* * *
Dad’s excitement over my test grade is far more subdued. He glances at the paper with my grade circled in red at the top, then sets it down on his desk.
“I have half a mind to bench you this weekend anyway,” he says and my heart sinks.
All this work can’t have been for nothing.
I open my mouth to protest, and he holds up a hand. I wish I could say his disappointment didn’t put a damper on my mood, but it does. My teammates and the game are important to me, but it’s his approval I seem to be in constant search of.
“I’m not going to do that. The team needs you. More than that, they want you on the field with them. You’ve earned their respect this year.”Just not hisseems to be the unspoken message hanging in the air.
* * *
On Thursday morning I wait until dad has left the house for school and then call my mom. My heart rate picks up speed as the ringtone plays in my ear. This is a dumb idea. We haven’t talked in months. The last email I got from her was about my Algebra II grade. She and dad communicate about me, though when and how I’m not really sure. I’ve never heard him on the phone with her, so my guess is very terse, clipped text messages.
“Hello?” she answers the phone with a clear hint of concern in her voice.
“Hey, Mom. It’s me.”Duh, of course it is, you idiot, she has caller ID.I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head.
“Is everything okay, Vaughn?” Mom asks.
I never call, so her worry is probably justified.
“Yeah. Everything is fine.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“You don’t usually call,” she says.
“Neither do you.”
The line’s quiet and I’m regretting this call a million times over.
“How are you?” she asks, this time sounding more like her usual cheery self. My mom is a lot like Lacey in that she’s bubbly and happy. It’s hard to picture her and my dad together, though I think he’s gotten crankier over the years. In the early photos of them together he looks as smiley and happy as her.
“I’m good.” I drag my left palm down my thigh. “I passed my Algebra II test. Dad’s going to let me play this weekend.”
“That’s great. Congratulations. Who do you play? Are they any good?”
We fall into easier conversation after that. I tell herabout Saint Catherine. She knows soccer better than most people, a side effect of being married to a professional soccer player, and I’m happy to find that even though she doesn’t know much about my team, she can follow along as I talk to her like I would with dad. I wonder if they talked about soccer like this when he played.
It’s only when I catch the time on my watch that I realize we’ve been talking for almost thirty minutes, and I need to get to school.
“I better go. If I’m late, dad will find another reason to bench me.”
“Okay. Well, it was nice talking to you. I know how busy you are and me too, but I miss you.”
“Yeah, same.” I stand. “Maybe I’ll call again next week?” I say the words, but they come out more like a question. “I can tell you about the game and how we dominated.”
She laughs softly in my ear. “I’ll look forward to it.”
* * *
The rest of the week is spent preparing for Saint Catherine. We practice long and hard each night and during the day we’re talking about it every second we can between classes. Friday night Austin invites me and Rowan over. We camp out in the living room in front of the TV and watch videos of Saint Catherine’s last few games, pausing every so often to strategize.
“They’re good,” Austin says, lips curling in distaste.
“We’re better,” Rowan’s words are more definitive. Always the optimist. He and Lacey are a lot alike in that regard.
