Saving Montgomery Sole

by Mariko Tamaki

  Thomas turned and raised an eyebrow. “Does he have a sister?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh,” Thomas said, “I thought…”

  “I only hung out with him for, like, a week, Thomas.”

  Thomas gave me a conciliatory pat on the back. “That’s what happens when your best friends get strep throat, huh?”

  “Sucked all around. Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  He stood and brushed the grass off his actually-really-nice velvet pants.

  “That guy is such a prick,” I said, grabbing a handful of grass and throwing it in Matt’s direction. “I hate him.”

  “Doesn’t mean you should say crap about his potentially fictional sister.”

  “Whatever.” I grabbed another handful and tossed it softly at Thomas.

  “Okay, well, I love you, babe,” he smooched into my ear, and trotted off to class.

  I picked up the Eye of Know and put it around my neck. It slid down my chest with what felt like a little pulse.

  See what I see, I thought. I scooped up my bio notes and tromped off to class.

  * * *

  By 4:15 p.m., the parking lot and bleachers at Honora Park Soccer Field were packed. The stands were a sea of soccer moms, with their matching coolers of snacks and their yelling faces. They sported fleece vests and hiking shoes, California outdoor gear for all seasons, especially when paired with lightweight baseball caps and sunglasses.

  My moms always wear matching vests and shoes to games: red for Momma, lavender for Mama. It’s kind of embarrassing, but I kind of like it, too.

  The players sprinted up and down the field. Little girls in soccer jerseys—orange for the Cubs, baby blue for the Crows—all pinging around like icons on those old video games people used to play before they had Xbox. Like the Space Invaders game I saw this one time at a truck shop that Momma Jo beat me at (four games to one).

  The Crows looked mean and determined. And huge.

  Tesla sat on the bench, perched next to Mama Kate. At some point she stood up and waved to me in the bleachers. I realized it had been a while since I’d been to one of these things. Hating sports makes supporting your family’s obsession a little awkward at times. Or, you know, that’s what I’ve told myself.

  As the opening whistle blew, the woman on my left, in Cub orange, pulled out her knitting and thermos, clearly in it for the long haul.

  Somewhere downwind, though, another woman was already on her feet, yelling obscenities at the ref. Like, these women called the ref things like the C word. Stuff like that. Bizarre.

  You gotta love a yoga-loving hippie mom who lets loose and carnivores out when she hits the soccer field.

  I didn’t really notice the rest of the people sitting on the other side of me until five minutes into the game, when someone kicked my boots squeezing past. It was a girl in a blue jacket carrying a blue pom-pom.

  “Uh, ’scuse me.” A girl with her hair in a high top bun gave me a quick up-and-down glance as she stepped over my boots.

  There is a way to say “excuse me” that makes it very clear you assume it’s the other person’s job to move. It was invented by teenagers who hang out in clumps.

  I looked over to confirm my suspicions. There they were, two more of them, dressed in minidresses and bejeweled flip-flops, the other California uniform for all seasons. They were all drinking (shudder) giant bottles of kombucha, a drink actually made to taste exactly like vinegar that people drink because they think vinegar is good for you.

  “Oh my God,” High Bun droned as she plopped down next to her friends, “It took me, like, eight hours to find this place! Whatever!”

  “Oh my God, I know,” her friend Ponytail drawled. “This town is, like, so backward. It’s like ‘Hi, it’s called legible street signs. Get a clue.’”

  “Oh my God, I know,” a girl with her hair in two long braids—Braids—groaned.

  They were like a bubble gum–snapping, flip-flopping three-headed monster. As soon as the game started, they whipped out their phones and started scrolling through whatever girls like that scroll through on their phones. Probably pictures of each other.

  High Bun held out her phone and smiled at it.

  CLICK!

  What kind of person keeps that sound on their phone?

  The same person who starts off a soccer game taking a picture of herself.

  CLICK! CLICK!

  “Which one is your sister?” Braids asked.

  “She’s number sixty-two. She’s all, like, forward. Like offense,” Ponytail explained.

  “Oh my God, she’s so cute,” Braids squealed.

  “She’s, like, the only person playing today who doesn’t need braces and plastic surgery. She’s totally cute.” High Bun squinted and aimed her phone at the field.

  CLICK!

  “Crows versus dogs,” Braids cackled.

  “Look at this!” High Bun passed her phone to Ponytail. “It’s like ‘Hi, I don’t care about my overbite.’”

  On the field, a skirmish broke out as a bunch of kids lunged for the ball and landed in a pile. I pictured the three-headed monster on the field, at the bottom of the pile, me on the top, my cleats—

  Braids yawned. “This team sucks.”

  “I think a couple of these kids are, like, Mexican. They’re probably not even legal,” High Bun added, thumbing through her photos.

  I fumed, my vision blurring so their little stupid heads were swimming in soupy sunlight. I tried to focus on my hands pressed into my lap.

  “That girl needs an eating disorder,” one of them said.

  They all thought that was hysterical.

  Focus on Tesla, I thought. I watched as she ran onto the field to play defense.

  “I am a good sister,” I whispered. “I am a good sister.”

  At halftime, with the score tied 1–1, I headed down to the field to wish Tesla good luck and prove to my moms that I was, you know, there.

  Momma Jo was retying Tesla’s laces. “Those kids are gigantic,” she marveled as she patted Tesla’s shoes. “You just stay out of their way.”

  “I’ll crush them,” Tesla growled, slamming her fist into her open palm with a loud smack. Then she bounded onto the field to warm up.

  “Hey,” I said. “Uh. Good game, I’m assuming.”

  “Hey.” Mama Kate appeared with a water bottle and a watermelon slice. “It is! Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, well”—Mama Kate waved with her slice—“we’ll see you after.”

  Momma Jo stood and grabbed the watermelon slice. Which resulted in one of their patented kissy fights.

  Mama Kate can actually squeal like a girl when they’re having a kissy fight. “Get your own slice!”

  Grabbing Mama Kate in a bear hug, Momma Jo waggled her eyebrows. “Gimme a smooch!”

  I was in the process of controlling an eye roll when I heard a sharp, almost canine squeak from behind me.

  And a CLICK!

  There was a rustle and a series of squeaky cries of disdain. “Oh my God, ew!”

  “Oh my God, look, you can see their tongues!”

  I whipped around. It was the girls from the bleachers, all three hairstyles, standing a few steps away, staring at High Bun’s phone.

  One of them burst into hysterics. “Gross!”

  Braids grabbed her stomach. “Barf!”

  “Let’s get out of here before they, like, rape us,” High Bun cried, shoving Ponytail toward the bleachers.

  I turned back. Momma Jo was happily munching on watermelon and checking her phone. Mama Kate was taking a picture of Tesla on the field.

  They hadn’t heard.

  I jumped over to the left, away from the hair trio, and waved my arms at my moms to get their attention. “Hey! Okay! See you after,” I yelled.

  “Uh. Yes. Bye,” Mama Kate said, frowning. “You okay?”

  “Yup!” I called as I backed my way toward the stands.


  Tweet! Game on!

  By the time I made it to my seat, the game had hit fever pitch, and the crowd swelled. The three-headed girl clump was back in their seats, too. They were all taking pictures of the players with their phones. I shifted over so I was practically sitting on the edge of the bench, putting as much distance between us as possible.

  Just ignore them, just ignore them, just ignore them.

  CLICK!

  “Does this girl with the pink bow in her hair look retarded to you?” High Bun mused, flashing her phone to Ponytail.

  “Oh my God, you’re such a bitch! Ha!”

  “I know. I’m such a bitch.”

  “She does look retarded, though. Like, in the chin.”

  High Bun rolled her eyes and cackled. “I’m posting the retard’s picture to Facebook,” she added, taking aim. “Let’s see what everyone else thinks.”

  Please just shut up and watch the game, I seethed. Bit my bottom lip.

  You’re here to support Tesla. You’re here to support Tesla.

  I could feel the velocity of my pulse pushing against my neck, like some frenzied animal trying to escape.

  “Okay,” High Bun said, holding out her phone to Braids. “My post has three ‘Likes’ already. So clearly this girl is retarded.”

  Braids grinned. “You’re such a bitch!”

  “Hey, where’s the girl with the fatty lesbians?” High Bun asked. “The humpback whales?”

  “Oh my God,” Braids squeaked. “Look, she’s like sitting right next to us!”

  Three sets of eyes clicked in my direction. Three heads leaned forward to look at me looking at them.

  “Um. Can we help you?” Braids sneered.

  “No,” I said.

  High Bun swiveled slightly. “Um. Stop staring at us, then?”

  The beast with many heads laughed.

  “She wants to make out with you,” Braids said.

  “Ugh! Lesbians!” High Bun moaned.

  I was about to say something when Braids pointed at the field and shrieked.

  “Oh my God! It’s your sister!”

  Ponytail jumped to her feet.

  Number 62 had the ball and a break. She was taller than the others by at least a foot, and she was running. Fast. With huge strides, she kicked the ball up the field. Leaving everyone else behind. I watched Tesla crouch. Look at the crowd. Look down the field.

  That was when I felt something. An inexplicable nudge. I turned my head to see High Bun, her phone held out toward me. She smiled, clearly about to take my picture.

  Hey, where’s the girl with the fatty lesbians?

  The rest of the crowd leaned forward. Screaming. Cheering.

  CLICK!

  High Bun held the phone up higher. Then, as the crowd roared again, her eyes flickered upward and caught my stare.

  I could feel my hands trembling. My heart beating like it was a tiny alien fighting to free itself from inside my chest. The sound of my breathing mixed with the noise of the crowd sloshed inside my ears.

  High Bun squinted.

  You want to post me to your stupid Facebook page, I wanted to scream. I don’t think so.

  I reached up to my neck and wrapped my fingers around the stone.

  The edges felt good against my fingertips.

  Sharp.

  Forget melting. Forget healing touch. If I had a superpower, I thought, it would be to obliterate people like you.

  High Bun scowled. She lowered her phone, stood up, and walked past the other girls, presumably so she could sit as far from me as possible.

  And then, just as she was about to sit back down, there was a metallic squeak. And the bench we were all sitting on shuddered. A tremor?

  I looked around the stands. No one else seemed to notice. People were clapping and stomping their feet.

  I looked back, and High Bun was gone.

  “Oh my God, Jennifer!” Braids and Ponytail jumped up and screamed in unison.

  A tall man in a ball cap sitting in front of us turned around as the rest of the stands continued to shout and cheer.

  Braids and Ponytail grabbed at their faces. “Oh my God! Help!” Braids cried. “Our friend fell! Help!”

  Ponytail leaned over the railing. “Jennifer, are you okay?” she screamed.

  A crowd of people around us stopped cheering and looked over the railing. The tall man in the ball cap started racing down the stands. Someone pulled out her phone.

  “Call nine-one-one!” someone shouted.

  I didn’t know what to do. I picked up my bag and ran down the bleachers to the stairs to the edge of the field.

  A few minutes later, whistle blows filled the air, mixing with cheers.

  “Cubs win!”

  The crowd flooded out of the stands.

  “Cubs win!”

  Hooray.

  I dizzily wandered through the flood of people to meet my moms in the parking lot. My heart pounding.

  What just happened?

  “Monty!” Tesla was pink and sweaty, her chin slick with whatever she’d been chugging that smelled like cherries.

  Tesla ran over.

  “We won,” she screamed, grabbing my hand and pumping it vigorously.

  “You did great,” I said, allowing myself to be jostled. “You played great. You’re a soccer wunderkind.”

  “Now I get cake!” Tesla started marching, pumping her fist in the air. “I get cake! I get cake! Because we won! Because we won!”

  On our way to the car in the parking lot, we passed the girls from the bleachers sitting on the curb. And there she was—High Bun. Braids had her arm around her.

  As I passed, High Bun looked up. She was shaking a bit and her face was all puffy. Her leg was covered in blue ice packs. Like sandbags stacked up to prevent a flood.

  I had this sudden flash of her ankle underneath. Maybe it was broken. It was probably all bent under those ice packs.

  How did she fall? I thought. She was just there and then …

  A few feet over, a woman dressed in a fluffy pink fleece and green pants said something about the stands not being well built.

  “A safety hazard,” the woman next to her said. “Definitely.”

  “Girl could have been killed,” another fleeced woman agreed.

  Tesla skipped forward into my view. “Did you see me defend goal?” she chirped.

  “Yeah,” I stammered.

  “Those stupid Crows.” Tesla clenched her hands into fists. “We crushed them.”

  “Hey!” Momma Jo waved from the car. “Hurry up! It’s time for ice cream! Let’s go!”

  Broken ankle or not. Dogs won. It was time to celebrate.

  * * *

  The victory party was epic.

  Apparently it was our turn to host the post-game party. Girls arrived by the truckloads, the taste of victory still on their strawberry-balmed lips. They gorged on pizza, cake and ice cream, or organic fruit salad with agave syrup, if that was how the kids wanted to roll.

  I’m pretty sure they all ate cake. From my room, I could hear them screaming and thumping around in that lots-of-sugar way. Kids my sister’s age are the noisiest things on earth. It’s hard to believe they’re really small and helpless when they can shriek and make your eardrums bleed.

  At some point, full of sugar, someone cranked the music to twenty and cried, “Let’s dance!”

  Upstairs, locked in my room, I fell onto my bed and gathered my couch cushions around me. I felt jittery, like someone who hasn’t had enough or has had too much coffee. Everything in my room seemed loud. Even the walls were loud. The night outside was loud.

  I wanted to call Naoki or Thomas, but I had no idea what I would say.

  What happened?

  I was at the game, these girls were being crappy and mean, and then …

  Then what? Did I do something? Did I somehow push her off the bleachers?

  I touched the stone around my neck.

  There was a knock on the door. Momma Jo’s muffled voice.
“You hungry?”

  “Uh, yeah. I mean, come in.”

  There was a pause. “You wanna open the door since I’m bringing you food?”

  “Oh.” I jumped off the bed and opened the door.

  Momma Jo stood in the hallway with a tray of victory snacks: a mini sundae with chocolate sauce and graham crackers, and some corn chips and salsa and real guacamole on the side. Momma makes guacamole with extra mayo the way I like it, with huge chunks of avocado in it so it’s like cookies-and-cream ice cream but with avocado.

  With the door open, the music was deafening. “Holy cow,” I said, stepping back to let her in the room and shutting the door resolutely behind her. “Are they having a rave or something?”

  “Or something,” Momma Jo grumbled, placing the tray on the bed. “There’s more cake down … Hey,” she said, picking up her foot. Underneath was a pile of my most recent scavenges of balled-up Reverend White posters.

  “What’s this?” She kicked the Reverend White’s face, uncrinkled, with her sandal.

  “Oh,” I said, sitting back down on the bed. “It’s just a stupid poster.”

  “Looks like a few stupid posters.” Momma Jo bent down and picked up a crumpled poster. She stared at the Reverend White. Then scowled. “Well, just because this is California doesn’t mean there’s no assholes allowed.”

  Secretly—that is, not in earshot of Mama Kate—Momma Jo has a pretty solid opinion that people like the Reverend White are assholes. They bug her the way actual bugs bug her. She doesn’t like them, and she doesn’t want them in her house.

  When I was little, when girls were always making me cry, I would picture Momma Jo saying “assholes.”

  Sometimes it helped if I was wearing her sweatshirt when I thought it. Assholes.

  Momma Jo tucked her hair behind her ears and sat down on the only corner of the bed not taken up by cushions, laundry, or snacks. Then she gave me the face she gives when she is about to talk to me about something and she wants me to know she is serious. It involves a very crinkled forehead and a frown.

  I shrugged. “Not a big deal.”

  Momma Jo sat back. Looked at me for a bit. Then she reached over to the tray and broke off a piece of chip. “It’s not? I mean, you know, it could be … hard,” she said, dipping the chip in the guacamole. “Even if you know that our family doesn’t need to be saved by the Reverend White.”