"It is beautiful there; it is beautiful here..." she said. "And peaceful..." I looked at her. She seemed to be thinking about something more. Then, she said, "'Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles...'"
"What?"
"'Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles,'" Annalisa repeated.
"What's that from?"
"Oh, no, Jonathan," she said. "You must tell me."
"I must?"
"Si."
I tried to think of something special to say. "Okay, Ms. Gianni..." I said, hoping a few moments' delay would help. "You tell me what this is from." I stood up, pointed to the horizon, and said in a deep, throaty voice, as if I were on stage at the Papermill Playhouse, "Behold, the brownish afterglow marking the day's lonely movement into night, and the continued ceaseless march toward our own inevitable passing..." I looked at Annalisa and shrugged. "Sorry, that's all I got right now."
She clapped and smiled. "I do not know what that is from."
"It's a Jonathan Fehey original."
"You made it up?"
"I did."
"Bellissima!" she said. "You are so poetic."
"I don't think so," I said, sitting down. But it did feel nice hearing her say it.
It was getting dark, so I walked Annalisa home. We took the long way, down Lake Road, over Redemption Bridge, across Western Drive, then up Highland Avenue. At her house, I followed her up the driveway. But she stopped me, kissed me on the cheek, and said, "Sei un amico speciale."
"What's that mean?" I said.
But she just smiled.
I watched her go inside. Then I jogged home, thinking how that was exactly, and perfectly, the way a day off should be spent.
Flash—
My mind went black.
Then I heard voices. I could smell grass. Or dirt, maybe. Someone was pulling me up from the field. He was wearing gloves. Our goalkeeper, Stuart, I figured.
"Man, did I nail you," he said. "You okay?"
I wasn't. I got up on one knee, but my head was ringing, and I had to fight like hell from booting right there on the field.
"What ... happened?" I heard myself mumble.
Stuart was talking, but I couldn't make total sense of what he was saying. Something about me launching myself into the air ... for a header ... he came out of the goal... punched the ball away ... the impact was severe ... that was the only thing I was sure about.
Pennyweather walked up. "Heck of a collision."
"Hadn't noticed," I managed to say.
"Why don't you sit out awhile?"
"I'm fine." I undid the laces of my cleats, and then retied them slowly. The few extra seconds helped to clear my rattled head a little.
"Let's go!" Maako yelled. "While we're young."
Pennyweather turned. "Relax, Erik." Then he called out, "Defense stay put. First-string offense!"
I got up and jogged to the sideline as straight as I could, while the starting forwards and midfielders took their positions for a corner kick. I stood, taking in deep breaths, fists at my hips. Kyle glanced over at me.
Pennyweather blew his whistle. From the corner arc, Gallo lofted an out-swinger to an area at the top of the goal area. There was a clash of players. Maako came out of the melee with the ball, taking a few strides before clearing the ball out of the zone with a booming kick. "That's how you do it, girls!"
"Same defense," Pennyweather said. "Second-string offense back in." He gestured to me.
"I'm okay," I said.
I half jogged back on the field and set up even with the far post of the goal area, just a few yards behind Maako, who stood at the center of the defensive zone. My vision still shimmered when my eyes were open, but I noticed no one was marking me. Willie, our backup right winger, placed the ball on the corner arc. When he looked up, I touched my finger to my hand and pointed to the near side of the goal area. Willie stepped back, then kicked the ball.
I was already running parallel to the goal line, pushing past Maako, catching enough of his thigh to knock him off his feet. Willie's corner kick was perfect, sailing head-high off the ground. I jumped up and flicked the ball with my forehead. When I looked back, I saw Stuart standing in the same spot—he hadn't even had time to react—with the ball in the back of the net. My ringing head suddenly didn't seem so bad.
There was a loud "Whoa!" from the other players.
"Hell, yeah!" someone yelled.
A few guys started clapping.
I jogged over to Willie, high-fived him; then both of us went to the sideline with the rest of the second-stringers. I looked back again. Maako was picking himself up off the ground. Little on a soccer field had ever felt sweeter.
"What the hell was that?" Maako shouted, throwing his arms in the air.
"Next group," Pennyweather called out. "Starting offense and second-string defense on the field."
Maako started toward me. "That's bullshit, Fehey."
"Enough," Pennyweather said.
But Maako ignored him. His hands were curled into fists. He started toward me, then suddenly charged, catching me by surprise. I backpedaled, but before Maako got to me, Kyle grabbed him in a bear hug. In an instant, we were surrounded by a mob of players.
"Get your hands off me!" Maako yelled at Kyle.
"Give it up," Kyle said.
"Protecting your little girlfriend?" Maako sneered.
"You're a dick, Maako," I said. I pushed forward, driving my legs into the turf, trying to get close enough to throw a punch. But I couldn't. Gallo and Maynard had ahold of me—a really good hold. They wouldn't let me move. In a voice only loud enough for me to hear, Gallo said, "Don't even think about it, Jonny."
"I'm gonna wreck you, Fehey," Maako shouted.
I laughed at him. "Sit your ass on the bench."
"The day I spend a minute on the bench with you is the day I quit this team," Maako said, then punctuated it with a wad of phlegm that whizzed past my head.
"Dirtbag," I yelled.
But Maako just grinned.
Pennyweather wedged himself into the fray. "Cut it out, you two. Start acting like men."
I thought we were.
There was still some pushing and shoving, but Pennyweather's threat to have the team run laps for the rest of practice got the other players' attention. Everyone soon calmed down. Except me and Maako. We were left to seethe on our own, spending the rest of practice doing pushups and sit-ups at opposite end lines. I didn't care. It gave my head a long time to clear.
***
I knocked on the office door. "You wanted to see me?"
Pennyweather waved me in. "Take a look at this." He was watching video footage of our last game against Verona, a 3-1 victory. He pointed to the screen. "Richie's open, but Dennis doesn't see him. He's not even looking. See? That's what I'm talking about—poor execution. We can't have this when we get to the postseason tournaments..."
While Pennyweather continued with his analysis, I glanced around the room. There were newspaper articles tacked to a corkboard and copies of Soccer America spread out on the desk. Then I noticed the wall behind me.
Holy shit ... I almost said it out loud.
Pennyweather had a framed photograph of him with Pele, Franz Beckenbauer, and Giorgio Chinaglia, teammates on the New York Cosmos. Next to it were framed tickets from the 1978 NASL Championship game at Giants Stadium. Above that was a photo of Pennyweather standing shoulder to shoulder with Rick Davis and Shep Messing, two of the first great American soccer players. But the centerpiece of the office was a ball autographed by French immortal Michel Platini, and Paolo Rossi, striker on Italy's 1982 World Cup championship team.
"Know who they all are?" Pennyweather asked.
"Of course," I said. I had read about each one. I rattled off the significance of each player. Pennyweather seemed impressed. Or, at least, surprised.
"I've been around soccer a long time," he said.
"Ever meet Mario Kempes?" I asked.
"El Matador."
"Nope, never did," he said.
Pennyweather turned the video off and sat down behind his desk. "Jonny, we're coming down to the wire. Only two regular season games left. Madison next Wednesday, Summit the Saturday after. Then the postseason tournaments. I don't want any unnecessary injuries in practice—the team can't afford it. And I definitely don't want injuries because of some stupid grudge."
I knew what Pennyweather was getting at. He had to coddle the starters, even someone like Maako. "I was just practicing hard," I said. "Exactly what you ask for every day."
"Practice hard, practice fair," Pennyweather said. "But no cheap shots out there."
"I never do."
"And no more fights."
"I'll try."
"Not 'try,'" he said. "No. More. Fights."
"Yes," I answered.
I wondered if there was even a snowball's chance in hell that Pennyweather would be bringing Maako into this office to read him the riot act. I wondered if Maako was entitled to more screwups than the rest of us.
"But don't back down, either," Pennyweather said, as I started out the door.
I looked back at him.
But Pennyweather was already shuffling through some papers. He didn't acknowledge that I was leaving, and I didn't say another word. It was as close as we'd ever come to some kind of understanding.
The doorbell rang. I looked at the kitchen clock. It was ten thirty—late for anyone to be stopping by, even for a Saturday night. I walked into the front hallway, called out to my mom, "I got it," and opened the door.
It was the last person I would have expected. Trinity, with raccoon eyes and a pretentious pout, was leaning oh-so-casually against one of the portico columns, wearing knee-high boots buckled from top to bottom, a black skirt, and fishnet top. Her Celtic knot and purple fingernails glinted in the dim light.
"Hello, Jonny-boy," she said.
Out of the darkness, Stephanie stepped up, too. The similarity was startling. Her hair was the same jet-black color as Trinity's, her makeup just as bold. She wore a black coat over black plastic pants, and a metal choker around her neck.
"What do you want?" I said. "I've got a mac and cheese in the oven."
"Tsk ... tsk," Trinity said. "Two hotties on your front porch and all you can think about is food?"
"That is a shame," Stephanie said.
"Silly little sophomore girls..." I shook my head. "I gotta go."
"Worried we silly little sophomore girls might be too much for you to handle?" Trinity said.
"Are we 'untouchable'?" Stephanie said. The girls looked at each other and giggled. "Kyle's out. Why aren't you, Jonny-boy?"
"I'm busy."
"Wankin' it?"
"You enjoy being a wench?" I said.
"Wench?" Stephanie said. "That's a bit dated, don'tcha think?"
"How about 'bitch'?"
"Now, now," Trinity said, "no more name-calling. Let's just cut to the chase. We need something from you, Jonny-boy."
I laughed. "And why in the world would I wanna give you two anything?"
Trinity smirked. She crossed her arms so that her breasts pressed together and lifted high, while the neckline of her top slipped down. Stephanie unbuttoned her coat, revealing a black lace bra that seemed at least a size too small. I thought I saw the edge of her nipple.
I looked back inside the house to make sure my mom wasn't coming down the stairs, then closed the door behind me. I'd let Trinity and Stephanie take things as far as they wanted. Why not? They weren't ordinary sophomores; everyone at school already knew that. Girls in their grade stayed away from them. Most juniors did, too. They had already served a day of detention for knocking the snot out of a girl who teased Annalisa in the gym bathroom. Mr. Zoffinger was only the most recent target of their cruel intentions.
"Like what ya see?" Trinity said.
"Nothing special," I said.
"Maybe if I..." Stephanie said, leaning over and pretending to brush something off her shoes, her eyes fixed on mine. Slowly, she stood up. "Or maybe, if this slipped a little." She ran her thumb under a bra strap, sliding it off her shoulder. "Want some more?"
I shrugged, trying to seem as disinterested as possible.
Trinity laughed. "Ha, I'll bet you do, Jonny-boy. Gotta little rise out of you, didn't we?" She put her hand on my crotch with a practiced touch. "There's more where that came from," she said, with a gentle squeeze before letting go. "First, we need to establish a little quid pro quo. You do for us; we do for you. We noticed you have an interest in our Annalisa."
"She's adorable," Stephanie said.
"With a hot body," Trinity said.
"We think she's homesick," Stephanie said.
"She needs some lovin' to distract her, Jonny-boy," Trinity said. "You can swoop right in and make her a very happy Italian girl. Of course, as you know, there are plenty of guys at school who've noticed her, too."
I wanted so badly to laugh in Trinity's face and tell her I talked to Annalisa all the time—practically every night—and that we hung out together at South Pond, and at the library, and had private moments at school whenever we could. Best of all, that I knew things about her that the two of them would never know.
"Get to the point, Beverly," I said.
Trinity did her best to smile, but I knew I'd pissed her off. "See, Jonny-boy, we wanna go to a party at the circle. Now, we know your rep's not too good. You're not that high on the—" She turned to Stephanie. "What's it called again?"
"The ladder," Stephanie said.
"Yes, the ladder," Trinity said. "You're not high enough on the ladder to go to the circle yourself."
"You're wasting my time," I said.
"Hey, don't kill the messenger," Trinity said. "It is what it is."
"Why the circle?" I asked.
"Where you been, Jonny-boy?" Trinity said. "All the coolest older guys go to parties at the circle. It's the place to be. I bet it's the place you wanna be, too. Now, we heard some senior girls talking about hanging out there the night of the county championship game. Win or lose, it's gonna rock."
"The key is my brother," Stephanie said.
"Kyle?" I said.
"All you gotta do is convince him," Stephanie said.
"To do what?"
"To let us go," Stephanie said. "All of us."
"Simple," Trinity said.
"Why me?"
"Why not?" Trinity said.
"Why me?" I repeated.
Stephanie feigned a sigh. "Because you wanna go as bad as we do. And Kyle might say yes to you. You want it; we want it. Everyone'll be happy."
I leaned back against the front door.
"Jonny, we know you're not a loser," Trinity said in a syrupy-sweet voice. "If you get us to a party at the circle, this won't be the only time we get to"—she pretended to search for the right words—"share an experience like this. And you won't have to stay home all by your lonesome self." She giggled. "Well, at least for one night."
Inside, the oven buzzer went off.
"Now run along to your mac and cheese," Trinity said. "We've got plans to make."
The two girls were down the front walkway and crossing Lake Road. They looked back at me, laughing and carrying on. Soon, the front door of the Saint-Claires' house opened and closed, and Trinity and Stephanie were gone.
Flames reached high into the night's sky. On the stage behind the bonfire, Pennyweather waved to the crowd. To his left and right, the eleven starters stood, chests out, hands clasped behind their backs, pompously serious expressions on their faces. Camera flashes were going off, the school band was playing, and the varsity cheerleaders were chanting, along with the crowd, "We will, we will ... rock you! We will, we will ... rock you!"
Pennyweather stepped up to the microphone and pointed from one end of the line of players to the other. "This is your fifteen-and-oh undefeated varsity team, Millburn. These are your boys. I'm proud of every one of them. They're good students, good ci
tizens, and all season long they've given every bit of their heart and soul, every ounce of their sweat and pain." He pumped his fist.
Hundreds of townspeople, young and old, roared their approval.
"It's been another successful season, so far ... But our team needs your support for this last regular season game. And, after that, for the county and state tournaments," Pennyweather continued. "Show how important this team is to this town—our town!"
Someone cried out from the back of the crowd, "Go get 'em, Millburn!"
"Yes! Yes!" Pennyweather shouted. "That's what we need, some real emotion."
Another man bellowed, "We're gonna beat Scummit!"
"We will, we will," Pennyweather said, nodding. Someone handed him a red jersey. He held it up high. On the front, it said SUMMIT SOCCER. With great fanfare, Pennyweather wadded the jersey in a ball and tossed it in the bonfire.
The fans erupted.
"Let me introduce our lineup," Pennyweather said. "Our goalie ... with fifteen career shutouts and an oh-point-eight goals-against average ... Stuart Masterson." Stuart stepped forward and waved to the crowd.
The backups had gathered at the side of the stage. Pennyweather told us to meet there. Everyone on the team was equal, he assured us, but he would be able to introduce only the first-stringers. I guess some players were more equal than others. Screw that. I wasn't going to look lame standing next to the stage, staring up at the starters like they were gods.
I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Ciao, Jonathan," Annalisa said.
"Buonasera," I said.
She smiled and said, "This is so wonderful. I cannot believe there are all these people. Should we move up closer?"
"I can see fine from here."
Annalisa seemed to understand. She looked toward the stage again. "Yes, I think I can, too." The flames flickered in her eyes.
"So you like it?" I said.
"What?"
"The bonfire?"
She looked at me. "I do not understand."
"The fire." I pointed. "When it's big like that it's called a bonfire."
"I do like it," she said. "But I do not understand—why is it there?"
I wasn't sure what the connection was between our high school soccer team and a fifteen-foot-high fire, with hundreds of people standing before it like they were worshiping a pagan deity. Tradition, I guess. But there had to be more to it than that. Maybe it was human nature to be drawn to something so mesmerizing yet at the same time so dangerous.
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