Trinity and Stephanie ran up the patio steps and sat on the wall beside Annalisa. Trinity grabbed the Diet Coke, while Stephanie helped herself to a handful of potato chips.
"Gives a ten-page paper due in three weeks," Trinity said, annoyed. "We're gonna have to get that changed pronto." She took a gulp, then winced. "What the hell—is this just soda?"
"It is," Annalisa said, sheepishly. "I am sorry."
Trinity tossed the can away, then pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and smacked it against her hand—empty. "I need a smoke real bad. I thought I was gonna lose it in class."
"Let's go downtown," Stephanie said.
"Got some cash?" Trinity said.
"No."
"Then we'll hit the deli," Trinity said. "Whose turn to distract the cashier?"
"I did it last time," Stephanie said.
"Then I'm up," Trinity said. She turned to Annalisa. "And you're gonna help."
Annalisa looked confused. "Che?"
"Don't worry," Stephanie said. "I won't let anything happen to you."
"But we have biologia," Annalisa said. "Uh, I mean, biology."
Trinity swung her legs off the back of the patio wall and jumped down. "You're in America, Annalisa," she said grabbing her by the arm. "Didn't you ever ditch class back home?"
Before she could answer, Trinity pulled her along. I noticed Annalisa left the piece of paper on the wall. After the three girls were gone, I walked over, picked up the paper, and unfolded it. In loops and curls, Annalisa had written her name and a phone number. I quickly slipped it in my jacket pocket.
Shoot it, Jonny!" someone yelled.
It could have been a teammate, or Pennyweather, or one of the hundreds of Millburn fans standing on our sideline. Seven minutes into our home game against Dayton—after our left winger, Gallo, had been helped off the field with a sprained knee—and the only thing between me and the opposing goalkeeper was the ball and God's green earth.
The situation was severely unexpected.
Moments before, Solomon had headed a corner kick out of our defensive zone. When a Dayton player misplayed the clear, Maako stole the ball and took off downfield. He should've passed the ball to Kyle or to one of our outside midfielders. It was what everyone expected. But Maako didn't. Instead, he called a switch with our stopper, dribbled past two Dayton midfielders, and sprinted toward the goal.
I filled the space between the Dayton center and left fullback. On the slim chance that Maako would fake a pass to Kyle on his left, I'd be open on his right just inside the penalty area. And that's exactly what happened. Maako delivered a short cross.
I trapped the ball off my chest. Then all hell broke loose. I don't know if I was breathing, though I must have been because I remember hearing air whoosh in and out of my mouth. I could feel the energy drain from my body. Another few strides and I'd crash.
Footsteps to my left.
Footsteps to my right.
Footsteps at my heels.
The Dayton goalkeeper charged. I reached my leg back and crushed the ball, just as the goalkeeper slid, flipping me into the air. For a split second I thought about how cool this must've looked: Backup striker subs in for starting left winger, makes a strong move inside the box, gives up his body in a fierce collision, puts the home team ahead, 1-0. I hit the ground hard, and whipped my head around just in time to see my masterpiece.
Instead, I watched the ball sail over the crossbar. There was a loud groan from our sideline. Pennyweather, fists at his hips, his face rigid, said nothing. I got to my feet and quickly set up to play defense.
Maako ran by. "Get on top of the damn ball, Fehey!"
By the start of the third quarter, Gallo returned to the field and I was back on the bench, where I remained for the rest of the game. It gave me plenty of time to think about how the margin between glory and continued anonymity was razor thin. I didn't control my nerves when I received Maako's pass. I rushed the execution. What had all the training with Kyle been for if I couldn't handle the pressure against a mediocre team like Dayton? I didn't relax. I didn't keep my head. I should've leaned over the ball more. But I didn't. Because of that, I put a sliver of lift into the shot, sending the ball into, what was for all intents and purposes, oblivion.
***
Kyle pulled the BMW up his driveway and parked. "Good win today," he said as we got out of the car.
"Sure." I started toward my house. "Your goals were nice," I said, more out of obligation than really meaning it.
The final score was 4-0. A shutout victory. That should have been the important part. Winning—that's all that mattered, right? Millburn soccer drew the crowds it did because it won games. Plain and simple. Winning put you on a pedestal; losers looked up from below. Winners were afforded the spoils of victory; losers got nothing.
But there was more to it than that. What did it mean to be on a winning team if you weren't a starter or at least playing a lot? I thought about that all the time. I'm sure every backup did. Team glory wasn't worth much if you were rarely in the battle. "You're riding the starters' coattails," people would say behind your back. Or to your face. It was about a million times worse if you were that second-stringer who did get a chance to be in the battle, but airmailed a golden opportunity to score over the crossbar.
Kyle said something.
I turned. "What?"
"And an assist," he said. "Two goals and an assist. I got the assist on the last goal. College coaches like to see stuff like that. They wanna know if you're a team player and all."
"Yeah, okay," I said.
***
My mom sat in her chair in the corner of our living room. A lamp shined on the book she was reading. To the side of the chair was a wineglass. She looked up. "How'd it go?"
"We won," I said. Halfheartedly, I guess.
"That's a good thing, right?"
I didn't answer. I had my uniform in my hands.
Leave them in the laundry room," my mom said. "I warmed up some food for you."
I put the clothes on top of the washing machine, then took a chicken pot pie from the oven and sat down at the kitchen table. I pierced the crust with a fork. Steam rose from the inside.
Why did Maako pass me the ball? The one guy on the team I truly despised, a loudmouthed egotistical jerkoff, and he delivers a pass to me when I would've bet my life he wouldn't. And a goddamn perfect pass, too.
Maybe if I had cushioned the ball with my chest differently ... My body suddenly—almost involuntarily—twisted to a better angle, and I felt that familiar rush of nervousness, as if the soccer ball were coming at me at that instant. Then I just felt stupid. The game was long over. My screwup was long over. I took a bite, then sat back from the table and shut my eyes.
The library was quiet. It always was. It kind of reminded me of the attic.
I had spent the past few hours reading The Great Gatsby for an English term paper. Critiquing Fitzgerald was an impossibility. I could hardly understand his dense writing. I almost felt stupid reading the novel, and I certainly didn't care much about Manhattan or Long Island, or anything that happened way back in the 1920s. But I liked Gatsby. He was a mystery. People wanted to know him. They wanted to be around him. They wanted to be with him. And he had money. A ton of it. Would've fit in well in Short Hills. What I didn't get was why, when the façade of his life was peeled away, Gatsby—rich, manly and seemingly flourishing—was on the outside looking in.
I closed the novel and stared at the second floor. I hadn't bothered to go up there today. In fact, it had been weeks since the last time. I was tired of thumbing through books, tired of not finding a scrap of paper that even remotely looked like the ladder, tired of the ridiculous quest. Soccer season was taking its toll, and with senior year already well into October, maybe it wasn't worth the effort to find the ladder anyway.
Who was I kidding?
I'd be back. Next Sunday afternoon, probably. If not, definitely the one after. There were more stacks to go t
hrough. There'd always be more.
I stood up from the table and put on my jacket. Annalisa, standing at the reference desk, caught my attention. The emerald sweater she wore seemed to shine from across the drab library. I looked around to see if she was alone. I didn't see Trinity or Stephanie, or anyone else.
A librarian directed Annalisa to a corner of the library. I waited. My heart thumped as I watched her wind her way through the maze of book stacks. Maybe this was one of those moments, full of possibility, like when I sat on my dad's shoulders gazing out at the Millburn football pep rally. Or the night in Vail when Ruby straddled my legs, touched her lips to my ear, and whispered she wanted to be with me.
I picked up Gatsby and my notebook, walked past the second floor staircase, across an aisle, then another, and headed toward Annalisa. She was searching a book stack. But instead of tapping her on the shoulder, I veered off down the opposite aisle.
No guts, I scolded myself.
And, for some reason, that stopped me from simply walking away. Through the shelves, I could see her. I moved closer. When we were both at eye level, I coughed. She didn't notice me, so I coughed again. Then she looked at me through the shelf and said coolly, "Yes?"
"Ciao, Annalisa."
I ducked my head to see her face, but she moved out of view. Then I stepped around the end of the stacks. "What're you working on?"
Annalisa didn't look at me. "I am researching for class," she said. "And you? I did not know you were here."
I pointed to the other side of the library. "I was over there."
"Were you searching for something?"
"Not today," I said.
"So you did not find what you wanted?"
I hinted a smile. "Maybe now I have."
"Or maybe you need to keep looking," she said.
Annalisa moved to the other side of the stacks. I followed her.
"Gonna be done soon?" I asked.
Why do you want to know, Jonathan?"
"We could get ice cream or something."
She shrugged. "I must do this work."
It was clear that Annalisa didn't have any interest in speaking to me. My heart sank. Trinity and Stephanie had gotten to her. I didn't think they had been able to, but I was wrong. I started to walk away.
"Why did you not telephone me?" Annalisa asked.
I stopped.
"Did you not get the notepaper I left?" she said.
"I did. I got it."
"But you did not telephone?"
"I meant to."
"Meant to?"
"Yeah."
"You should have telephoned."
I noticed Annalisa look over my shoulder. I turned. A woman had walked in the library entrance. Annalisa immediately picked up her notebooks and pen. "I must go," she said. "Mia madre is here."
"I'll call you," I said, louder than I wanted. "Promise."
But Annalisa did not look back.
I stood at my bedroom window, staring out at the Saint-Claires' house. "Come on ... come on," I muttered. "What's taking so long?"
It felt odd being home so early after school. I expected to be exhausted, sweaty, and dirty, but was none of those. Pennyweather had finally given the team a day off. It was deserved. We were 10-0, ranked sixth in New Jersey. Yesterday, at Oradell, our midfielders turned what should have been a competitive game against a good opponent into a 7-1 shellacking.
And while Kyle reached yet another milestone—setting a school record with the fifty-first and fifty-second goals of his career—I scored on a left-footed blast off a pass from Richie in the fourth quarter. It was my first of the season, and a long time coming. I had almost forgotten what it was like to see the ball come off my foot and smack the back netting of an opponent's goal. That instantaneous release of emotion. Teammates mobbing me. Fans calling out my name. A pat on the back from Pennyweather. Damn, it had been incredible.
Kyle finally came out of his front door. I leaned back from the window to stay hidden (though surely he couldn't have seen me) as he jogged down the walkway and jumped into his BMW. He backed out of the driveway in a rush, then turned up Lake Road.
On the ride home from school, I had asked him what he was doing for the afternoon. He told me he was going to take it easy.
"Take it easy?" I said.
"Yeah, just hang out," he said.
That was b.s. People in the crowd were meeting at Brandy Stahl's house after school; more would show up later. Her parents were away. There'd be alcohol, pot, and whatever else. I knew Kyle couldn't resist.
"We got tough games coming up," he said. "I wanna be ready."
"Good idea," I said.
If Kyle wanted to have secrets, I could have secrets, too. I threw on a long-sleeved shirt and a sweatshirt, bolted out the front door, then ran down Lake Road.
As I came to South Pond, I saw Annalisa sitting patiently on the dock. She waved and gave me a delicious smile, and, suddenly, I didn't give a damn where Kyle was, who he was with, or what the hell he was doing.
For the past few weeks, Annalisa and I had been talking on the phone nearly every night. Sometimes just to say that we'd see each other in the hallway the next day, if we could. I wanted to see her a lot more, but we had to be cool about things. She had a locker near the science labs and, though I wasn't taking biology or chemistry, I found every opportunity to wander that way between periods.
On Sundays, when we weren't meeting at the library, we'd spend the afternoon on the dock at South Pond. Away from the crowd. Away from prying eyes and whispers. Just me and her. Talking, and joking, and teasing. We hadn't fooled around. Not even a kiss. There'd be time for that. Maybe it didn't need to get to that point anyway. I knew Annalisa liked getting out from Trinity and Stephanie's shadow, while I relished the idea that we had this thing together that nobody knew about.
"Where do they think you are?" I asked.
"Out shopping for winter fashion," she said.
"I'm surprised they didn't wanna go."
"They did."
Annalisa was so unlike Trinity and Stephanie. I'd wondered why the two of them bothered making her a part of their little triumvirate, since they seemed to be following in the footsteps of Sloan Ruehl. Annalisa would surely just get in the way.
"Better hope they don't find out the truth," I said.
"Yes, I do not want them mad at me. Stephanie, especially."
"You mean Trinity."
Annalisa shook her head and, for a moment, seemed serious. "No," she said. "I mean Stephanie."
"Yeah, well, she's got a big ego to fill being Kyle's little sister," I said. "I'm sure she's enjoying that."
"I do not think so," Annalisa said.
"Trust me," I said. "I've known her a long time."
But Annalisa was insistent. "Stephanie comes over my house, even without Trinity. We sit for hours in my bedroom; sometimes she stays for the night. She talks about her parents. And Kyle. Once she told me that she thought her dad wished she had been another boy—or a girl that played sports the best. She was being honest, I am sure. Sometimes we look at magazines of movie stars. I think she wants people to notice her, too." Annalisa bowed her head a little. "I guess some people like that."
"Can we talk about something else?" I asked.
Annalisa nodded.
"I'm kind of tired of all things Saint-Claire."
"But understand, Jonny, Stephanie has been good to me," Annalisa said, in earnest. "From the beginning, she told me to stay close with her and school would be fine. It was difficult coming from far away. Living in a new country, new people ... new everything. I was worried I would not make friends in America. Stephanie fixed that."
And then we were both quiet for a moment.
As we dangled our feet just above the water's surface, I looked at Annalisa, studying her face. She was delicate, beautiful, and had flawless skin that, even with summer long over, seemed tanned. She had brought a bag of cioccolata and a book of poetry. We ate the candy and took turns readi
ng our favorite poems out loud. When a small-mouthed bass jumped, not more than a few yards away, I offered my knowledge for how to catch it. I explained lures and baited hooks, and pointed out all the ideal spots for catfish and perch. Most of the time, though, we talked about teachers and school and Short Hills. I told her that everyone thought her father was in the Mafia.
She laughed. "The Mafia?"
"Yeah," I said. "Supposedly, your family moved to Short Hills so your father could set up a money laundering operation for people back home."
"Money laundering?" she said. "What is this?"
I shrugged. I didn't know.
Annalisa shook her head. "You Americans watch too many criminal movies."
In fact, the Giannis came from Arma di Taggia, a small town on the Mediterranean coast, one hundred kilometers from San Remo. Annalisa's father was an executive at an Italian telephone company working on a project with AT&T in Bedminster. The plan was for their family to stay in Short Hills for the next year or two. However, recently she overheard her parents saying that the company might transfer her father much sooner than that. Annalisa hadn't told anyone. I wished she hadn't told me.
"That'd be lousy," I said.
"I think you are right," she said.
We sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the sun set, squinting our eyes from the reflection off the pond's surface, pressing in tight when a chilly wind rustled the treetops and rippled the water. I asked if she was cold. Annalisa nodded. So I pulled off the sweatshirt I was wearing. She was curious about the logo.
"Princeton," I said. "It's where my mom went to college."
"Will you attend there, also?"
"Doubt it."
"Why?"
"My mom's super smart; I'm just kinda smart," I said. "I'll apply, but I don't wanna get my hopes up. It's my favorite sweatshirt, though."
Annalisa slipped it on. The sweatshirt fell off her thin shoulders and hung well below her waist. It looked good on her. I told her to keep it. A small gift from me. I think she liked that.
Eventually dusk came.
"It is beautiful here," Annalisa said softly.
"Like Arma di Taggia?"
Over the End Line Page 8
