FRIDAY, AUGUST 26

4:58 P.M.

KEARSON

Kearson Wagner opens and closes her fists as discreetly as she can, hoping to flick away the tingles in her hands. She made herself a new mix for this season, only brand-new songs released this summer. The volume is up as loud as her phone will go, earbuds nestled snug in her ears, little vibrating pebbles.

A tap on her shoulder. Her mother, in the driver’s seat. Kearson pulls out an earbud. Just one. “What?”

“Everything okay?” Her mother keeps her voice light, pretending to be more focused on an empty intersection, dutifully glancing left, then right, then left again, a performance worthy of a driver’s ed instructional video. The sunlight makes her white silk blouse nearly see-through.

Kearson pulls the invisible levers inside her, hoisting a smile to her face. As soon as she guides the earbud back into her ear, her mother tugs the white cord, causing both to drop out.

“Seriously, Mom?”

“You’re going to go deaf playing your music that loud, Kears.”

“I can’t listen to NPR. It makes me carsick.”

“All you had to do was ask.” Her mother makes a big show of gently pressing the button that turns off the car radio. Lips pursed, a pleased little hmm sound escapes through her nose. A check mark on an tally sheet of what a good mother she is.

The driver’s side window is still rolled down from her mother’s daily cigarette, even though the air-conditioning is on high and the smoke mostly gone. Somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic chop chop chop of a lawn sprinkler slicing a stream of water. Kearson closes her eyes and breathes to bring her heart rate down to match its pace. But the only thing slowing is the speed her mother is driving.

“You’re going to make me late.”

Kearson’s mother pauses at the next stop sign and lights a second cigarette from a pack she already put away. After a deep puff, she leans her elbow against the open window, her arm straight up. Her wristwatch remains stationary, but three thin gold bracelets slide to the middle of her forearm. Resting her temple against her fist, the lit end of the cigarette dangerously close to her hairsprayed hair, her mother finally says, “Follow your heart, but take your brain with you.” The delivery is soft and slow, drips of honey. “I heard that at a sales conference once, but don’t you think it’s good life advice?” Her mother wets her red lips. “Follow your heart, but take your brain with you,” she says again in the same contemplative drawl.

Kearson rolls her eyes and tucks her earbuds back in.

They used to talk. Two night-blooming flowers sitting opposite each other on Kearson’s twin bed. Her mother, clean face slick with night moisturizer, a soft roll of her belly visible through her nightshirt without her Spanx. And Kearson, with wet hair smelling of her apple detangler spray, retainer slid in, dots of Oxy on her problem areas.

Their discussions stretched hours past Kearson’s bedtime. Her mother had gone through plenty the past few years, divorcing Kearson’s stepdad, switching Realtor companies, and now, the beginnings of menopause.

She didn’t get into the nitty-gritty details with Kearson, but instead posed plenty of abstract questions. Would she find love again? If she did, should she even think about getting married for a third time? Would she earn Top Producer Midsize Market again this year? Or would it be taken by some younger, prettier real estate agent who was better at social media?

“I keep tweezers in my purse,” she once confessed. “I’m growing a beard one wiry chin hair at a time.”

“Mom! Stop! You’re beautiful!”

Growing up, Kearson was always impressed by her mother’s flawless appearance. Stylish clothes. A full face of makeup, a natural yet elevated look. Her whitened smile swung from wooden FOR SALE signs hammered into front lawns across West Essex. She was ambitious as hell, held herself to the highest expectations. Her mother worked hard and she loved working hard. It was a beautiful thing for a daughter to watch.

And yet there was something alluring about seeing her mother, a confident, successful woman, laying bare her insecurities in the middle of the night. It made Kearson respect her even more. Her friends talked ruthlessly about their moms, outdoing each other with the goriest details observed behind closed doors, colonoscopy prep, cellulite, varicose veins, hot flashes. Kearson would keep her mother’s secrets forever.

Kearson had her own worries, of course. Boys she liked, pressures at school, drama with the JV team. Trivial stuff, really. But her mother treated Kearson’s every concern with reverence. She could take a single fear or dream of Kearson’s and coax out others Kearson didn’t know were tethered to it, gently, subtly, deftly unspooling her.

Kearson loved the dizzy head rush of oversharing, never gave a thought to slowing things down, keeping some parts of her life private. Stupidly, she put the same blind faith in her friends on JV, aligning herself with Marissa and Quinn, trusting them despite already knowing the kind of girls they were. It barely stung when those two stabbed her in the back. But Kearson never thought her mother would betray her. That wound will never, ever heal.

“It’s just up here,” Kearson says. “On the left.”

For the two games Kearson had played varsity last season, she was a passenger in the car that also dropped Mel off. Even still, it would be easy to pick out Mel’s house from the other stately colonials on the block. Two clusters of navy blue and white helium balloons float cheerily above the pom-pom topiaries that flank the arched black front door. The house is huge, the lawn perfectly landscaped, with lemon-leaf hedges, a gardenia tree, and a curving redbrick walkway. Mel’s Mini Cooper shares the driveway with Ali’s Jeep. Coach’s SUV is parked at the bottom, blocking both cars in.

Her mother pulls up right alongside it.

Kearson tightens at the thought of Coach and her mother having to make polite small talk. Kearson knows Coach would be cordial and respectful, because that’s the way teachers have to deal with even the most overbearing parents. But how would her mother behave? What she might say to him?

At the end of last season, in a meeting with both Coach and the athletic director to discuss a complaint her mother had made regarding Kearson being subbed out of the last regular-season game, Kearson had tried to be as helpful as possible, sharing whatever tidbits she could think of to contextualize her mother’s recent erratic behavior—the full-blown menopause of course, but also her two divorces, the antidepressants, at least a half bottle of white wine each night.

It seems her mother hasn’t decided how to play the situation. She tentatively peers inside Coach’s SUV, her bottom lip caught under her teeth, and then appears relieved he’s not inside it.

No surprise. Coach is never late to anything Wildcat related.

Stepping out of the car, Kearson pauses to smooth the front of her chambray jumper and makes sure the bow sash is tied pertly at her hip. From the trunk, Kearson loads up her arms with her gear for tomorrow’s scrimmage; a tote with her sleepover clothes, a bathing suit, and a towel; and a rolled-up sleeping bag and pillow. Kearson tries to get away with just a wave goodbye, but her mother beckons her over. Kearson comes as close as the curb.

“I’d like to swing by your scrimmage tomorrow. I have a closing in the morning but—”

“You don’t have to do that.” Kearson’s voice is heavy on the don’t.

“I’m trying to be supportive, Kears. I’ve backed way off, which you know isn’t easy for me. Can I at least get a little credit for that?”

“If you really want to support me, then you won’t come. I just want to play, Mom. I don’t want to have to think about you.” It sounds meaner than she intended, but Kearson isn’t about to walk it back.

Her mother leans across the car to the passenger side, trying to close the gap between them, and says quietly, “Okay,” but her voice is uncertain, even regretful. She wants to change her answer. Kearson makes sure to walk away before her mother has the chance.

“Have fun with the girls tonight,” her mother calls after her. Less directive than plea.

Defiant, Kearson tells her, “I will.”

She surfs that wave of energy straight into Mel’s house. Hugs her teammates with equal-if-not-tighter squeezes. Smiles for their pictures and takes just as many pictures of them. The girls go out of their way to be nice, and Kearson is grateful for every undeserved kindness they show her, so grateful that she stays with them for as long as she can possibly bear to.

But the way her guilt hangs on her takes her by surprise, heavier tonight than it’s been in months. Or maybe it’s easier for Kearson to deflect her guilt with anger when she’s with her mother?

When it gets to be too much, she retreats to the den and finds it a good, quiet place to collect herself. She looks at the books on the bookshelf, studies the pictures of Mel and her family. She flips through an old gossip mag predicting a celebrity divorce that actually did come to pass. She slips off her shoes, climbs onto the back of the den sofa, and presses the taped end of a fallen crepe-paper twist to the wall.

Kearson was euphoric when she unexpectedly got called up to varsity last season. Coach came to her first-period class, and that alone made her heart flutter. In the hallway, he explained the unfortunate situation with Phoebe’s ACL sprain—he’d gotten the call last night—and that Phoebe would be out for three weeks.

Kearson’s hand went to her mouth. “She’ll miss the championship?” Most of the JV girls worshipped Mel Gingrich, because she made it look easy. But Kearson looked up to Phoebe for the opposite reason. Nobody worked harder than her.

Coach nodded solemnly. “This is a dare-to-be-great situation, Kearson,” he told her, and with a bashfulness that she didn’t expect, pulled a Wildcat varsity jersey out from behind his back. “You think you might be up for it?”

Though she loves field hockey, Kearson isn’t the kind of player who’s after a scholarship, or even to play in college beyond an intramural team. But joining the varsity team still gave her plenty to daydream about. Slipping right in with Mel and feeding her perfect passes. Getting her picture in the newspaper. Earning herself a Wildcats varsity jacket.

Kearson tries to grab hold of those dreams again, fishing around for them like her house keys at the bottom of her book bag. They must still be inside her somewhere since none of them ended up coming true.

She stiffens as a palm presses into the hollow between her shoulder blades, then draws back, the blunt edges of a gel manicure tenderly clawing up the looseness of Kearson’s top.

“Hey! I’ve been looking for you!” Mel tilts her head to the side. “Why are you in here all by yourself?”

“My dad just called to wish me luck tomorrow.”

“Oh. Sweet. Can I talk to you for sec? Privately?”

A trickle of sweat rolls down the small of Kearson’s back. “Sure.” But Mel immediately puts her at ease. Linking arms, Mel guides her out of the den and up the staircase to the first landing. Both girls sit down with their knees angled toward each other. Noises from the party simmer below them.

Keeping her voice down, Mel says, “I’m trying to make this spoiler free, Kearson, but I have some special activities planned for tonight, and one of them involves the returning players welcoming the new girls to the team.” Mel scoots closer until their knees are touching. “I know this is your first Psych-Up, but you’re not technically a newbie, either. So …” She bats her eyelashes. “What side of that line would make you most comfortable?”

Kearson presses a palm to her forehead, as if Mel’s sunny smile actually radiated warmth.

“I’m honestly fine with whatever you decide, by the way. And you don’t have to tell me now. I just thought that, if I let it be your choice, then you wouldn’t feel awkward when it happened.” Mel winces. “But maybe this is more awkward? Ugh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s really nice of you to give me the choice.”

Mel is visibly relieved. “Okay.”

“The truth is, I’m thinking of tonight as my fresh start with the Wildcats.”

“I totally, totally respect that.” Mel pats Kearson’s leg and then stands up. “That’s all I need to know.”

Though this might be true, Kearson hurries after Mel, reaching out for her arm, stopping her at the bottom of the stairs.

“I wanted to say congratulations on your Truman scholarship. When I heard you got it, I was so happy. Relieved, actually.” Kearson pins her arms against her stomach. “I know how much I cost the team last season. And if I had somehow screwed your scholarship up for you, I don’t know if I could have ever forgiven myself.”

Mel’s mouth falls open. “Oh my gosh, Kearson, you—”

“And, if it’s not too weird, would you please let Phoebe know how sorry I am? I’d tell her myself, but I’ve been trying to keep my distance.” Kearson gives a half-hearted shrug. “She has every right to hold a grudge against me, and at the very least, I owe her the courtesy of not having to pretend like she doesn’t.”

Mel fingers her necklace, rose gold, so thin Kearson hadn’t noticed it before. “Kearson. I promise you that Phoebe doesn’t hold anything against you, okay? None of us do.” Mel finds Kearson’s eyes. In a whisper that’s barely audible, more air than sound, she adds, “And you’re not the only one here who’s looking for a fresh start. Not by a long shot.”

Mel puts her arm around Kearson and guides her in for a gentle hug. Kearson hugs her back, despite knowing that Mel wouldn’t be nearly so kind if she had a clue how close everything was to coming apart at the seams last season. But maybe all that matters is that it didn’t.

Over Mel’s shoulder, Kearson sees Coach framed in the bright distance down one end of the hall, a jovial conversation with Mel’s father wrapping up with typical pantomimes, a back slap, a handshake. All the while, Coach is watching her and Mel with a sidelong glance that Kearson pretends not to notice.

Though she still can’t get a touch on her old dreams, Kearson gives up searching. She worked her way back onto varsity to give her all. She requires nothing in return. This is penance for her transgressions. And anyway, it won’t be Kearson’s dreams that carry her through. This time she knows what to expect and what will be expected of her. This time her eyes are wide open.