Monday, October 2
(Twenty-One Days Before the Championship) Mel The ref calls me to the halfway line. It’s the last regular game of our eighth-grade soccer season, and we’re undefeated and unscored on. A win today will make us the top seed in next week’s quarterfinals.
Regular season. Quarterfinals. Semifinals. Eighth-Grade Girls’ City Championship. It’s the countdown I’ve been doing since the kickoff of our very first game this season. A win today means we’re one step closer to the big game, exactly three weeks from now. It also means that finally, finally, I’m just three games away from giving my team the perfect season we’ve dreamed of since everything got all messed up last year.
I jog to center circle, pumping my knees along the way. The ref and the Franklin captain wait at the halfway line.
“Name?” asks the ref.
I brush a flyaway behind my right ear. It flies away right back out.
“Melanie Jane Miller,” I say.
The ref points to the out‑of‑bounds lines, reminds us to keep our jerseys tucked in, and tells us that it’s our job as captains to set a good example of sportsmanship for our teammates. She pulls out a quarter.
“Heads or tails?”
“Heads,” says the Franklin captain.
“Tails,” I say.
The ref flips the coin. She opens her palm . . . and tails it is!
I choose the side that will keep the sun out of our goalkeeper Chloe’s eyes while she protects our goal. By halftime, that same sun will tuck below the pines that line this field, which is my secondfavorite of all the fields in the world. Well, all the fields in Crooked Creek, Iowa, anyway. My mostfavorite is the field where we might—no, will—play the championship, which has the shiniest bleachers and brightest scoreboard and springiest grass of any field I’ve ever played on.
I turn and give Chloe a big thumbsup. The ref coughs. I turn back around.
“All right,” she says. “Have a nice game, girls. Good luck to you both.”
We all shake hands. I jog toward the huddle, thinking how every game, the ref asks my name. Names say something about you. But they also say nothing about you.
Names are weird. People should talk about that more.
Because now you know my name. But maybe, if you really wanted to know me, I could tell you my stats instead: oh‑point-seven goals per game, eight assists this season, lucky thirteen on my back since second grade.
Or I could tell you my team’s nickname for me: Magic Mel. My best friend, Rima, made it up, and all my teammates use it now. Well, all my teammates except Tory, who says she doesn’t like it and only ever uses it in a mean, jokey way. (She doesn’t like a lot of things, though, so it sort of doesn’t count. That’s one of the reasons we’re not friends anymore.)
Or I could tell you what I look like. Captain’s armband, bright green jersey half untucked—oops, sorry, ref—and my messy blond ponytail, flyaways always flying. Tall white socks with faded grass streaks not quite washed out. And these things my mom calls “new womanly curves,” which I mostly just try to ignore.
Or I could tell you that soccer smell is my favorite. Humid ground and that sharp, sweaty stench of our soccer bags, pretty strong even on this crispy-wind October day. Fresh-cut orange slices wobbling in a Pyrex. Sticky-sweet Gatorade that Coach stirs with a track baton. Tory doesn’t like that, either. She says it’s “unhygienic.” But I’ve seen her drink it anyway.
Or I could tell you about my best friend, Rima, who’s standing there in her stretchy white sport hijab, holding two cups of Coach’s Gatorade, one for her and one for me.
“You ready, Magic Mel?” Rima hands me a cup, like she has before every game since second grade.
“I’m ready.”
“Let’s do this, then.” She reaches out and tries to brush the flyaway behind my ear.
But it keeps escaping. And it’s still there, flying in my face, even after she tucks it back twice. I pat it, then shrug.
“It’s not gonna stay, you know.”
“I know,” Rima says. “But I can’t help it!”
She laughs as we tap our cups. I slide my arm around my best friend’s shoulder, and she slides her arm around mine. Everything has been a little strange since our big fight with Tory last year, when the Fearsome Foursome—Rima, Mel, Tory, Chloe—became two separate twosomes: Rima and Mel, Tory and Chloe.
But at least when we’re on the field, it all feels better.
That’s the other thing I could tell you. Maybe that’s the best thing I could tell you: that the field is my favorite place, my cozy home, my galaxy of possibility. It’s the only place I can really be myself.
At least, that’s what I’ve always thought.
Tory I smooth one final wrinkle out of my uniform, which I steamed this morning because I’m gonna win this game looking good. I scoot up my socks and check to make sure they’re the exact same height. Then, using selfie mode on my phone, I dab one last bit of SPF 50 onto my cheeks. I’m giving my all on the field today. Of course. But I won’t let it mess up this dewypale thing I’ve got going on.
Mel just won the coin toss (at least she can do something right), which means it’s almost time to take the field. Over on the sidelines, Terrance jumps up and down. He pumps his hands. His locs fly.
“C’mon, Big T! Let’s go, Crooked Creek!”
My eighteenyearold stepbrother is very enthusiastic about my soccer games for someone who’s only been my stepbrother for a little more than a year. I wish he was that enthusiastic about not fighting 24‑7 with my stepdad.
Chloe’s got her keeper gloves in one hand. She holds out the other for a high five. “Good luck today. You nervous?”
“It’s not about luck.” I ignore her hand. “And I don’t do nervous.”
Chloe grins, hand still up. The grin is half you’re ridiculous, half you’re my best friend and I love you. That’s the expression she gives me most of the time.
“Okay, okay.” I high-five her. Then I hold up my little sunscreen tube. “Need some?”
“Took care of it on the way over.” Chloe tucks the gloves between her knees and loops her long braids into a low pony. “One step ahead of you, like always.”
I roll my eyes. “We’ll see who’s one step ahead when the whistle blows.”
We join the huddle and put our hands in the middle with everyone else’s.
“All right, girls,” Coach says. “Give it your all today. Crooked Creek on three.”
One. Two. Three.
“Crooked Creek!” We point our fingers up to the sky.
I jog to my spot as center midfielder. On the sidelines, Terrance cups his hands around his mouth. “You’ve got this, Big T!”
I’m a small person. Terrance is a big person. It’s completely ridiculous that he calls me Big T. But secretly I kind of like it.
I’ve always felt like a big person squished into a small body. It makes me wonder if he can see that, even though he’s just a weird teenage boy I still barely feel like I know.
“Goooooooo, Big T!” Terrance yells, louder now.
I keep pretending not to see him. But I smile just a little when I look the other way.
Copyright © 2024 by Erin Becker. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
