EVIL BEAN CONGLOMERATE
Dad extended his stay through Monday so he could catch our soccer game against Willow Bluffs High School. It was an early game, so I hung out in the library until it was time to hop the bus to Willow Bluffs’ field. The coffee shop in the library had terrible tea—in fact, it came from Tea Haven, which had been bought out by some sort of Evil Bean Conglomerate in the months since I had left—but they had free hot water, and like I said, I kept a few sachets of Rose City tea with me for such emergencies.
Chip sat next to me, and I gave him a sachet of Ceylon too. We sipped our tea and compared notes on our American Lit reading: Catcher in the Rye, which was slightly more interesting than A Separate Peace, but disappointingly lacking in queer coding. Well, mostly Chip talked, and I listened, because I didn’t really get Catcher in the Rye. I wish we could have read fantasy or science fiction. Or at least something more recent.
“It’s not that bad,” Chip said. “At least he’s not shoving his friend out of a tree.”
“There is that.”
Chip’s arm lay on the table pressed against mine. I shifted over to give him more space.
“How’s your Algebra II coming?”
“What’s the square root of terrible?”
“Ouch. Come on, show me what you got.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to help.”
I studied my folded hands.
Chip put his left hand on top of them. Like that was a thing it was okay for guys to do.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Let me help. Please?”
“Okay.” I freed my hands and pulled out my laptop to show him our latest problem set.
With five minutes left in the second half of our game against the Willow Bluffs High School Trojans—seriously, their fight song was “Roll on, roll on, Trojans,” the sort of innuendo that constituted psychological warfare against teenaged guys—we had kept the score tied, 1–1.
The Willow Bluffs High School Trojans fought hard.
Coach Bentley pulled out Christian after he took a strike to the xiphoid process making this excellent save where he leaped across the width of the whole goal. He stopped the ball but he couldn’t catch his breath. She sent in Diego after that.
Diego was good, but he was no Christian. Not yet. And that meant Cooper and Bruno and I had to work twice as hard to fend off the Trojans’ number 7, who had the fastest feet I’d ever seen.
The Trojans kept pushing us deeper and deeper into our side. I snagged the ball and passed it up to Chip, who only got two steps before he had to pass it back to Jonny Without an H to keep it from being stolen.
From the stands, Dad kept shouting “Defense! Defense!” like we weren’t already doing that. But he cheered every time we got the ball moving forward again. He’d managed to bring Grandma and Oma with him too, though they were far more reserved: A few polite claps were the most enthusiastic response the Chapel Hill Chargers managed to elicit. I thought Oma might have whistled, once, when we scored our goal in the first half, but that was it.
Jonny Without an H managed to get the ball forward to Jaden, which took the pressure off us long enough for me to wipe my face with the collar of my jersey. I ran my hands through my hair and shook the sweat off in the grass. I’d gotten my haircut touched up over the weekend, and my fade was crisp and smooth again.
Across the field, Nick and Jaden exchanged the ball, zigzagging around the Trojans’ defenders. At the last second, Jaden passed up to Chip, who went for the goal.
He would have made it too, if their goalie hadn’t been like six foot seven, with ridiculous noodle arms that could catch things at the most impossible angles.
He lobbed the ball back toward us. Chip shook his head and changed direction, headed back toward midfield.
The Trojans passed back and forth, back and forth. They had Bruno and Cooper marked as number 7 sprinted toward me, angling for our goal.
“You got this, Darius!” Dad hollered.
Stephen Kellner, Soccer Dad, was a force to be reckoned with.
Number 7 tried to fake me left, then right. I stayed with him, looking for an opening.
But then he kicked the ball right between my feet and darted past me while I spun around to give chase.
That is, I tried to spin around.
Instead, I slipped and fell onto the grass, face-first.
For a second it was like I had fallen onto oil instead of grass. My cleats couldn’t catch any traction. I finally got my feet under me again, but it was too late. Diego had been marking number 12, counting on me to deal with number 7, and couldn’t course-correct in time.
Number 7 struck.
The whistle blew.
Trojans goal.
It was our first loss.
All because I let number 7 get past me.
It felt like it should’ve been raining as we lined up to shake hands with the Trojans.
Maybe even a bit of thunder in the distance or something.
But the sun was out, and I squinted at it to keep myself from crying.
As we went down the line, number 7 gave me a fist bump. “Tricky,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Not tricky enough, though.
I let him get past me.
I wished Sohrab were around.
With Sohrab I was invincible.
As we trudged toward the lockers—some of the guys, like Jaden and Gabe, with their hands behind their heads in Surrender Cobra—Chip rested his hand on my shoulder.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
Chip gave me a little squeeze.
“Don’t—”
But he didn’t finish, because Trent Bolger was whistling and waving at him from the stands, still dressed in his Chapel Hill High School varsity football jersey. He must’ve come straight from practice.
I couldn’t believe Trent Bolger, of all people, would drive across town after practice to watch Chip’s soccer game.
Chip patted me on the back and jogged over toward Trent.
I followed behind, a little slower, angled to meet Dad where he stood with Grandma and Oma.
“Good game, son,” Dad said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I wish you could’ve seen us win.”
“You were great out there. You played your hardest.”
Next to him, Oma said, “I bet you won’t fall for that trick again.”
“I guess not.”
“That number 7 was something,” Grandma said. “Is he already committed somewhere?”
“Oh. Um. I don’t know his name.”
“I’ll go ask the coach.” Grandma patted my arm as she passed me. “You’ll do better next time.”
Oma turned to Dad. “My knees are acting up. Meet you at the car?”
“Sure.”
Once my grandmothers were both out of earshot, Dad let out this low breath.
“They don’t mean it like that,” Dad said.
“Like what?”
“Like . . .” Dad swallowed. “I just don’t want you to think they’re disappointed in you.”
“Oh.”
I mean, I did think that.
How could I not?
Disappointed was the default setting for Oma and Grandma. Just like love was the default setting for Mamou and Babou.
My eyes started burning again. I looked up toward the sun so Dad wouldn’t notice.
Next to us, Trent said something that made Chip laugh like a donkey.
Cyprian Cusumano had a hilarious laugh.
I glanced their way at exactly the wrong time, because Trent caught my eye. He did that thing where you stick your chin out to acknowledge someone.
Trent Bolger was the kind of guy you see in movies, where there’s always one guy who’s kind of mean to everyone, but they put up with him because he’s good-looking or something. But Trent wasn’t even good-looking. His nostrils were too big for his nose, and he had a terrible haircut: an undercut with a little oval of longer hair on top, combed to the side for the most part but left to do whatever in the back.
It did nothing for his very aggressive forehead.
“Darius?”
“Hm?”
Dad chuckled. “Go be with your friends.”
“Okay.” I stepped in for one of those diagonal shoulder hugs, to try and keep my sweat and grass stains off him.
Dad kissed my forehead. “I’m so proud of you.” He held on to my neck and looked into my eyes.
And then he said, “I love you, son.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
He let out this tiny sigh.
“See you at home?”
“Yeah.”
I headed for the lockers. Chip was still talking to Trent, but as I walked past, Trent said, “Right between the legs, huh? Guess you’re used to that.”
Chip gave Trent a little shove. “Hey, man.”
Trent shrugged. “Later, D-Cheese.”
I stared at them both for a second.
Chip looked down at his feet.
“Whatever.”