Chapter 8

Katya translates a running commentary from Mr. Gaz as Tom and the others cross the Burnsfield track.

Tom spots Coach Mecklenberg standing in the center of the infield, addressing his players, who sit in a cluster on the ground in front of him.

“You must remember, short passes are the only way,” Katya says as she pushes her grandfather along the track while Tom and the others step onto the soccer pitch. “If you can move the ball around, you can control the speed of the game and create chances.”

Mr. Gaz says something else, and Tom turns to him—but mainly to steal another glance of Katya pushing the wheelchair with wire-tight arms, her leg muscles flexing below crisp denim shorts, her pale forehead and cheekbones glistening with a film of sweat.

“And he says that because of you, Smoking Guy,” she adds, “the rest will have to get back on defense faster.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Jimmy grumbles. “I can hold my own.”

“Yeah, we saw you hold your own all over the grass at Southwind,” Preston says.

“The twins also have to support the player with the ball!” Katya calls a few moments later, seemingly an afterthought. “Don’t always run away if someone has the ball. Run near him, help him. Short passes.”

Tom catches Katya’s eye. He’s puzzled at the remark about the twins, which didn’t seem to have originated with Mr. Gaz—not that Tom trusts his Russian translation skills.

Mecklenberg calls his name. When Tom turns in the coach’s direction, he finds the Burnsfield Badgers on their feet and stretching, four players pulling the far goal in from the end of the field.

“We thought we’d go half field, since we’re six on six,” Mecklenberg says, extending a hand. “No point in giving ourselves a heart attack.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Tom says, shaking the man’s hand. “But we don’t have a keeper. Think we can use cones for goals instead?”

“Not a problem, Tom. Not a problem.”

 

Unlike Coach Dempsey, Mecklenberg doesn’t seem all that psyched that his team is clearly superior to Tom’s. Although the Badgers score a goal every four or five minutes, their coach refuses to let them celebrate, instead commenting on the key things that led to the goal:

“See, that’s what happens when you send the ball to the opposite side of the field . . . Nice communication up to the finish . . . Good, get in that habit of striking the ball one time, since you’re almost never going to get a chance to tee it up all nice and neat. Just hit it.”

At one point, Mecklenberg leads both teams in a quick offsides clinic, showing the fullbacks how they can move downfield like a unit to leave an offensive player behind their line—offsides if the ball is kicked to him, since an offensive player can’t be closer to the goal line than the last defender, excluding the goalkeeper, when he receives a pass. Tom has known some players who were very good at breaking the offsides rule when the officiating of a match was loose, when the refs weren’t paying close attention. You just slip in behind enemy lines and quietly camp out until the ball comes your way, he thinks. And hope nobody notices what you’re doing or makes a fuss about it. Stanley and Alex seem especially perplexed but also very interested in the concept of offsides, leading Tom to wonder if there’s maybe something in the geometry of the offsides rule—something about planes and points and lines—that appeals to their nonathletic interests. Anything to get them thinking, he says to himself. Anything to keep them from just running around in circles.

To Tom’s surprise, Mecklenberg is also generous with compliments about Tom’s team, giving Preston credit a couple of times for not bailing out on tackles—even against bigger players—and praising a smart run Jimmy makes down the sideline in anticipation of a head pass from Magnus.

Mecklenberg also praises Tom’s play, but Tom more or less tunes him out as he analyzes his team’s game for signs of improvement. When toward the end of the scrimmage Tom watches Alex drop in behind Magnus—taking up a clear supporting position—he slows to a jog. As Magnus, hearing Alex shout, “Behind you, Mag,” flicks a heel pass back to Alex, Tom actually stops in his tracks. And when Alex, instead of trapping the ball, strikes it on the roll with his left foot—not even his strong foot—and splits the Badger cones, Tom almost drops to his knees.

The match ends with Jimmy puking off by himself again while Tom and the others shake hands with the Burnsfield squad. Mecklenberg gives Tom an especially strong handshake. “You know,” the man says, holding Tom’s hand a few extra seconds, “if you and your mom ever move to our district, you’ll start as center striker—guaranteed.”

“Thanks,” Tom says, “but we’re staying in Southwind for now.”

“You made a tough decision not to play for Dempsey, there, Tom. I respect that.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Tom says, adding, to himself, I doubt you’d respect the stupid bet I made with him later. . .

Reaching their gear piled at the edge of the track, Tom and the others sprawl out on the grass. The sound of Mecklenberg jogging his team into the locker room mixes with the sound of peepers coming out in the marsh bordering the athletic fields, punctuated by the occasional heaving of Jimmy’s stomach nearby. Tom stares into the sky, a gauzy blanket of dusk tinged with golden rays from the setting sun.

Suddenly, a shadow eclipses his vision. Katya looms over him, arms crossed. “You guys were much better today,” she says.

“We got toasted,” Tom says.

“Yes, but you improved in some areas. This is what my grandfather says.” She extends a hand.

Tom’s deadened limbs tingle with new life. He takes Katya’s hand, and she yanks him to his feet. “In what areas?” he says, hoping to test his own observations against the old man’s.

“Only a few,” Katya says.

Mr. Gaz calls out to her.

As she turns around, Tom steals a full-on look at her solid, athletic body.

“Tom, I think my camera’s in the car,” Preston says, propping himself up on his elbows. “Do you want me to get it for you? Because a picture will last a lot longer.”

As Magnus and the twins snicker, Katya turns back to Tom. “What’s so funny?” she says.

“Nothing,” Tom says. “They think I’m funny.”

“You’re funny?” Katya looks at the others, stopping at Preston, who nods his head.

“He is,” Preston says, “once you get to know him.”

“I don’t understand,” Katya says, narrowing her eyes at Tom, as if he’s taking part in some joke—a joke on her.

“It’s hard to explain,” he says.

“Well, you can explain it in the car.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out her car keys. “You come with us.” She starts toward Mr. Gaz.

“Are you sure?” Tom says. “I’m all, like, pitted out.” He realizes, a second after the words have left his mouth, how dorky he sounds.

“It’s not my decision,” Katya says without looking back. “My grandfather thinks you need more coaching.”

Preston cackles into the grass.

 

On the way back to the store, Katya translates a stream of observations from Mr. Gaz, who gestures so animatedly from the back seat that Tom thinks he might snap his seat belt off. Tom is proud to hear his own observations echoed in the old man’s notes, though he doesn’t say so. There’s something about the strong, forceful tone in Mr. Gaz’s voice, as well as in Katya’s, that tells him he should just listen.

And that’s fine with him. He’s glad for a chance to sneak a look at Katya—the waning light glowing in her blue eyes as the sun shoots one last ray of brilliant orange over the treetops lining the country roads.

As the van crosses the Southwind town line, Katya tells Tom that she’ll drop her grandfather off first. The words are like a shot of adrenaline pumped straight into his bloodstream. With Mr. Gaz back at the store, he and Katya will be alone.

Pulling into the lot behind the Nucleus, she asks him for help with the old man’s wheelchair, but his legs won’t let him move at first. Eventually he manages to give Katya a hand, although he suspects, from the confident manner in which she moves her grandfather around, that she doesn’t really need his help. Or anyone’s help.

While Katya’s inside the store, Tom notices someone sitting on the loading dock at the end of the building block. From a distance and in the low light, he thinks the guy, partially hidden in the hood of a gray sweatshirt, is looking in his direction, but he’s not positive.

Tom is startled by Katya yanking the back door closed, and he turns to watch her twist a key in the heavy-duty lock, then throw her shoulder against the door like a cop trying to bust into a criminal’s apartment. Giving the door one last yank to test the bolt, she heads for the van. Tom turns back to the loading dock, but the Hood is gone.

“Are you waiting for me to open your door?” Katya says without a trace of humor, spinning the keys on her finger. “Let’s go. I have much work to do tonight.”

“Work?” Tom says, climbing into the van. “But the shop’s closed.”

Katya fires up the engine. “Yes, but that’s when the real work begins. I must stock some new items.”

“Neeew items,” Tom repeats to himself, then reflexively grabs the sides of his seat as Katya punches the accelerator and aims the car at the mouth of a tiny brick alley. As the van shoots through the space and into the street, Tom looks to his right, spotting the Hood leaning against a building just around the corner, as if waiting for the van to leave. He and Tom lock eyes for a split second before Katya whips the car left toward Church Street.

“Hey, do you know this weird guy?” Tom says, turning to look through the van’s back window.

“Most guys I know are weird,” Katya says, her lip curling in that mischievous smirk.

As Katya pulls up to a stoplight, Tom sees the Hood duck into the alley. “This guy in a gray sweatshirt. He’s been hanging around—”

“Yes,” Katya cuts him off.

“Well, I just saw him—”

“Ignore him.”

“But I think he might be planning to rob—”

“He’s planning nothing, trust me. That’s my brother.”

“Your brother? Why’s he lurking around like that?”

Katya pauses, sets her jaw, and adjusts the side-view mirror. “It’s his choice,” she says flatly. “He prefers not to be with people.”

“Why not?”

Katya sighs in a way that tells Tom she’d like to drop the subject. “He works very hard. Even in a small shop, there’s much work to do. He doesn’t have time for people.”

For a moment, Tom is tempted to ask Katya if she has time for people, as in guy people, but just imagining the cheesy words spilling out of his mouth makes him cringe. Fortunately, the stoplight changes, relieving the awkward tension that has been gathering in the van like steam in a locker room.

“Tell me where you live,” Katya says, releasing the brake.

“The condos out by the water tower. Turn right—”

“I know where the water tower is.” Katya flicks her directional signal and punches the accelerator again. The wheels squeal faintly as the van lunges into a turn.

“You drive differently when your grandfather’s in the van, I’ve noticed,” Tom says, his hand reflexively returning to the sides of his seat.

“Then maybe you’d like to ride in back?”

Tom and Katya are silent for most of the trip, and the longer they remain that way, the more difficult it is for Tom to think of something to say. He turns to Katya at one point, about to ask her what she thinks of Southwind High School, but he’s intimidated by the very adult image she cuts against the backdrop of passing buildings—her eyes focused on the road ahead, one arm resting in the open window, the other hand casually gripping the steering wheel. There’s a weight to her expression, a seriousness, that suggests she’d probably find his question boring or, worse, childish. He feels like a child in her presence.

“I appreciate the lift home,” he says, just to say something.

“Why don’t you play on the high school team?” Katya asks, as if this question has been occupying her thoughts all along.

Tom looks out his window. “It’s complicated.”

“You could be their best player. They’re not very good.”

“Thanks. They’re regional champs.”

“In Russia, they would lose to girls.”

“They wanted me to play for them, but I decided not to.”

“Why?”

Tom hesitates to answer, relieved to see the water tower rising on the horizon. “I had a disagreement with the coach.”

“You are an Indian,” Katya says, as if making him aware, in that slightly bossy way of hers, of something he has overlooked.

“That’s right,” he says, replaying in his mind the way her accent stretched the word into “Eeen-dian.”

“Which kind of Eeen-dian?” she asks.

“Mohawk.”

“And they . . . the school. They are also Eeen-dians.”

Tom sighs. “Right. The Warriors. Like I said, it’s complicated. Maybe when we have more time to . . .”

Katya slows down at the entrance to the condominium development, then accelerates suddenly, sailing past the driveway.

“You just passed . . . I live back . . .”

“So, you won’t play for the team which is called like Eeen-dians,” Katya says, again in that declarative tone, again seeming intent on explaining to Tom the details of his own life.

“Right,” Tom says. “My mother doesn’t think—”

“And what do you think?”

When Tom hesitates to answer, Katya shakes her head, as if disappointed.

“I agree with her,” he finally says. “I told the coach I wouldn’t play for him. It was my decision.”

Tom figures he has given the right answer when, a moment later, Katya signals to turn into the Southwind Town Plaza shopping center lot, pulls around to the exit, and heads back in the direction of the condominiums.

“So,” Katya says, “you have made your parents proud.”

“I suppose. My mom’s still trying to get the school to change the name.”

“The Eeen-dians name.”

“Right.”

“And your father?”

Tom looks out the window again, realizing that they are not so close to the condos that he can stall for time. “My father died a few months ago.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Katya turn to him.

“That’s very sad,” she says, signaling to turn into the condo complex. “My parents also died. About one year ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

To Tom’s relief, Katya actually makes the turn into the condo development on this pass. “We’re the last unit on the left,” he says.

Katya pulls the van into a space beside Tom’s mother’s car. She faces Tom, more or less expressionlessly. “They died in a car accident,” she says without emotion, as if merely answering a question that she knows he would’ve asked her, if not now then later.

“Same with my dad,” he says.

In the silence that follows, Tom doesn’t know what to do. There seems to be more to the conversation, but he doesn’t know what it is. Or maybe he’s just supposed to say thanks and get out. He knows what he’d like to do, but he’s almost positive Katya won’t go for it. Just as he’s about to reach for the door handle, Katya says, “You’re a very good soccer player.”

“Thank you. And you’re . . .” As Tom hesitates, Katya smiles, exposing that little gap in her front teeth, a tiny flash of light from the carport flickering off her tongue. He leans toward her.

The moment Katya senses the move, she turns her head and throws the van into reverse.

Tom snaps back, blood lighting his face like a stove burner. “Thanks for the ride,” he quickly says, opening the door and practically diving out.

“You’re welcome,” she answers without a trace of emotion.