer before. That’s a new one.” He paused. “What’s the next hole?”
“A par three,” I said without looking at him. Suddenly walking alongside Fred didn’t sound so bad. At least she was quiet. I glanced casually at her as she stood in the next tee box, staring down the fairway, probably picturing where she was going to place her next drive.
“You’re up first,” Nate said to Fred as the rest of us dropped our bags and began rummaging for the appropriate club.
Fred pulled out her driver again. The handful of spectators from the first hole had grown larger, and they weren’t watching us. Everybody’s eyes were drilled on Fred. If she was bothered by the attention, it didn’t show. There were a couple of parents, a few students from school, a reporter from the school newspaper and some older guy with a notebook. He seemed to be particularly interested in Fred. A college recruiter, maybe, but that didn’t seem right. It was too early in the season.
Fred tossed a few blades of grass in the air, checking for wind direction as the green slivers floated to the ground. Then she wound the end of her ponytail in her right hand as she squinted across the fairway and pursed her lips. Her hair wrapped like a silk rope around her finger, all black and shiny. The breeze lifted the wispy strands around her face as everything around her moved in slow motion: the branches from the mesquite trees, the wave of the grass, even the way the sleeves of her golf shirt fluttered at her elbows. Just like at the golf store when she had fingered the white pair of shoes.
I blinked, reminding myself not to stare. And to seriously get a better grip on reality.
I watched Fred approach the ball one final time. She took her typical two practice swings. Then she pulled back her long driver above her shoulders and swung, bending her elbows at exactly the right angles. Her ball made a perfect arc into the sky before landing in the middle of the green. Another straight shot. The spectators clapped quietly. They usually never clapped.
“Good shot, Fred,” Nate said, and my jaw clenched from the sound of his voice. I didn’t trust Nate.
I swung next, followed by Nate and then Graham. Only Fred and Graham reached the green on their first shot, but Graham had the longer putt.
After teeing off, I quickly slipped my club into my bag and then caught up to Nate and Fred as they started down the fairway, my clubs clanging around in my bag as I jogged.
“I need to talk to Fred,” I said behind Nate. He didn’t get the hint. “Alone,” I added, walking between them, forcing Nate to pull away.
Nate finally pulled back but not without flipping me the finger.
Fred adjusted the strap higher on her bag, but she didn’t stop. Her eyes stayed focused on the fairway, the greens, anything but me. I might as well have been invisible.
“You should watch what you say to Nate,” I told her as soon as Nate left us.
Fred’s neck pulled back. “Why?”
“Because he’s trying to mess with your head.”
Fred shook her head as if I was crazy. “He’s only being nice.”
“Nice,” I sputtered with an automatic eye roll. “Sure,” I said.
But her voice got louder. “Yeah, nice. You’ve heard the word, haven’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said.” We approached the ridge just below the putting green where my ball had landed.
I sighed. I tried to concentrate on my ball, on the next swing—anything but Fred Oday—as we rested our bags next to my ball. Then Fred rubbed her right shoulder, exactly where the strap cut across her chest. I cringed inwardly, knowing why.
Nate’s ball was farthest, so he swung first.
“Everything isn’t what it appears to be, Fred,” I whispered, “especially at tournaments.”
“Tell me about it,” she muttered.
“With the Hamilton players, I mean,” I added quickly. “They’ll do and say anything to win.”
“Maybe not today.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
Fred leaned against her bag. “Why are you so concerned? Why are you talking to me all of a sudden like you care? You’ve been glaring at me all day. All week.”
I pulled back. She noticed?
“I think it’s you I need to worry about,” she said, and I should have told her she was right.
Instead, I dragged my tongue across my dry lips. “Maybe I want to win, too,” I said, lifting my bag onto my shoulder after Nate swung at his ball. It dropped on the far end of the green, giving him another long putt he’d be lucky to sink with one shot.
Fred chuckled. “Well, that’s the smartest thing I’ve heard you say all week.” She rotated her right shoulder.
I looked from Nate’s ball to Fred and then to the bottom of her sagging bag. How did she not notice? I had the urge to tell her about the bricks, but when it came right down to it, I couldn’t do it. Because if I did, then Fred would think I was worse than Nate Bellows or any of the other players on the Hamilton High team.
And she’d be absolutely right.
Chapter 15
Fred
WHEN COACH LANNON sped down the path in his golf cart, the grin stretching across his face was touching both of his ears. Lone Butte High School was ahead of Hamilton High by two strokes, a first. And it was due mostly to my two birdies on the third and sixth holes. The coach grinned like he already tasted victory.
I should have been beaming, but I couldn’t. By the time we’d finished the seventeenth hole, I was ready to pass out. My skin was flushed all over like I had a killer fever.
As Coach Lannon approached Ryan and me, his smile faded. “What’s the matter?” His eyes darted to Ryan, as if Ryan had done something wrong.
Ryan swallowed as he and I stepped alongside Coach’s golf cart for what seemed like an inquisition. My bag landed heavily on the pavement.
“Just kind of warm today. I’m a little out of breath.” I forced a tight smile as I leaned against my bag and rubbed my shoulder. I didn’t want him to think for one second that I was giving up, not when Lone Butte had a decent chance at winning the tournament. Just one more hole, I reminded myself. Just one more. You can do it. If I wimped out and didn’t finish, the boys would have one more reason to label me a fluke. Or worse.
“Take another water bottle.” The coach reached behind the seat in his golf cart for the cooler. “Here.” He handed me a new bottle. It felt deliciously cold against my fingers, and I pressed it against my forehead, savoring how the droplets cooled my skin. “Why didn’t you call me on your cell?” the coach said, looking between Ryan and me. I wasn’t sure whose cell phone he meant me to use.
I dragged the back of my hand across my lips, letting the cool water coat the inside of my throat. “I forgot mine at home,” I lied. Along with my private jet. “I’m fine. Really. The water helps. Thank you.” I took another long sip and then massaged my right shoulder with my thumb.
“What’s wrong with your arm?” He continued to scrutinize my every move.
“Nothing,” I lied again. “It’ll be fine.”
The coach’s eyes narrowed. For a second he reminded me of Dad. That’s how Dad would have looked at me, too. To be honest, I was a little touched by it even as I was within inches of a full-blown heatstroke.
“Really,” I added.
Coach Lannon’s lips pursed as he considered this. “Okay, then. If you say so. You’re up next on eighteen. The last foursome just drove from the tee. Not too much longer now. Hang in there, Freddy.” He lifted his sunglasses back on his face and then turned the golf cart around. “You, too, Ryan,” he said over his shoulder. “And keep an eye on her.”
Chapter 16
Ryan
FRED AND I WALKED ALONGSIDE EACH other to the eighteenth tee box.
I had to slow my pace. Walking had become an effort for her because of her bag. It practically dragged behind her across the fairway.
“Fred, there’s something I need—” I blurted, but Graham yelled at me from the tee box.
“Berenger!”
I turned reluctantly and lifted my sunglasses. I was tempted to flip him off.
“You’re up!” he said impatiently. “It’ll be dark soon. Coach just said we gotta move faster.”
I let my sunglasses drop to my chest and squinted at the darkening horizon behind Graham. Slivers of purple and orange framed the top of South Mountain. In less than an hour, it would be too dark to play. We were running out of time.
Fred panted beside me till we reached the tee box and our nervous Hamilton High partners. Clearly Fred had not made their day any easier, and frustration seeped all over their faces.
Fred’s bangs stuck to her forehead. She ran a finger through them, lifting thick strands off her skin. Guilt hammered at my temples as I watched her struggle with the heat.
“You go first,” I told her. “I need…” But then I stammered. “I need to figure out which club to use,” I added lamely, fumbling with my bag. Even though on the final par-4 hole of the course, it was pretty clear which club I would use.
Fred nodded and trudged up the hill to the top of the last tee box, her driver clutched in her right hand. With her other hand, she massaged the shoulder that had been carrying the brunt of her golf bag all afternoon.
At the bottom of the tee box, I was alone. All eyes were glued on Fred. Quickly I grabbed her bag, gathered all the club shafts with both hands and dumped them in a pile on the grass. Then I turned the bag on its side. It was almost as tall as I was. With one eye on the tee box, I began to shake it from the bottom, coaxing out the three heavy bricks. The first two tumbled out easily and crashed into the grass; the third one got stuck underneath something at the bottom.
“Stupid bag,” I mumbled, shaking it harder. If only Fred had owned a newer one, there’d have been no room for three oversize bricks. I set the bag on its side again and bent down on one knee. My arm reached in all the way to my armpit. My fingertips grazed one end of the brick. It scraped against my fingers like sandpaper.
“Berenger!” Graham boomed again from the top of the tee box. I stretched my arm another inch, wincing, as I squinted against the sunset.
Almost got it, I thought just as the crowd from the other side of the tee box clapped. Fred must have hit another awesome drive straight down the fairway. If I hadn’t been wrestling with a brick, I might have smiled.
Just as I opened my eyes and pulled out the third brick, someone said my name. It was like a whisper.
“Ryan?”
My eyes popped open, but the sun still blinded me, despite my sunglasses.
“What are you doing?”
My body froze. Sweat dripped down into my eyes. I sat squatting on the ground with a red brick in one hand and two more stacked next to my knees.
Fred.
I squinted up at her. The sun behind her back turned the tips of her hair all crimson.
Her voice got louder. “What are you doing?” Her speech slowed. “With. My. Bag?”
She bent down on one knee so that we were eye level. The whites of her almond-shaped eyes grew wide as they drifted from the brick in my hand to the others stacked next to me.
I panicked, trying to come up with some reasonable explanation.
Finally, I stood, rising one agonizing vertebra at a time. My own gaze dropped to the ground along with the third brick in my hand. I let it crash to the grass against the other two. It cracked in half. Carefully, I lowered my voice to mask its rawness. “I can explain,” I said as I looked down at Fred, still kneeling.
Fred’s head started to bob. “How could you…” Her voice rose with disbelief as her lower lip started to tremble. Her eyes bounced from the bricks to me and back again. “Why do you hate me so much?”
My shoulders caved f
orward, her words hitting me like a gut punch. My mouth opened but then snapped shut. For once, coming up with the perfect lie wasn’t so easy. And the betrayal that filled Fred’s face shamed me more than words. I was a shit and Fred knew it.
“Berenger!” Graham thundered again.
Fred’s voice cracked. “You’re up.” She nodded her chin over her shoulder at the tee box. “You’d better get going.” Without looking at me, she gathered up her clubs and slipped them carefully into her bag, one by one.
It was difficult to turn away and march up the hill to the tee box as if nothing had happened.
Lone Butte High School was about to win its first tournament against Hamilton High in two years, thanks to a quiet girl with mismatched clubs and a plaid golf bag, but I hardly felt like celebrating.
Chapter 17
Fred
“I MAY HAVE to quit,” I told Dad after the golf tournament.
We sat outside our front door on white plastic chairs, watching what was left of the day as it faded behind the Estrella Mountains. Our two Labs lay with their round snouts buried between their paws, nestled at our feet. I fiddled with a new golf ball, tossing it absently between my hands. I hadn’t lost a single ball during the tournament, not like some of the boys who put new balls into the water or deep into the desert. There was almost as much satisfaction in that as winning the first tournament of the season. But after what had happened, I thought maybe it would be my last. The boys on my team, Ryan Berenger in particular, were pure evil. I didn’t need them. I had enough problems.
But Dad’s eyes narrowed. It was impossible to ignore them. They crinkled in the corners like they always did when he was troubled. He studied my expression like it was some kind of riddle to be solved. He’d been watching me—studying me—ever since he’d found me at the van after the tournament. I’d sat on the back bumper, waiting for him with my head in my hands. When he’d asked me what was wrong, I’d replied, “Tired. Just tired.” And I was—dead tired. But it was so much more than that, more than I could put into words.
