Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,56

wrap my little hands around for warmth.

She never saw me play on Thanksgiving because by the time I made varsity she was bad-off. On the way there I pretend that the Cohens are my parents and that Trevor and I are brothers but it feels wrong.

We ride in the back of the Cohens’ SUV and Mrs. Cohen is swiveled around toward us for the whole ride. She is dark-haired and her skinny legs are crossed and wrapping around each other too many times.

Gonna win? she asks us brightly.

Doubt it, says Trevor, but I know he’s being a wiseass because boys like Trevor always think they will win at everything they do no matter what history has shown them. Sometimes I feel this way and sometimes I don’t. Right now I don’t. I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been for any game. I’m nervous to see Dee Marshall. I’m worried that I will cry. I’m worried that my emotions will come gushing forth into a puddle on the field. I try my trick of turning off the faucet of my nerves but it does not work.

One thing I didn’t even think of to worry about happens as soon as I get out of the car.

There is Lindsay.

Lindsay and her whole family. Her two blond baby sisters who broke my car. Her superintendent father. Her lawyer mother. The Cohens and the Harpers know each other of course and they come toward us.

Last night at 10 p.m. Lindsay texted me are u ok.

I didn’t write back.

Jeanie! says Mrs. Cohen, and Sharon! says Mrs. Harper. They throw their arms around each other like old pals. Then Mrs. Harper sees me.

—Hi, Kel! How are you, sweetie?

I’m great, I say.

Will we see you later today? asks Mrs. Harper, and Mrs. Cohen turns and looks at me curiously.

Mom, says Lindsay, very very softly.

Well, I say. I’m actually kind of—staying with the Cohens right now. I don’t.

Suddenly I cannot speak.

OK, says Mrs. Harper, looking confused.

Have a good game, says Lindsay, and she leads her whole family away by walking briskly toward the field.

The locker rooms aren’t much here. They do not feel holy. They feel bright and unused. After his speech, right before we go out on the field, Coach gathers us in a huddle and says Now listen. Yonkers is tough. Those kids are tough and they’re looking for blood. The only thing that means is we gotta be tougher. We gotta show them who’s boss. Defense. Defense. Defense.

All together we go G-I-A! N-T-S! GIANTS! And break.

Before I can go out on the field Coach puts a hand on my shoulder and keeps me there. Everyone files past us. When the locker room is empty he looks at me and says Mr. Keller. Are you all right?

He is a quiet man who does not like to shout. He is well spoken except for when he is giving us our speeches and then he uses the same language that every coach has used throughout history out of some fear of breaking tradition.

I’m fine, I say.

I, he says, but then changes his mind. You’re the key, he says. I have faith in you.

I want you to take a minute in here, he says, and gather yourself together, OK? Just take a minute.

He walks out. I sit down hard on the bench and put my head in my hands and realize that I do not want to be alone with my thoughts so I stay until I know Coach is gone and then leave.

When I walk out Dee Marshall is walking out of the locker room next door.

He comes right up to me. He’s wearing his helmet already and I see his eyes above the bars of it.

You called me, he says, and I freeze up.

I say nothing.

Finally he says, I heard. About your mom.

I shrug. Yeah, well, I say.

How’d you hear? I ask. I can’t help it.

That girl Tracy Diaz, he says, and suddenly the name of the girl EMT comes to me. I think of the sympathy on her face—she and the other guy shuttling my mother down the stairs, a thunder of footsteps—and tighten my fists.

I look around. He has the real version. I do not want any of my Pells friends to be near me right now.

How is she, he says.

Not good, I say, she’s out. She might not wake up, ever wake up I mean.

My shoulders sink suddenly and I realize I have had them lifted to my ears for three days and I realize