by Sophie Davis
“He talks about me?” I mumbled hopefully.
“All the time.” The man offered me his hand and helped me stand on my unsteady legs.
I started for the door. Remembering my manners, I spun and called to the diner owner. “Mr.…” I started to say, then realized I didn’t know his name.
“Haverty. Henry Haverty,” he supplied.
“Thank you, Mr. Haverty,” I told him. “If you see him, my dad, will you tell him to call me?”
“Of course.”
I drove on autopilot, my hands and feet going through the motions while my mind tried to make sense of what Mr. Haverty had just told me.
The drive home passed in a haze. I cycled through a laundry list of emotions, starting with anger and ending with zeal. The former was due to my father’s rebuke, the latter due to the knowledge that he lived close by. Maybe he’d stood me up today, but he had moved to Westwood to be closer to me. That was something at least.
When I turned into my driveway, I was surprised to find my house looming before me. Mom’s Saab was parked in front of the garage, and I knew I needed to pull it together before I saw her. The moment she realized I was upset the cross-examination would begin.
Mom was working at the kitchen table when I entered the house. Her profile was visible from the foyer. Black hair was fastened at the nape of her neck and a pencil protruded from the corner of her mouth. I eased the front door closed behind me, hoping she was too caught up in her work to notice. I made it all the way to the third step before a creaky board betrayed me.
“Endora?” called Mom.
I swore under my breath. “Yeah, it’s me, Mom,” I called back.
“How was church?” She sounded distracted, and I knew that I could tell her I’d seen the light and found Jesus during the sermon and she would have responded with, “That’s nice.”
All I said was, “Not bad.”
“That’s nice. What are you going to do now?” asked Mom.
“Homework,” I replied. And ponder why people have children they don’t want, I added silently. Between my mother’s standoffish nature and my father being a no-show for our dinner date, I was feeling very unloved.
“Good. I hope you’re getting in enough studying for your advanced placement exams. They are coming up soon,” Mom said, never taking her eyes off of the legal pad in front of her.
“I am,” I promised. “Well, good night.” With that I headed upstairs.
“Good night,” Mom muttered.
No sooner had I pulled my cell phone from my jeans pocket than it rang. Eagerly, I checked the display, praying it would say “BLOCKED.” No such luck. Devon’s number appeared on the screen.
“How did it go?” she demanded before I finished saying hello.
“It didn’t,” I told her. “He stood me up.”
“What?? Are you serious?” Devon was incredulous. “He didn’t call, text, anything??”
I sighed heavily. “No. But the owner of the Moonlight told me my dad is a regular there,” I said, speaking softly in case my mother had developed supersonic hearing while I wasn’t paying attention.
“So he lives in Westwood?”
“Or close by,” I replied.
“Did the owner say anything else? How often does he come in?”
“A couple of times a week, apparently. And no, Mr. Haverty didn’t say anything else.” I paused, unsure whether to tell her about the folder of papers the old man had given me. Not that I wanted to keep them a secret; I just doubted that they had anything to do with anything. Dad was a professor, or at least he used to be. He spent all of his free time researching one thing or another. He and Devon were alike in that respect. No questions left behind.
“He did give me some papers Dad left there the other day, though,” I finally admitted.
“What kind of papers?”
I glanced at the manila folder poking out of my bag. “No clue. Didn’t look.”
Devon gave an exasperated sigh. “You are the least curious person I have ever met, Eel,” she clucked.
“Hardly,” I muttered. “I just don’t have your penchant for demanding knowledge.”
“What can I say? I’m curious like a cat. That’s why they call me Whiskers.”
I laughed. That was one of Devon’s favorite sayings.
“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I mean, he insisted we meet in person to discuss something. But then he’s a no-show? Wouldn’t you be worried?”
“I’m sure he has a really good excuse,” Devon replied in a tone that suggested she didn’t believe that at all. “Give it a couple of days before you send out the hounds.”
I flopped down on my bed and began pulling at a loose thread on the comforter. “Then what? It’s not like my mom would do anything if I told her what happened.”
“Then we’ll go looking for him. Me and you. That old guy at the diner probably knows more than he told you. We’ll start there.” Devon paused and cleared her throat. When she spoke next, her voice was hard and edged with intensity in a good imitation of Coach Peters. “For right now, you need to get your head in the game. We have St. Mary’s this Friday. I need you focused, Andrews.”
I laughed. Over the past four years, Devon had perfected our coach’s clipped tone and squinty-eye glower. She was probably performing the latter right now.
“Like a PI’s telephoto lens on a cheating spouse,” I responded.
“That’s my girl.”
Chapter Six
Watching JV girls’ lacrosse is normally a painful experience. The players typically drop more passes than they catch, and most shots on the goal are only blocked because the shooters use the goalie as a target. But lacrosse is a religion in our area, much like football is in the south. This was the only reason that the stadium bleachers weren’t completely empty at 5:00 p.m. on Friday evening.
As varsity captain, I felt that I should make an appearance, but neither Devon nor Elizabeth felt compelled to join me. Since prom was fast approaching, my friends had decided to use the free time to test out a spray tan salon in the next town over. At last count, they’d already tried three other places without much luck. After going to Fun Without the Sun, a spray tan salon in Westwood, Elizabeth resembled an oompa loompa and Devon was streaked.
So I sat alone on the bench with my warm-ups over my uniform, trying to drum up some enthusiasm from the second and third stringers since the crowd in the stands was barely cheering.
With mere seconds left on the clock, one of the defensive players for Mt. St. Mary’s fouled Anna Beth in the arc, and the ref awarded her an eight-meter shot. Coach Peters called a time-out before she let Anna Beth take the penalty. She met my eyes as the girls huddled around her, and nodded in Anna Beth’s direction. I pulled Anna Beth away from her teammates.
“How are you feeling?” I asked, wincing when I noticed the goose egg forming on her forehead from the stick she’d taken to the head.
“Good,” she said earnestly, her speech slurred around the mouth guard protecting her upper teeth.
“Good.” I smiled, encouraging her. “The goalie is left-handed, so you have the advantage of shooting for her right,” I instructed.
Anna Beth nodded, her brown ponytail bobbing behind her. “The girl that whacked you is really fast. You need to get your shot off quick before she can get her stick in there,” I continued, reiterating details I was sure she knew. Anna Beth listened patiently, drinking in all my advice like it was gospel. “You’ve got this.”
The fog came thick and fast this time. In the blink of an eye, I was standing in a cloud, nothing but white in every direction. I stiffened. No, not again, I thought, half expecting to see Ninjas or something equally bizarre storming the field. Instead, Anna Beth threw her arms around me in a suffocating bear hug. “We did it!” she squealed in my ear, spitting her red mouth guard onto the Astroturf next to my foot. I returned her embrace. Pride swelled in my chest, as though I had
a part in the victory she’d just claimed.
“That shot was unbelievable,” I whispered. “How did you know to pump fake?”
As fast as it had come, the fog was gone, and once again I was standing on the sidelines in the Westwood High Stadium. The sun was sinking below the horizon, casting the field in shadows. For the past four years, every time I entered this stadium my pulse quickened, the corners of my mouth involuntarily rose to form a smile, and the taste of victory awoke my taste buds. But now, standing in a place that had always filled me with joy, I was suddenly uneasy. The vision was nothing special, nothing serious like the one about the Bronco. But the fact that the visions were happening at all was enough to throw me off balance.
“Eel? You okay?” Anna Beth asked, bringing me back to reality. The younger girl’s eyes were slightly unfocused, but there was no mistaking the concern they held.
I shook my head. “Good luck?” I said, my sentiments coming out more like a question than a statement.
Anna Beth smiled wearily and then started trotting back onto the field as the ref blew her whistle.
“Anna Beth, wait!” I shouted after her retreating form.
She paused mid-stride and craned her neck over her left shoulder to look at me. I sprinted to cover the distance between us.
“Forget what I said,” I urged her. “Cradle three times, pump fake, and then aim stick side,” I ordered.
She looked doubtful, but I knew she’d score if she followed my instructions. “Trust me,” I said, lowering my head to look directly into her eyes, which was not easy since hers were darting erratically from side to side. She nodded dazedly.
The ref blew her whistle a second time, giving Anna Beth an angry glare. Anna Beth ran toward the opposing goal to take her penalty shot before the ref penalized her for delaying the game. Just as quickly, I retreated to my end of the metal bench.
“What did you say to her?” Coach Peters asked, sounding more interested than irritated.
“Just reminded her to keep an eye on eighteen,” I lied. Eighteen was the girl Anna Beth had to thank for the concussion she was clearly suffering from.
On the field, the ref blew her whistle a third time. Anna Beth wasted no time in charging the goal. She cradled her stick across her chest three times and drew it back farther over her right shoulder on the fourth pass, like she was going to release the ball tucked in the mesh pocket.
“SHOT!” a girl on the opposing bench screeched.
The goalie deftly crossed her own stick over her chest as she moved to her weak side, anticipating where Anna Beth’s shot would’ve gone had she taken it, but the ball was still nestled in the pocket of her stick. Anna Beth cradled one last time, drew her stick back again, and fired her ammunition for real. The ball sailed cleanly past the goalie and found a home in the back of the net.
The sound of the ref’s whistle was drowned out by the screams erupting from the girls sitting next to me. Anna Beth tore across the field, her arms wide, and nearly collided with me when she reached the bench. She engulfed me in a suffocating bear hug.
“We did it!” she squealed in my ear, spitting her red mouth guard onto the Astroturf. I returned her embrace, just like I had in my vision. Only now, fear made my chest constrict, and I gripped Anna Beth tighter to make sure I was living in the here and now.
“That shot was unbelievable,” I whispered, because I knew I should. The shot was amazing, but if I hadn’t known I was supposed to say those words, my mind wouldn’t have been able to formulate the thought.
“How did you know I should pump fake?” This time she asked the question instead of me, or at least a version of the same question I’d asked her in my vision.
“Just a feeling.” I smiled, releasing her and shooing her toward the open arms of her teammates.
How had I known what was going to happen before it did? Where had the vision come from? Was it like the feeling of impending doom that people experience, only kicked up a notch?
I know that it’s not unheard of for people to have a feeling when something bad is going to happen. After 9/ll, people who were supposed to be on the planes that hit the towers claimed that something had told them not to take the flight. Many episodes of that Unsolved Mysteries show were based on a similar phenomenon.
Knowing that Anna Beth would score if she faked the shot and then aimed for the goalie’s stronger side was likely a byproduct of the years of training, I told myself. You’ve been playing lacrosse since you were six. Besides, the goalie wasn’t exactly in the running for player of the year or anything, so using a pump fake was a surefire way to score a goal.
“Well whatever you said to her worked,” Coach Peters said, startling me out of my anxious mental rambling.
“Huh?”
“Whatever you told Anna Beth to do, it obviously worked. That was an amazing shot. You’ll make a great coach one day, Andrews; you’re great at reading the players,” she praised me before disappearing to shake hands with the coach for Mt. St. Mary’s.
Her words hit home. I was great at reading opposing players. That was part of what made me such a lethal opponent, according to every coach that I’d ever had. Even my mother frequently told me I was too observant for my own good. There was nothing weird going on.
My own teammates were trickling onto the field now, prompting me to assume my role as captain. Elizabeth and Devon were laughing as they made their way around the rubber track to join me on the bench.
“Looks like they won,” Devon observed, nodding to the JV girls who were still a huddle of screaming excitement.
“Yeah, good game,” I said absently, freeing my stick from the bag Elizabeth handed me.
“You feel okay?” Devon asked, her eyes darting across every inch of my face.
“’Course. Why?” I retorted sharply.
“Well, for starters, you’re jumpy as hell, Eel. And then there’s the fact your pupils are so dilated you look like you’re on drugs,” she said, matching the tone I’d used.
“Sorry. Nerves, I guess,” I apologized, truly sorry that I’d practically bitten her head off.
Devon’s expression softened. “They aren’t even in our conference, Eel. The game is a glorified exhibition. It’s totally not a big deal if we lose.”
“You know that this is more than just another game for me,” I said pointedly. “This is personal.”
“Jamieson?” Devon guessed.
I nodded. Jamieson Wentworth, my former best friend, played for Mt. St. Mary’s. I’d thought about Jamieson a lot over the past week, ever since the text from Kaydon.
“Andrews!” Coach Peters screamed my name across the field. “Let’s get this party started. I shouldn’t have to tell you that your job is to be leading warm-up drills right now and not having social hour with Holloway and Bowers.”
“On it, Coach,” I yelled back. Then I exchanged an eye roll with Devon and Elizabeth before taking up my post.
The game wasn’t exactly a slaughter, but we were leading them five to one by the end of the first half, which was a decent spread. Instead of dwelling on the visions, I funneled all of my nervous energy into the game. I ran harder and faster than normal, as if I could outrun whatever was happening to me. Midway through the second half, Coach Peters decided to make some changes to the lineup.
“Holloway, you’re on fire. I want you setting up shop in front of that goal, first home,” she declared.
First home was the offensive position closest to the goal. Devon looked grateful for the reprieve; she was sucking wind from having to run the length of the field so many times.
“Bowers, I’m moving you to second home. Everybody else, get the ball to one of those two.” Twenty heads bobbed in unison. “Andrews, take center,” she ordered me.
She continued to bark out positions, but I’d stopped paying attention. I never played center; the position was both offensive and defensive, and shooting was not my strong suit.
The ref blew the whistle to resume play.
>
“Um, Coach? Are you sure you want me at center?” I asked hesitantly, knowing that questioning her authority might land me on suicide duty until the end of the season.
“That’s what I said, wasn’t it, Andrews?” The question was rhetorical.
“Um, right, you did But why?”
Her patience was wearing thin. “You’re one step ahead of everyone else on that field and I need you where you can direct this game. I want to finish strong, win big,” she said, exasperated. “Now go.”
She shoved me towards the circle where the other team’s center was already waiting to take the draw. I jogged to take up my position opposite her. I’d never taken the draw in a game. I frequently helped Devon practice, though, so I knew the technique. Only problem was ― I sucked at it.
I mimicked my opponent’s stance: right foot forward, right knee bent, right forearm skimming the top of my thigh. Gripping the wooden handle of my stick so hard that my knuckles turned white, I pressed the pocket against my opponent’s, wedging the hard, white ball in the middle. I closed my eyes and waited for the sound of the ref’s whistle.
As soon as the shrill sound assaulted my ears, I shoved hard against the other girl’s stick. The joint force propelled the ball high in the air and straight into the pocket of one of my teammate’s sticks. I tore down the field, my speed unmatched by the girl marking me. As I neared the twelve-meter arc, I planted one foot and pivoted, stick high in the air - an unspoken call for the ball. I never saw the ball land in the mesh pocket, but felt the weight when it settled into its home. Instinctively, I turned, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that Devon would be standing behind the goal. I didn’t bother looking to make sure she was; I released the ball mid-turn.
“SHOT!” the goalie screamed, her voice coming out garbled around her mouth guard.
The defense collapsed on the goal, but they were too quick on the draw because I hadn’t taken a shot. Just as I’d known she would be, Devon stood behind the goal and to the left. She cradled the ball three times, giving me enough time to rush forward. Since the goalie had assumed I was shooting instead of passing, she read the play wrong and left one side of the net wide open.
