Out of Nowhere

by Maria Padian

  The door swung open, abruptly. Coach was red in the face and looked surprised to find us standing there.

  “What are you two doing lurking out here?” he growled. “I thought I told you to go outside.” He didn’t wait for an answer, but stomped down the stairs. We followed.

  Out on the sidewalk, Coach exhaled deeply. He looked up and down the street, as if he were trying to remember where he parked his car or what he was supposed to do next.

  “I’m sorry about that, boys,” he finally said. “I should have known better. John LaVallee is a small-minded guy. Always has been. I guess I didn’t realize how small.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked. Coach shook his head.

  “Nothing you need to worry about. I handled him. So listen: can I give either of you a ride home?” Saeed pointed down the street.

  “I walk. My house right here.”

  “Okay, see you Monday, son,” Coach said.

  Saeed turned and trotted in the direction of his apartment. I held my ground.

  “What?” I repeated. He wasn’t going to get rid of me that easily. I could see him trying to decide whether to get into it or not.

  “Some people are questioning the eligibility of all our immigrant players,” he finally said. “They’re clever. They know better than to just target Saeed, because that would reveal their true purpose, which is to get him off the field. Instead, they’re going after everyone, on principle, to make it look like they’re worried about rule infractions. So they’ve got the ball rolling to formally challenge the boys’ eligibility. If it turns out they’re not eligible, our entire season will be thrown out and we won’t be allowed to compete at states. Even if they are eligible—which they are; their green cards are absolute proof of date of birth—the challenge alone could get them removed from a couple of postseason games as the matter is being resolved.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Why would anyone care so much about high school soccer that they would go through all this trouble?

  “Who?” I asked.

  But of course, I didn’t need to.

  “Maquoit,” Coach said bitterly. “Alex Rhodes’s father is leading the charge. He’s a lawyer. He’s got the whole athletic department over there whipped up.”

  It made sense. You don’t drive thousands of miles and spend thousands of dollars over eighteen years to sit back and do nothing while a handful of barefoot-soccer-playing immigrants pluck the state championship trophy from your son’s hands his senior year. You sure as hell don’t just let the kids play. That would leave too much to chance.

  I got Mr. Rhodes. I got people like him, and Alex, and all the rest of them who needed to keep us in our place. Greasing the skids for their kids’ sports, their kids’ college, eventually their kids’ jobs. My guidance counselor and my parents—shit, even Don—kept wondering why it was taking me so long to step up and apply to college. Take my place in the world with the Little Lord Fauntleroys and the rest of the rich pricks. Yeah, right.

  Here’s who I didn’t get: John LaVallee. The hometown guy. Who should’ve understood, more than anyone, what a state championship meant for us.

  Why wasn’t he on our side? What, in his mind, could possibly outweigh beating Maquoit?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I sent Alex Rhodes a message on Facebook. We weren’t “friends,” so I attached my message to a friendship request. He took several days to respond, but when he did, he agreed to meet me at a Starbucks halfway between Enniston and Maquoit.

  Donnie thought I was crazy.

  “Certifiable, Tom. And I know nuts, let me tell you. I straddle that line.”

  We were walking to The Center together. Donnie had done nothing toward racking up community service hours, and I’d convinced Myla that while Mr. Plourde would probably be an impediment to after-school homework, he’d be a lot of fun for the younger kids who just wanted to play. Don was more than happy to go along. He didn’t seem grateful or resentful that I was practically holding his hand and telling him what to do about his service.

  He just seemed happy to be hanging out. Almost relieved.

  “Listen, Alex and I are gonna talk. The two of us, neutral territory. Maybe if we can just talk, without any adults around, we can get to the bottom of this.”

  “Why would he want to get to the bottom of this?” Donnie exclaimed. “He’d love it if our Somali guys got thrown off the team! Then his team might actually win!”

  Donnie didn’t know Alex. Hell, I didn’t either. Not really. But I’d at least spent some time with the guy, played on the same side of the field with him, and … I needed to try. Needed to follow up on my gut feeling that he wasn’t his dad.

  Myla wasn’t there when I dropped Donnie off, but Samira waited.

  “Hello, Tom,” she said to me as her eyes strafed Donnie. Her nose wrinkled, sniffed the air. “Myla said I should show your friend around and introduce him to the kids. She’s not coming until later.”

  “Oh. Okay. But you do know I’m not staying, right?” I told her. I looked around the room. Plenty of kids, but no other adults. “It’ll just be you and Don until Myla gets here.” I wasn’t sure if that was something she’d be allowed to do: working alongside an unrelated guy without another woman or adult.

  “And I’m a handful,” Donnie said to her. With his lopsided grin. Which, at that moment, went perfectly with the lopsided, overlong hair.

  Samira stared right back at him.

  “You are Tom’s friend, Don Plourde, yes? I am Samira Bashir. Myla told me you want to get community service hours here?” She waited for a response.

  “Yes,” he said, sincerely. A bit too sincerely. “Otherwise they won’t let me graduate. And let me tell you, I don’t want to spend another year in high school.”

  Samira shrugged.

  “There are worse places than Chamberlain High School,” she said quietly.

  The expression on Donnie’s face went from flippant to chastened in less than a second. Seriously, I’d never seen him knock off the attitude so fast in my life.

  “We thought you could play games with some of the older kids,” Samira continued. “We have a volleyball set up outside. You want to come?” She turned on her heel and walked out, expecting Don to follow. He glanced over at me, shrugged, and followed her.

  “Later, Tom-boy,” he said.

  Alex sat in one of the deep brown-leather armchairs that makes Starbucks such a comfortable place to settle in and drink expensive caffeinated beverages. Everything in the place was a shade of coffee. I dropped into the armchair facing him.

  “You wanna get something to drink?” he said. Funny how both of us dispensed with “hellos.”

  “I’ve already had enough,” I told him. We both smiled at each other. He held up a big to-go cup.

  “French roast. Grande,” he said. “I’ve got practice in the dome tonight and AP calc to study after that. Me and caffeine are big friends.” He took a swig of his poison, and we both settled into looking across the little round table at each other. I called the meeting, so I broke the silence.

  “You guys practice at night? In the dome?”

  He shook his head.

  “Premier team does. School team practices in the afternoon.” Right. Premier. United Maine, with all their matching gear, guys driving hours for practices that would get them home at 11:00 p.m.

  “Yeah. Anyway. I guess I don’t have to tell you what I want to talk about,” I said.

  Alex smiled easily at me.

  “Yes. And just so we don’t waste any time, let me assure you: it’s not happening.”

  “Really? You’ve dropped the challenge?”

  Alex looked puzzled.

  “Um … there never actually was a challenge, Tom. Just because you decided to make some demand in front of everyone, to get your guys pumped, doesn’t mean we have to keep playing your stupid games. Drop it. Move on. Get over it.”

  I was completely confused.

  “Demand? Wh
at demand?” I said.

  “To paint ‘You rock, Chamberlain’ on our spirit rock. What the hell do you think I’m talking about?” Alex sounded annoyed.

  “Oh … that.” The whole thing with their rock seemed like ancient history. Was it really only a few weeks ago that shit was important to me? “Right. We made a deal.”

  “No deal, Bouchard. And for the record? I already went to our principal, and he said to tell you: blow.”

  I tried to imagine that low, stubby guy saying “blow” to anyone, and couldn’t.

  “I thought you had more integrity than that, Alex,” I said. Something flickered across his face, some expression I couldn’t read. He shrugged, but my comment had bothered him.

  “Whatever. So, are we done here?” He acted like he was going to get up.

  “Actually, that’s not why I wanted to meet. We need to talk about the challenge to some of our guys’ eligibility.”

  Bland smile from Alex.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you, Tom. I don’t know anything about it. What else is new?”

  “Your dad is heading it up.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “One of the guys who’s fending him off.”

  “Well, then maybe you should be speaking to my father. Although good luck with that. He’s a big talker but not much of a listener.” Alex looked steadily at me when he said that. Took another swig.

  I tried again.

  “Alex. These Somali guys. They’re eligible.”

  “So you say.”

  “They have green cards that show the date of birth. It’s all legal and they’re eligible.”

  “If they’re so eligible, why are you so worried that you’d ask to meet me here to talk about it?”

  “Because your father is making a stink right before we head into the postseason, and our guys might have to sit out a few games while it all gets resolved! It’s bullshit, and you know it, Alex.”

  I wanted to smack him. I wanted to hit him on the side of his big blond head and knock some sense into him. Don’t you see what you’re doing, you self-centered, entitled prick? I wanted to yell.

  Which might have been fun, but would only have succeeded in getting me thrown out of Starbucks. I took a deep breath.

  “Alex. I’m gonna be straight with you, okay? Saeed. That’s the guy we’re talking about here. He has no birth certificate. He’s a refugee and before coming to this country he pretty much lived in something like a yurt. So no records, no paper. Which means when he was answering questions about his birth date? He estimated. He gave them his best guess. He thinks he’s eighteen. His green card says he’s eighteen. But he might be younger. And he might be older.”

  “Thank you, Tom. That’s the point. He might be older.”

  I shrugged.

  “And you’re gonna prove that how? No one can. So the green card rules. Which means this is all a waste of everybody’s time.”

  Alex didn’t reply. He glanced out the window at the parking lot. The strip mall stores. The UPS Store. The Athlete’s Foot. A sub shop.

  “Can I ask you something, Tom?”

  “Okay.”

  “What happened to you? How come you never played with us?”

  It took me a second to figure out what the hell he was talking about. Then I realized: the club team. Back when we were in eighth grade.

  “What, United Maine? Simple. I couldn’t afford it.”

  Alex gave a short, dismissive laugh.

  “C’mon. The club offers scholarships. You could’ve gotten one. We wanted you. Tons of guys try out, only a few make it, but you? We invited you. And you walked away.”

  I knew I was supposed to be impressed and grateful for that revelation, but instead I felt a little disgusted. These guys were so friggin’ pompous. They thought everyone was just dyin’ to be one of them.

  “A five-hundred-dollar scholarship barely makes a dent in the twenty-five-hundred-dollar fee, Alex. And it doesn’t cover all the hotel and food and gas expenses my parents would have had to take on to get me to games. It wasn’t personal, man. It was financial.”

  Here’s what I didn’t tell him: I wanted to. I wanted to play with you guys so bad. I wanted to play great soccer, with the best. And sometimes I wonder if the reason I want to beat all you people from Maquoit so much is because I need to prove that I’m as good as you.

  “Why do you give a rat’s ass whether I played for United Maine or not?” I said instead. “Seems to me you’ve done fine without me.”

  Alex didn’t answer right away.

  “I don’t know. I guess I just never understood,” he finally said. “Maybe if you had, we wouldn’t be sitting here like this right now.”

  I stifled the urge to laugh. It struck me that Alex Rhodes was missing something big: whether I played for United Maine with him or not, we’d have always ended up here. Maquoit versus Chamberlain.

  “So can I ask you something?”

  He nodded.

  “Is winning states so important to you that you’d be willing to play dirty for it? Because that’s what this is. It’s a bullshit technicality that might knock us out of contention. Seriously, man, is that how you want to win? Because even though I love beating your ass, I’ve always respected you and thought you were better than that.”

  His face fell.

  Bingo.

  This was where he lived. He might be a privileged, full-of-himself jerk, but he was no dope. He knew that beating us without Saeed on the field was no victory at all. Everyone would always wonder whether Chamberlain would have won if they’d had their best player. It would be a hollow victory at best. And Alex was, first and foremost, a competitor.

  “I am better than that,” he said quietly. “And for the record, I know we can beat you, and I welcome the opportunity to do it with your whole team on the field. If it makes you feel any better, I said that to my father.” His tone changed. “Not that what I say matters. He’s running this show. Pretty much runs the athletic director and the principal, too. So you see, Tom, you’re talking to the wrong Rhodes. I may play the game, but my father calls the shots.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I’ve got a father who always comes to my games, but other than that he’s pretty indifferent to sports. I think he would have preferred if I sang in the chorus, to be honest. For the first time in my life I actually felt sorry for Alex Rhodes.

  I hoped that feeling would pass.

  I stood.

  “Then I guess we don’t have anything else to talk about,” I said.

  “Guess not,” he said. He didn’t get up. As I walked toward the exit, however, I thought of something. I turned to him.

  “About that Osama crack. Back at the rock? That sucked, man.”

  Alex looked surprised. I wasn’t sure he even remembered he’d said that.

  “That’s, like, hate speech, Alex. You can’t go around doing that. Even if you were just trying to bug me.”

  An incredulous smile spread over his face.

  “C’mon, Tom, let’s not exaggerate. I just said it to piss you off. But you’re right: it wasn’t nice. And I’m better than that, too.”

  I stared at him for a moment. The feeling had passed. Probably faster than it should have.

  “So you say,” I told him. Then I left.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  We were on the letter M when all hell broke loose. Varsity had the late practice, so I went to The Center right after school to put in an hour of service. And … for other reasons.

  Unlike C, M was turning out to be easy. We did money and malab, which means “honey.” As Abdi drew the pictures, I attempted some humor.

  “My grandmother has a saying: ‘No money, no honey,’ ” I said. “I guess we could change that to ‘No money, no malab.’ ”

  Blank stare from Samira.

  “It’s a comment about relationships,” I explained. “Honey, in this case, could mean love. Romance. A few other things, which we won’t mention in front of Abdi he
re.” Our guy was actually paying no attention to me at all. He loves to draw. The only time that foot stops swinging is when Abdi’s got some crayons or colored pencils in his hands.

  “So the phrase is a funny, rhyming way of saying that without cold, hard cash in hand, you can pretty much forget about holding hands. Isn’t that right, College?” I said that last bit loudly, in the direction of the glassed-in cubicle where Myla was doing some paperwork. Her head shot up, and she smiled at me through the glass.

  “What’s that?”

  “No money, no honey,” I called to her. “You’ve heard that before, right?”

  Myla got up from her chair. She joined us in the big room.

  “Hmm. Can’t say that I have,” she said. “But it sounds about right.” She was trying not to laugh.

  Samira frowned at her.

  “But what does it mean?” she asked.

  “It means,” Myla said, “that it’s easier to love a rich man than a poor man.”

  “It does not!” I exclaimed. “Samira, don’t listen to her.”

  Myla stepped behind me and put her hand over my mouth.

  “It means,” she continued, “that if a guy wants any affection or attention from a girl, he’d better show up with a very full wallet.” She burst out laughing at her own joke. Samira, meanwhile, looked very serious. Pondering.

  I pulled Myla’s hand off my face.

  “It means,” I said, looking pointedly at Myla, “that getting along with girls is hard as it is, and being broke only makes it harder.” I still had hold of her hand, and I pulled her toward me. She gave me a look and tilted her head toward Abdi. I released her. We’d agreed to cool it with the boyfriend-girlfriend thing around The Center because we didn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. Samira knew what was up, but she was the only one.

  Finally she spoke.

  “It means,” she said slowly, “that life is hard, and if you don’t have money you work all the time. To pay your bills and feed your children. But if you have enough money, you can stop work and do the fun things. And that is the sweetness. The honey.”

  Myla looked at me.