CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
WITH GREAT POWER, GREAT RESPONSIBILITY, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH
I FOUND MY mom sitting in her study, bent over with her forehead resting on her closed laptop. I hesitated in the doorway, uncertain if I should continue barging in or back out quietly. She lifted her head before I could decide.
“Tessa?”
“Mom? What’s wrong?”
She sighed and straightened, combing her hair away from her face with her fingers, before tilting her head slightly. “I’ve been given this semester and the spring semester. If I haven’t made substantive progress, I’ve been warned I should probably look for another job.”
“No!” I sank down on her extra chair. “How could they do that?”
“Because they can. There is competition, always, for any tenured openings, and I haven’t earned the right to compete.” She gestured at her computer.
“But you’re writing. And if you can attend the dissertation boot camps, even the monthly one, you can finish and have it in front of the committee after Christmas.”
“If. If.” Her blue eyes, usually blazing, looked faded and tired. “I don’t think I can do it.”
I wanted to object but decided to listen instead. “Why not?”
“This,” and she fanned her hands out in front of her, taking in me, the house, and all the nearby surroundings. “I’m writing on magic realism in American history and literature and all this smacked me in the face. How can I write about magic as being surreal and largely subjective, subtly intrusive on the mundane, if influential, when it isn’t? It’s all around us, isn’t it? If the professor wanted to help, or even Steptoe, I could probably gain perspectives on our past no one could even dare guess. Proving it might be more difficult, but I’m certain the ideas are buried in writings, if I only knew where and how to look.”
My jaw dropped to offer an answer, but I couldn’t come up with one. After a moment of stammering, all I could come up with was: “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Well, it is, kinda. I discovered the professor, and then everything else just sort of fell in place with him.” I had come in to tell her about our date with Aunt April, but it seemed to be adding insult to her injury at this point. “Maybe you’re just a little bit outdated.”
“Outdated? No. I’d say I’m completely in the wrong. I should give it up.” She took a deep breath, but before she could launch another sentence, I put my hand up to stop her.
“It’s not your fault. We know how hard the other side has worked in not being revealed. So we’re not seeing, observing, properly. No one has been able to. They have no transparency, they don’t believe in it, in fact—just the opposite. The more that gets revealed, the more dangerous it is for them, the other side. They have always been veiled. Hidden. And what we’re getting now is still not an open viewing. It’s like . . . like . . . like . . .” I stumbled to a halt.
“Like seeing it in a mirror. A dimmed and cracked mirror. Hmmm.” And she sat back in her seat.
“Ummm. Yeah. Maybe not quite that diminished but, yeah.”
Her eyes lit up. “But you can extrapolate from a mirror’s view. Imagine the world turned out and opened up, if you had the vision. If you cultivated it. If you knew what to accept and what to discard.” She opened her laptop. “It’s not surreal at all. It’s coded, encrypted. And you know what you know because they reached out. And then you brought me into it.”
Actually, they hadn’t reached out at all; I had tripped and fallen face-first into it. “Could be. And all you’d need is to be able to interpret it—”
Mom threw up a hand to stop me. She began typing furiously. Whatever it was, it sounded promising.
I stood up. “Okay, leaving now. But, um, Saturday we’ve got a date with Aunt April. Going to the new casino for dinner and fun. Maybe seeing elves, if they’re out and about, gambling.”
She did not look at me as she repeated, “Saturday, casino, Aunt April. And elves.”
I wasn’t sure if she’d even heard herself over the soft clack of laptop keys and my leaving the room.
Fourth quarter. My jersey clung wetly to my torso, my shin guards felt like they were on fire from the heat, and my elbow throbbed. I threw the last of my cup of water into my face, hoping for a cool-down. Most of the team stood close enough to provide even more heat and sweat.
“I need some blocking,” I stated. “That big girl, number fourteen, is all over me.” I stared across the field where Abby Jablonski put her head down and glared back.
“All over you? The entire team is all over me.” Jheri poked me in the foot with the toe of her soccer shoe. “I can only block so many shots.”
I grinned at her. “The number of shots you can block is infinite, so don’t try and throw shade. We’re covering you.”
“Mmm-hmmm. How about stop feeling sorry for yourself and start scoring?”
I looked up at the scoreboard. 2-1. Or, more accurately, 1-2. “I scored.”
“Not enough from where I stand.” And Jheri shrugged inside her goalie padding.
“Yeah, yeah, I hear you. What about the rest of you guys?”
“They,” Kristy pointed out, “obviously know who our best striker is.”
“Well, then, they obviously have me covered.”
The coach returned from the sidelines where she’d been conferring and stuck her face into our circle. “Break’s almost over. Made any decisions yet?”
“We’re gonna win this. I just don’t know how yet.” I swung my stick around in my hands. I looked back over my shoulder where gigantic number fourteen waved at me from her sidelines. Or maybe she was sending obscene hand gestures. Something occurred to me that I should have seen oh, three quarters ago. And the coach, too.
“Almost all their coverage is on me.”
“No kidding.”
“Shut your mouths and listen. I can pull them just about anywhere I want because they’re all over me.”
“So . . .”
“So one of you has to hit the goals. If I pull them, there should be a hole somewhere.”
“I wondered when one of you would figure that out.” Coach beamed. She is not a real hands-on athletic teacher; she likes to let us learn the hard way so that we’ll remember it better. This time, it might have been too late.
“Consider it figured. Okay, I’ll draw them, but not too obviously. You’ll have to thread your way through. Kristy, Beth, you got this?”
“Got it.”
We all high-fived each other with the battle cry of “Sky Hawks Soar!” ringing in our ears and prepared for battle.
Number fourteen had badgered me so much that my concentration had frayed. Uncertain of what my newly obtained and untrained sorcery streak could do, other than explode tires on F-150s, I had restrained myself on field. I didn’t want to be responsible for concussions or broken limbs and hadn’t been as in her face as I could have been. I told myself that I hadn’t held back in practice and nothing had blown up or otherwise disintegrated. Odds were that the stone in my palm and whatever it had absorbed this time knew my boundaries and couldn’t transcend them unless I forced it. I was in control.
Nice illusion if I could maintain it.
The whistle blew and we were off.
The ball dropped, and I went after it, blocked immediately by Abby, who bared her teeth at me as I tried to flank her and could not. Big she might be, but she was fast as well, and fearless. I, on the other hand, couldn’t quite get over the idea that I might snap her legs in two if I thought about it too hard. I pivoted around and dropped to the back field, momentarily giving up. She and another back followed on my heels. We jostled a bit, sticks clacking against one another, the ball angling away from all three of us. I feinted to go after it, drawing Fourteen and two more of her teammates after me. I thought I saw Kristy’s heart-shaped face grinning as she darted by, but no time to keep looking. I fake dropped behind in the lane for a pass that I could never have taken successfully because of the coverage on me.
The stone throbbed in my hand under my gloves, responding, I hoped, to my keen desire for a goal and hopefully not to any whims I might have. Like watching Fourteen get a mouthful of dirt when I evaded her so neatly that she would lose all sense of balance and face-plant. It wouldn’t happen—she was quick on her feet and at cornering for a tall girl—and if anyone was likely to face-plant, it would probably be me, thinking too much for my feet to keep up with me.
I whirled around and retreated rapidly, still trying to keep up the charade that I expected a backhanded pass annnnny second now.
Lisanne streaked downfield, with only one defender on her, and bam! She took a forward pass and made a shot, so quickly that it had to be seen up close to be believed. I could only see the goalie react to it, bouncing into motion and position—too late.
Goal! And the score stood at tied, two all.
Abby bumped into me solidly as we dropped into line-up for the ball drop. She muttered, “Won’t happen again.”
What wouldn’t? The bump? The coverage? The goal? Think again, my pretty.
Beaming, I moved into my position and waited for the official to put the ball into play again.
She was right, though. Nothing came easy after that, and finally Beth called a time out, winded, her hair plastered to her forehead, her hand reaching for a drink. We paced on the sidelines.
“They’re on to us.”
“At least we’re tied,” grunted Jheri. She shook her head, raining drops on all of us from her kerchief-bound curls. Her dark skin glowed.
“All we need is one more.” I ran my hands up and down my hockey stick.
“Running out of time,” the coach warned.
“We know.”
I made a circling motion with my hand, and they gathered in to listen. “Okay. I’ve been faking it for almost the whole quarter. They figure they’d got me cornered. Well, I’m breaking out. It may cost me another penalty, sidelining me, or I’ll get through. Look out, I’m coming.” We covered each other’s hands. “And break! Sky Hawks Soar!”
The ref positioned to drop the ball. It fell onto the battered grass.
Greta bounded past me, calling, “This won’t be pretty,” and she angled right at Abby who had the ball, dribbling it down the field toward our net and Jheri.
She hooked sticks. In and out so quickly that the foul, if there had been one, couldn’t be seen but heard as wood clattered. She pivoted around, and her shoe struck the ball. It shot out of the hole. I only saw it because I was looking. Staring, actually. Greta bobbed her head, ponytail of streaked blonde celebrating, and she was off.
I saw Michelle head to the ball, cutting it off from the other team, and girls flanking each other in slight confusion. It took me a second to realize they were setting me up. I moved, and almost ran into Fourteen head on. Her eyes narrowed at me.
I did a bump and roll off her, nobody watching us because the ball was downfield, in the midst of plenty of action. I knew it would come shooting back to me.
She probably suspected.
I tried to shake her and almost succeeded. Her ragged breathing and my own filled my ears, the din of the other players and the families and friends in the stands a quiet roar in the background. I’d like to say it was one of those moments like you see in the movies, where everything slows down, and the only thing you know are the heartbeats, slow and steady with all the time in the world before the next beat, and you can accomplish miracles.
Nope.
I tried to shake her and couldn’t, not quite, and I could sense that the ball was coming my way any moment now. I needed to be where I could receive it, legally, and drive it on from there. I needed to be free.
Running as though my life depended on it, I headed to position, Fourteen on my heels. I could hear her make a noise of effort and, in the corner of my eye, I saw her pass me. She’d block or intercept the pass no matter what it cost, and we were running out of time. The team could survive on a tie—but who wanted to, if we could pull off a win?
My opponent, my nemesis, slashed her stick around in front of me, hitting the ground with a solid THAWK intended to do one thing only: intimidate. Her eyes gleamed defiantly as she did.
The stone blazed in my hand, but I shoved my thoughts back into unknowable land. And then Fourteen did it again, slamming the head of her stick in front of my next step, readying to either stop or trip me.
I swear I did nothing. Not. A. Thing.
Her stick broke. Not just broke, it split in two, lengthwise. Crumpled in her hands.
I sped around in front of her, the gate open, anticipating the ref’s whistle—but it didn’t sound. The ball came hurtling at me, I caught it, and drove it back, thundering after it. When I caught up with it, I slammed it toward the net.
The goalie dove for it, head down, body parallel with the ground, gloves and arms straining for it—and missed, as the ball sailed into the net’s corner.
I could feel the burn of success all the way, from my toes to the top of my head.
But we weren’t done yet. There was time to line up, drop the ball again, and drive toward the net, either side. We did so after a brief congratulations while Fourteen trotted to her team’s equipment manager and got a gleaming, new hockey stick. Its enameled paint shone in the reflected sunlight. She worked it around a bit in her hands, getting used to its carry and weight and grip. Hockey sticks are all created equal and yet not. I had two, but one was definitely my favorite. She’d already sacrificed her best equipment trying to block me. I had her at a disadvantage now.
My rib cage burned a bit, in the fatigue that a long tough game can hit you with. I’d given most of what I had to give, but I wasn’t about to quit—and neither were any of the girls lined up next to me. Michelle gave a huff of defiance.
The ref tossed the ball into the face-off. We all heard the clack-clack-clack of battle to knock it free, one way or the other. When it came slinging by me, I took off after it, my hulking shadow right there with me. We bumped hips and shoulders, muttered at each other, but stayed together as if we had been harnessed. Midfield, the ball came flying, and I missed the pickup. Only by microns, but a miss is a miss and she didn’t. She might be a defender, but Abby stood at a place on the field where she could go for a goal of her own . . . and she did.
I flew after to try and stop her. She burst through Kristy and Beth as if they were transparent and then tripped Lisanne off to the side as she dribbled the ball toward destiny. Lisanne went rolling on the ground, but the refs knew dramatics when they saw it and no whistle sounded.
Fourteen lined up her shot and Jheri threw me a look of desperation. The timer on the clock showed us down to mere seconds. There would be no chance after this. I caught up with her and put my stick out, bumping hers just as she pulled back for the swing. The ball flew forward as if winged. My wrists stung from the contact. Fourteen rocked back on her heels to keep from falling backward. Jheri flung herself by sheer instinct to where the ball should be headed.
She was wrong. Our invincible goalie, she of the keen eyes and even greater heart, missed the block.
But no one could have blamed her. It was one of those things.
I’d deflected it first.
The ball shot through the air and hit the goal post, bouncing harmlessly off into the grass and skittering behind the net as the game buzzer went off.
All the good feelings exploded, and we almost poured a vat of cold drink over the coach, but she’s pretty fast for her age and we mostly got ourselves. You’d have thought we made it into the finals, but the season wasn’t quite old enough. Coach did tell us the win vaulted us into first with the team we’d just beaten right at our heels. After the rest of my team peeled off, headed to the locker room, I spotted my mom, Brian, and Aunt April waiting in the home stands. I trotted over.
“Great game,” Aunt April said, her back straight as ever, parallel to the concrete blocks that build the stands. Her hair held a lavender cast from the last afternoon rays. Visitor stands were spindly lumber-built structures, but ours stood sturdily against the elements.
“Thank you! Ready for tomorrow?”
“Naturally.” She looked down her nose at me. “I may come over a bit early. There’s something hidden away in the house I should find.”
Oh? Like my father? I smiled instead of saying anything, though. If she didn’t know about my father, she might have a heart attack when she found out. I made a note to stick by her side when she arrived. I waved my stick at them. “Gotta go before they close the locker room!”
The field and opposite stands had emptied when I ducked my head to pass through. The day had sunk deep into early evening shadows and no lights were due to come on. Our game had run long, but this particular field was never lit unless programmed to do so early. I looked into the long and dark shapes and felt a moment—just a tiny moment—of uncertainty before I began moving past the stands. If Joanna showed up again out of her nowhere zone, I had my gear on and my stick in hand and the stone always present.
So it’s safe to say I expected the person who sprang out in front of me, except that I didn’t. Abby Jablonski leered into my face.
“Good game,” she mocked. She hadn’t been in the ending lineup when we all congratulated each other, so I figured she’d trudged on ahead to the gym and lockers. Silly me. She’d stood, waiting.
“Actually, it was. You almost had us.”
“I had you.”
“You did,” I agreed. “For a while there. I think you guys gave me too much credit, though, and it backfired on you.”
I couldn’t see much of Fourteen but her face, higher than mine, with the corner of her upper lip curled in scorn. A blue cast lit her eyes. I blinked. I thought they were brown . . .
“Won’t happen again,” she told me.
“We’ll probably meet in finals.” I moved to step around her.
“Not if you’re on the injured list.” And she strode forward to block me, her hands moving into sight, fingers gripping a big cement slab. “A broken bone can be a big inconvenience.”
Not to mention a world of hurt. I could scream, but no one remained to hear. I danced backward and she followed, transferring her burden to one hand and pulling her stick out of her gear bag on the ground with the other. That blueness kept blazing from her dark eyes and I wondered what possessed her. What fueled her into unthinking anger. I knew the hit was coming—I knew it, damnit—and still couldn’t avoid it. My feet tangled on the stick as I scrambled to get out of her way and I went down, sprawling, and the slab began to descend on my ankles. Both of them.
I threw one leg up to stall her movement and kick her away, feeling the stone begin to pulse along with my panicked heartbeat. I grabbed at my glove, peeling it off frantically. Anger flooded me, forcing out the fear in harsh, stabbing breaths. I wanted to annihilate her. Do what I couldn’t do on the playing fields, with all those eyes on me, witnessing. I wanted to teach her a lesson. Who she could bully and who she couldn’t! Abby must have been saying something. Her lips moved and her face snarled, but I couldn’t hear her through the roar in my ears.
I could feel the earth shift around me in answer to my will. Stone spoke. Wood and iron replied. I turned my face away and, when I realized what I saw, flipped over as she heaved her weapon toward me. I yelled at her.
“Run!”
Abby had a split-second to realize what I meant, and she twisted away. I levered myself to one knee and took off from there as though I were in a sprinting block on the track. We both barely got out from under the stands as the structure heaved up and then collapsed resoundingly where we had just been fighting. Tons of debris covered the spot.
Abby paled. That eerie blue color in her eyes faded out. She jerked her chin at me, yanked her bag out of the ruins, muttered, “Freak,” and then jogged off as her team bus honked impatiently for her from the other side of the gym buildings.
I stared at the grandstand. Half of it gone, just like that. My vision blurred faintly, and the feeling nagged at me that I could—I should—restore it if I could only see clearly enough how to do it. There had to be a way . . . My pink glove peered from under the edge of the rubble, and I went to get it from the disaster. Had I meant it, or had it been fear or anger?
Like the F-150 tires exploding.
Like the hockey stick splitting in two. Like I had become dangerous.