The Girl Who Fell (10 page)

“I have a thing for the art on the album covers.” The best covers from the sixties are pinned to my wall. “And the scratch. I kind of think the needle is an instrument, part of the band.”

“The sign of a true connoisseur.” He sets the needle onto the record in the player. The hollow scratching joins us. Then the music starts, Joan Armatrading's “Whatever's For Us.”

Speaking of love

You ask how much you should give

It's a question I can't help asking myself as Alec reaches for his French book and opens it onto the bed between us. Finn watches his every move.

“So . . .” Alec says.

“French?” I suggest.

He draws his hand to his chest. “Why, Zephyr. How forward of you!”

I shove at his knee and he laughs. We manage to review the last few weeks of work, with Alec stealing a kiss for every correct past participle and two kisses for every incorrect conjugation. I suspect he throws a few. When a burned smell reaches us from the kitchen, Mom comes in to inform Alec it's time to go. I walk him to the door where he tells me, “You'll be great tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

He plucks his finger off the tip of my nose. “See? I told you distraction was best.”

He's right. Field hockey and friend drama are the last things on my mind.

Later, as I slip under the covers, Alec's spearmint scent lingers on my comforter and I pull it close to my face, breathe him in again and again.

By the next afternoon, I'm crawling out of my skin in anticipation of the state championship game, the final game of my high school career. I can't remember one thing my teachers have said all day and I refuse to let even Gregg's cold shoulder bring me down.

Alec left a mock menu in my locker this morning. “Restaurant Grand Opening: Everything from A to Zee.” There was an old-timey soda fountain picture on the cover. Inside, lime rickeys were listed in every size and availability, all with unique pricing. I carry the menu in my game bag now. For luck.

Having Alec with me in this unique way gives me strength as I ride the bus south to Concord, the town where, apparently, Dad now dwells. I can't help but wonder if we drive past his neighborhood or if he knows we're coming. But for the first time in months, I don't question what's ahead. It's like Alec's absorbed some of the doubt that's haunted me and I'm glad to be rid of its shadowy weight.

When I reach the field, the sweet scent of grass fills my head and my muscles remember their mission. My brain knows what it wants. Nothing less than victory. And it feels, miraculously, within reach.

The referee drops the hard white ball in the center of the field and time slows. A whistle sings just as the two center forwards battle for control of the first play. Sticks bang and beat against one another until my teammate gains control. I sprint for the pass and tuck the ball under my stick's head. But within seconds, I'm being guarded by a nymph. I'm twice her size, but she's quick. And cunning. She hovers the butt of her stick inches from mine, no matter how expertly I try to jog the ball away from her. She steals the ball and runs it to the opposite end of the field. She bends low, sends the ball so close to our net, where Karen stops it with her oversize glove.

Sudbury works the ball to the opposite side of the field, but with effort. By the time I'm set to score, the nymph flits out of my blind spot and hops the ball over my stick. She attempts another goal that Karen thwarts. My breathing comes heavy. Every muscle engages.

Nearly an hour into the game, lights buzz on overhead like mosquitoes. Chants construct walls of sound, the rival crowd so much louder than our supporters. The autumn air nips at the tips of my ears and feels too cold as I breathe the shock of it in and out of my overworked lungs.

By halftime, we're tied 0–0. Near the end of the last quarter, the game is still scoreless. I feel drained. Only a few minutes remain on the clock. We're facing possible overtime and all I can think of is splaying myself out on the cold grass and never running again for the rest of my life. Exhaustion spasms my thighs as Coach gathers us for our last time out.

“It's us or them, girls,” Coach tells us. “One team has to bring home the trophy. That's the way this works. What you do in the next string of minutes will determine which school will hold the state title. Understand?”

We nod collectively as Coach continues.

I know the high of winning and I want it for me, our school, Coach. I let her last pep talk propel me back onto the field with renewed energy.

Within seconds, a hard
thwack
sends the ball within reaching distance of Karen. She runs to it, smacks it down the right sideline, and another forward gets control. She keeps the small ball magnetized to the end of her stick. I summon my last bit of strength to sprint to the opposite sideline and position myself for the pass. It comes. Hard. The ball soars over the cropped grass and I halt it with my stick.

I draw it back.

One arm straight.

One elbow bent.

I fix my shoulders.

I swing hard and hear the
whoosh
of air as the stick cuts through the atmosphere. My forearms ripple with a sting and the
thwack
echoes against the silenced crowd. I watch the ball rise on wings, heading right for the enemy goal.

Their goalie stretches to reach with her oversize glove, but the ball soars into the upper right corner of the goal box. The net absorbs the spinning orb before spitting it onto the quiet grass, where it stops rolling with all the finality of the end of a sentence.

The final air horn blows. The game is over. The end of my field hockey days for Sudbury. Our supporters explode with cheers and I am lifted by a dozen arms, hoisted into the air so that I'm flying inside and out. Beyond the madness, I see Karen between our goalposts, raising her stick above her head like a bar, pumping it fiercely with two hands. She runs toward me and I swallow this feeling, how it tastes like sugar and pride.

The fatigue in my muscles washes away and my adrenaline convinces me I could run a marathon. When we line up for our good-game high-fives, pride pulsates through me and I'm convinced there is no greater high in the universe.

From within the crowd I hear Lizzie's distinctive ranch-hand whistle. I spy her on the sidelines with her camera, her hand corralling the team into a group shot.

“Gather up, ladies!” I call, and they do. We pile onto and around one another and scream out “Champions!” at Lizzie's prompting. We are a mob. A mass. Connected in our triumph. I raise my stick over my head. Someone thrusts the game ball into my other palm. I hold these pieces above me as my teammates raise me above them. Lizzie's camera follows me upward, her repeated flash leaving dots in my eyes—smaller, brighter versions of the field lights that have borne witness to our hard-won victory.

When my feet return to the ground, Lizzie tells me, “You are now without question the most bestest field hockey player I've ever been best friends with. It's my working headline.” She pulls me to her before her face contorts. “Even if you do smell ripe.”

“It's an unfortunate side effect of greatness.”

“You were awesome out there, Zee. Really.”

I can't stop the smile sprinting to my face. “It felt great. A tough game, but an unforgettable one for sure.”

“Not a bad way to end a career.” Lizzie scans the photos on her camera's display screen. “Yours and mine.”

That's when it hits me that this is the last game of mine she'll watch. The last time she'll write up a story about my team. The thought jolts me with loss. That, and . . .

“Have you seen Gregg?” I wipe the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve and scan the crowd.

She looks at me, her eyes soft. “It's his loss, Zee.”

My heart plummets to my stomach.

Coach calls for me to get my hustle on. “Chop, chop, Doyle!”

I thumb toward my classmates loading onto the bus. “I gotta ride back with the team. I'll text you about the party at Karen's.”

“Figure out the details and just come pick me up. After you shower, obvs.”

“Will do.” I turn, but before my feet carry me away, I move closer toward her. “I want you to have this.” I jiggle my gift in a loose fist.

Lizzie extends her palm, onto which I slide my saliva-filled guard.

“A small trophy. To mark the end of an era.”

“You are gross, Zephyr Doyle.” She hooks my mouth guard across the V of her hoodie like some perverse medal. “You make me so proud, little grasshopper.”

“Thanks Obi-Wan.”

My smile reaches Coach before I do. The bus literally rocks from my teammates clanking sticks in beats of victory. Adrenaline surges. I'll never have a night like this again and all I want to do is capture this rush, bottle it.

We plan to celebrate in style. Karen's parents have opened up their house to the team and our fans. Heated pool. Catered food. And even though I'm psyched that Lizzie will be there with me, I can't help how the sadness of absent Gregg wiggles into this night.

I approach the door to the bus as a figure steals out from beyond the headlights.

I'd know the shape anywhere.

His steady gait.

His broad shoulders.

My heart sprints as if I'm on the field again.

Alec walks to me. “You rocked it, Zephyr actually.”

“You're here?”

“Wouldn't have missed it.” He pulls me softly off to the side. It's almost too surreal: his support, his tousled hair, his beautiful tallness. “See me tonight. To celebrate.” He strokes my cheek with his finger and I press my face into the tenderness of his touch.

“I-I can't. I already made plans.”

He scowls softly, his disappointment making him even cuter. “With who?”

“The team has this huge celebration bash planned. I told Lizzie we'd head over after I showered.”

“Be with me instead.” He steps closer to me, his breath so close to my neck I can feel its signature heat. And I smell the spearmint hovering on his words.

“I can't.” I couldn't.

“You can.”

I laugh. “If only. Maybe tomorrow?”

Alec nods, smiling. “Tomorrow.” He steals a quick kiss on the cheek before Coach hollers again.

“Thanks for coming.” I board the bus and it lurches into gear. I wipe the fog from the window with my palm and that's when I see him.

My father.

Standing under a parking lot spotlight, hands in his jacket pockets, watching our bus start out on its return trip to Sudbury. I press my hands around my eyes, against the glass, trying to magnify this one person among a crowd of people. But then I don't need to focus or wonder if he can see me. My father brings one hand free of his jacket and gives me his signature wave, a sideways thumb held steady . . . steady. Until he raises it quick and firm into a thumbs-up. My heart wrenches. It is the same signal he gave me a million and four times from across the playground when I jumped off a swing or when he watched me compete in junior high track meets. My own thumb twitters with a response, but I tuck it into my fist.

The bus lumbers out of the parking lot and I can't help watching my father's figure become smaller with distance. Until darkness erases him. Music booms and my teammates sing and scream, but inside my brain the world is silent. And filling with anger. Does he think he can pop back into my life whenever it's convenient for him? Whether it's what I want or not? He had to know his presence would rock me. And then my anger reaches out, grabs Mom. Did she tell him to come because she couldn't be here?

The ride home is too long. It is long enough for my anger to fall into confusion. Over why Dad wants to be a part of my life again. And then anger again at him leaving in the first place and allowing any of this sadness to drape over my insides like a permanent shadow.

By the time I see the
WELCOME TO SUDBURY
sign, I realize I've become
that girl
again—the one from summer who doubted she had any worth at all if her own father couldn't see a reason to stay with her. I hate that my father has this much power over me still.

I drive home and stop at our mailbox. I tuck my hand inside and pull out a few bills—all addressed to Dad. I crush them into a ball, toss them in my backseat. Then there is only a card. With two stick figure people walking hand in hand along a beach. The drawing is crude, the shoreline just a thin swipe of ink. I open the card and read:

I dig hanging with you.

A.

I stare at the two outlined figures connected on paper and feel that same connectedness with Alec. How can he know exactly what to say? Even when he's not here? I clutch the card and know he's the only person I want to process my father's skulking with.

I drive the long, dark road of our driveway and am surprised to see Alec's car waiting in front of our garage.

He steps out just as my headlights wash the side of his perfectly polished car, its chrome gleaming in the starlight.

I roll down my window. Alec leans in. “I know you have plans and you can tell me to go, but you looked so happy after the game, I just had to see you again.”

“I'm glad.” Alec's presence, the high of our win, the card in the mail . . . these things lift me again. I open my door, climb out.

“I feel like I'd be a really shitty boyfriend if I didn't at least try to celebrate with you tonight. Besides, your voice is all low and sexy from all that cheering, so there's that.” He wraps his arm around the small of my back like a hook, pulling me to his hips. When his lips are on mine, I feel the beginning breath of that rush, that adrenaline that built just before scoring.

“I just got your card.”

“I thought . . . you know, this way you wouldn't be totally disappointed if your acceptance letter didn't arrive yet.
Yet
being the operative word.”