Across the field Tara gets the ball, and she runs fast toward the other goal and kicks the ball hard at the net. The other goalie jumps sideways with her arms all the way extended and catches the ball before she hits the ground.
I stare in disbelief. “Outstanding!” I shout, but when I start clapping, someone from my bench yells to me, “What are you doing? You don’t clap for the other team!”
My heart pounds again as I realize there is no way I could ever dive and catch the ball like that girl. I couldn’t even catch it standing still. Then, like a lightning bolt, understanding strikes. The goal of the game is to try to get the ball into the other team’s net. They expect me to not let the other team kick the ball into our net. All at once my hands feel cold and clammy. I can’t stop a ball! I can’t jump! I can’t catch!
Suddenly someone breaks free and runs full speed at me.
“All you, Hannah!” a girl yells from the bench. “You’ve got this!”
But I definitely don’t “got this.” My heart pounds harder. My insides are all fluttery and jumbled. I’m trying to catch my breath. I’m having a hard time not panicking. Maybe this is what my aunt has been worried about—are my insides being damaged?
My teammates chase after the girl with the ball. But she has a clear lead, and it’s just her and me. My mind goes blank as soon as I realize that she has kicked the ball and it’s headed like a pellet right at my face. At the very last second I wince and withdraw, collapsing to the ground.
“Goal!” announces the striped woman.
I breathe a sigh of relief. But my team has a different reaction. The girls sitting on the bench yell at me. “Seriously, Hannah?”
“Why would you duck?”
“This is a big game!”
“Are you trying to make us lose?”
“What was that?” Coach’s hands are in the air, and there’s a look of complete dismay on her face.
How can they be mad at me? Didn’t they see that that girl tried to kick the ball at my face? What kind of game is this anyway? I loved the running and warming up, but this kicking the ball at my head is barbaric.
It gets worse.
The other team scores again when the ball hits off the bar across the top of the net and then off my back and into the goal. I try not to cry, but it stings. It may leave a mark. The next goal comes when an opposing girl practically runs me over. I stick out my hands, but I never get close to touching the ball. The girl runs right past me like I’m invisible.
The next one is close. The ball strikes me in the chest and knocks the wind out of me, but I make the save. Unfortunately, it bounces out and someone kicks it back in.
With every goal the other team scores, my team gets madder and madder. Why would Hannah want to play this ridiculous position? Why wouldn’t she want to run around? Having people kick a ball at me and run into me is not my idea of fun. And now everyone is cross. I bite my lip.
At a break in the game (they call it “halftime”), Coach says, “Jenny, you’re going to play net for the second half.”
Now I’m trying to hold back tears of joy. I’m finally going to get to sit and rest! But before I have a chance to celebrate, Coach turns to me. “Hannah, take off your gloves. I know you feel bad about the goals. So I’m going to have you start the second half as a forward. Give you a chance to make it up. You were hitting some awesome shots in practice last week. Go rip a few.”
Rip a few? Tara must know what Coach means, but I can’t ask her, because I’m quite certain she isn’t speaking to me right now. I assume that “forward” has something to do with trying to score.
I just want to go sit on the bench and sip water like some of the other girls. Why do I have to get stuck being on the field?
When the whistle blows to start the second half, we put our hands in again. The energy in our “TEAM” call seems to have lost its vigor. I can’t help but feel it’s my fault. Perhaps I can make up for it playing at forward. The other team seemed to have an easy time scoring goals on us. Maybe it is our turn now.
I jog out with Tara, and she stands next to me and the ball at the middle of the field. The other team takes their places on their side. “We have the kickoff,” she says.
I grin stupidly because I have no idea what else to do.
The whistle blows. Tara taps the ball and runs away. Other members of my team sprint in various directions, leaving the ball at my feet. I pause, watching. Not moving. The other team’s players start coming at me. They want the ball. I have come to learn one thing about this game of soccer: the ball is like the treasure; everyone wants it. My team is yelling at me to move, to kick the ball.
And then I have the most brilliant idea. I reach down, scoop up the ball in my hands, and hold it over my head as high as I can.
“Here!” I yell, and toss it at Tara. Yes! I can’t believe it. I’ve outwitted these girls at their own game. They are so stunned by my brilliance, no one has moved.
But instead of catching the ball and cheering my amazing move, Tara lets it drop to the ground. She looks bewildered, more than she has all day.
TWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET! The striped woman blows the whistle for a very long time. She seems angry.
“HAND BALL!” she shouts. “Direct, this way.” She places the ball back down near the middle of the field and gives me an extremely odd look.
“What the what, Jordan!” someone from my team says, and elbows my ribs. “Are you wacked? Get with the program or get out of the game!” she shouts as she runs off.
My eyes sting.
“Hannah!” the coach yells. “Are you sick? What’s going on with you? Hit the bench.”
I take that to mean I’m out of the game. Finally.
• • •
Just watching the rest of the soccer game would have been glorious. Girls running, playing, being a part of something exciting. Exerting themselves, as Aunt would say. Perspiring, even. I would never have believed it if I hadn’t experienced it. But I’ve ruined something for Hannah with my failure, and I can’t shake that terrible feeling. I won’t blame her if she hates me for it.
“Bad luck on the game, Han,” Tara says as we walk away from the field among the crowd of girls. We have to dodge slow-moving automobiles as they stop to pick up players. “What was up with you out there? Are you getting enough sleep? Are you sick?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” I sigh. “You don’t have to pretend. I was horrible. The whole team hates me.”
She’s not protesting, so I know I’m right. I think about the game again. “I love running. But I didn’t like being a target for the ball.”
“Don’t worry about it. We all have off days.” Tara repositions her bag on her back and expertly changes the subject as we pass the Casino again. “So . . . are you still up for heading to the Tower to see my stupid cousin and Ethan?” She glances at me hopefully.
“Is your cousin really stupid?” I can’t tell if she’s serious. I certainly wouldn’t call Colette stupid, though there are a lot of other words that describe my own cousin.
“Nah. You know he’s my best friend—well, next to you.” She flicks her finger against my arm, and winces. “He’s just been really annoying since he started liking girls. It used to be great when we could all just kick a ball around, but now that he’s trying to get me to give him all the inside scoop on my friends, not so much.”
“Why are we going to meet them again?” After my failure at soccer, all I want is to go home and crawl under the covers, but I need to do something helpful. It’s one thing for someone to be suspicious of Hannah’s odd behavior. And another to lose a game. But I’ve watched Colette talk to boys, and I am confident I can do this.
“You really are clueless today, Han. Do I have to spell it out? I know you like Ethan. God knows why. Alex has been hinting that Ethan likes you.” After shrugging her shoulders, she shakes her head and for the first time looks doubtful. “On second thought maybe you’re really not up for it. Maybe it’s not the right day.
” Her voice wavers as she stops and looks at me. “Want to wait for when you’re feeling better?”
I made a fool of myself—Hannah—during the game, but maybe I can make it up to her. “No. No, of course I’m okay. I do want to see . . . Ethan.”
Even though I’m too young to be courting, I’ve watched Colette flirt with all the boys in Newport this summer—this will be easy.
“Okay. Whatever you say. Just don’t mess this up. You don’t want Ethan to think you’re cray-cray going into the school year.” She whirls her finger in a circle around her ear. “Lay off the weird talk.”
As we walk, I continue to be distracted by so many buildings and fast-moving automobiles and people, but as soon as we get near the park, things look familiar. A group of young people our age congregates on the granite next to a fence that surrounds the Tower—and I realize I know exactly where we are. The Touro Tower is the ancient remains of a windmill built centuries before my own time. It’s in the same spot, even though you can usually see the harbor. The familiar appearance gives me a shot of confidence. This is still, after all, Newport.
We’re only three blocks away from the ocean, and my feet are itching to see what changes have been made at the waterfront. But instead I must face a sea of unfamiliar faces.
The group appears to be having a meeting, but I cannot imagine what the topic could be. Most of them stare down at their tiny devices. I scan the group, wondering which one is Ethan—Hannah’s beau. I glance at Tara for a clue.
“There you are,” says a dark-eyed boy with brown hair, running at us. He punches Tara in the arm and then looks at me, shaking his head. “Hey, Hannah. Bad luck on the game.”
“How . . . how do you know what happened?”
He holds up his device. “Cheyanne Snapchatted your best misses.”
A girl with long black hair, held back by a headband, waves from a few feet away. I recognize her from the game. She was watching, pointing her device in my direction.
“Sorry.” The boy shrugs. “Good news, though,” he says, perking up. “You’re going viral.” He looks a little like the puppy that lives at Arleigh, like I should scratch behind his ears. I know without a doubt that this is Alex, Tara’s cousin.
“I . . .” I can’t even pretend. He’s saying words that make no sense. “Viral . . . that’s good?”
Tara laughs. “Duh, Hannah. Viral is the best!” She pauses. “Although, maybe not for those reasons.”
“Nah. It’s all good.” Alex gestures to the five or six people loitering nearby. “You’re da bomb, Han. So funny! Ethan here”—he gestures to a tall, blond boy walking toward us—“was just telling me how funny he thinks you are.”
“In a good way, right, Alex?” Tara looks concerned. “You’re not laughing at her. We’ve all had our bad days. I mean, you ran into the metal goalpost in the first five minutes of your first game and were out with a concussion for three weeks.”
“But we don’t talk about that, cuz.” He scowls and waves Tara away. “Ethan!” he says, and raises his fist. The other boy bumps Alex’s fist with his own. I’m not entirely sure, but I think this ritual is a gesture of manners—like a handshake—and a boost of confidence shoots through me. I understand manners.
Ethan has fair hair and pale skin, and when he smiles, I see two rows of metal attached to his teeth. His baggy shorts skim the top of his knees, and he wears a blue shirt with a pair of red socks and the number one on the front. I assume it must be his team shirt.
“Hi, Hannah,” he says shyly. Alex rolls his eyes, but he takes Tara by the arm and leads her away so that Ethan and I stand alone, staring at each other. Except for his clothing, he looks a lot like one of the Vanderbilt cousins. Colette would approve, although I’m more partial to Alex’s puppy-dog brown eyes.
The rest of the group chatters behind us, no doubt talking about the abysmal soccer game. A soft sea breeze blows across the otherwise hazy afternoon.
This is my chance to redeem myself. I take a breath and then hold out my hand to Ethan. I’ve seen Colette do this a dozen times. The boy is supposed to take the girl’s hand and kiss it gently. It’s a sign of good breeding.
“It is a pleasure to see you . . . again.” I try not to stammer, but the words don’t flow in the coquettish way Colette performs them.
“Um . . .” Instead of kissing my hand, he shakes it limply at the fingertips.
Applesauce. People don’t kiss hands anymore? I’m ready to retreat back to The Elms and hide in Hannah’s room for the duration of my time here. But the boy doesn’t seem to be affected by my faux pas.
“Do you—I mean . . . would you like to . . . um . . . Do you wanna hang out some night?” He can’t keep his feet still while he stammers out the question.
“At night?” I don’t mean for my voice to come out so loud. And I can tell the boy is nervous. But that’s no excuse for the most forward invitation I’ve ever heard. As if Hannah would go out with a boy after that pathetic excuse for a request! And at night? Aunt Herminie would forbid Colette to speak to the boy ever again.
Tara’s head whips around from a few feet away, where she’s talking to Alex.
“Well, yeah.” His feet shuffle in the dry grass. “A bunch of us are going to see the new zombie flick down at the cineplex, and I know you like that scary stuff. And it only plays after nine.” After the last word he picks up his head and stares me in the eye as though daring me. It is extremely forward of him.
I will not allow this boy, no matter how attractive, to sully Hannah’s good name by offering an evening date. It would be extremely improper. She’d be lucky to ever get another invitation if she accepted such a suggestion. “Perhaps we could go for a stroll along the Cliff Walk. Some afternoon.” I lower my eyelashes. “And Tara could serve as chaperone.”
“Well, sure. That would be okay too.” He looks over his shoulder at Alex with a confused look, as Tara sidles up next to me.
“Hannah, I think you’ve been out in the sun too long. You’re starting to sound like the reenactors from the Antiquities Society again. Let’s get you home.” She pulls my arm.
“Oh. Of course. Ethan, my dear.” I hold out my hand again, hoping he will behave properly this time. But of course he does not. I rack my brain for the most poetic verse I know. I come up with the perfect one. “ ‘In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.’ ”
Even Colette would be proud!
Tara succeeds in pulling me away from the boys, who look like they’ve been struck dumb. “Over the top, Han,” she whispers. “Way too far over the top.”
As soon as we get around the corner, onto the cobblestone street of a bustling marketplace, she doubles over laughing. “Did you see his face? OMG, I can’t believe you had the nerve, Hannah! What was that quote from?”
Seeing Tara laugh makes me smile. “Do you not know Pride and Prejudice?”
“Oh, sure. I knew it sounded familiar, from when you made me read it last summer. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do that?” She’s taking gasping breaths as she tries to stop laughing. I’m not sure why she’s so amused.
“Was it not ‘over the top,’ then?”
“Of course it was over the top. But if you ask me, Ethan Grimes is a bit too high and mighty for his own good. He’s cute; just ask him.” She rolls her eyes. “And I hated to say something because I thought you had a thing for him. But taking him down like that is exactly what that boy needs.”
I’m suddenly afraid I’ve done something that Hannah will regret even more than failing at soccer.
Chapter Nineteen
Hannah
DUST TICKLES.
I mean, for something so minuscule that it usually floats through the air undetected, when it gets into your nostrils and you can’t sneeze because you’re hiding behind heavy drapes in the drawing room, waiting to foil an art thief, it’s a surprisingly enormous issue.
I scrunch my nose in a hundred different directions to fight off the sneezing fit, which works, but which also makes Jonah nearly laugh out loud as he watches me from behind the window’s other curtain. I widen my eyes at him in warning. Jeez, who would have thought being quiet would be this much of a problem, especially for a self-proclaimed master lurker like me?
Except it turns out there’s a pretty big difference between lurking—which usually involves (mostly harmless) eavesdropping on a conversation or (mostly harmless) spying on some kind of activity—and waiting. Which is how I’ve been wasting my one precious day in the past. And now I’m supposed to be meeting Maggie in less than two hours to switch back, and I have nothing at all to show for my time here.
I wish I could at least chat with Jonah to pass the time. I find his life fascinating, and he’s really sweet and nice. But of course that would require something other than complete silence, so I’ve had to amuse myself with making faces at him to try to get him to smile. He’s extra good at his poker face, but I’ve gotten him to at least crack one a couple of times. The rest of the time, I catch him darting his eyes everywhere, like he’s trying to memorize every detail of the crazy-extravagant drawing room. He’s totally fascinated by the elaborate painted mural of the god of the north wind that covers most of the ceiling.
But other than that it’s been a whole lot of . . .
Just. Waiting.
Boring, mind-numbing, nothing-to-do-or-listen-to waiting.
Well, not nothing to listen to. The house is full of people scrambling about to prepare for tonight’s ball. But none of them are venturing into the drawing room, and none of them are cheerfully calling to each other or kidding around the way our staff at home does when we’re decorating the mansion for the holidays or prepping for a wedding on the grounds. This household is all quiet efficiency. Would it kill them to crack a joke here and there?
I startle when Jonah’s foot stretches across the distance between our hiding spots and nudges mine. I raise What the heck? eyes to his, only to find him looking all freaked out. He jerks his head to the side twice, and I finally catch on.
The Art of the Swap Page 11
