them. But Mel is lying next to her, cradling her pillow, grinning in her sleep. A pleasant dream, which Phoebe takes as a good sign. Good enough to make Phoebe grin too.
Mrs. Gingrich is leaning over them, one hand clutching the top of her robe closed, the other gently patting Mel. She looks hella hungover. “Mel!” she says again. “Sweetie. It’s eleven. Only an hour till game time.”
The time check is like an air horn. On her way out, Mrs. Gingrich flicks on the lights. The girls pop up and glance around at one another, panicked. They’ve missed Coach’s 9:00 a.m. meeting.
The only one not freaking out is Mel, who stretches her arms like a cat. She leans up on her elbows and smiles, fully refreshed, and she gives Phoebe’s hand a knowing squeeze.
To the rest of the girls, Mel announces, “Don’t worry. I have a plan.” This in and of itself grants the girls a palpable relief, but when she adds, “Everyone get dressed in your uniforms,” the mood rises to hopeful. Because whatever Mel has cooked up for dealing with Coach includes a possibility that they’ll still get to play field hockey today.
But Phoebe’s hope slips along with her kneecap the moment she tries putting weight on it. Thankfully, the rest of the girls are militantly focused on getting ready. Packing up their sleeping stuff, moving in and out of the bathroom like jets taking off and landing at an airport, putting on their uniforms.
She beams a big grateful smile to Kearson as she passes by on her way to the sink, her toothbrush conjuring up a rabid foam. Kearson cut her off last night before Phoebe had a chance to explain why she was quitting. The only person who knows is Mel. And Mel had begged Phoebe to wait and see how her knee felt and not make any rash decisions. It felt slightly patronizing to Phoebe last night but now it is what keeps her heart beating as she works out another way to get herself up off the floor, piking up like a tripod, her injured leg dangling like a pendulum. It isn’t pretty, but once Phoebe’s standing, she can walk. Mostly.
The first thing Phoebe takes out of her duffel bag is her Knee Spanx. She refuses to let herself think about how things could be different if she’d been wearing it last night. As she rolls it on, she takes a quick glance at her injured knee. She wants to believe that the swelling has gone down. She wants to believe that perhaps she hadn’t injured it as badly as she thought. But the Knee Spanx is up and over it before Phoebe can take a closer look.
Phoebe dresses in her Wildcat uniform just like everyone else. But the experience for her is singular. Practically religious. She hasn’t worn any uniform in nine months and she likes the feeling it gives her, like she’s a virgin who’s saved herself for her true love. She can’t believe with how hard she worked to get back to this place that there was a point last night where Phoebe was okay with maybe never wearing it again.
She loves the weight of the pleated navy kilt, dense polyester, bloomers sewn in. The compression of her navy-and-white-striped knee socks, which Phoebe keeps slouched for now at her ankles. When she gets to the field, she’ll strap on her shin guards and then hike them up.
Yes. She’s decided that she will go to the field. She won’t play. That would be stupid. But she can sit on the bench and watch and cheer the other girls on. Maybe, if they are doing well, and her knee isn’t bothering her too much, Phoebe might try to see what she can do.
Grace is the first to ask, “Hey, Mel? What should we wear on top? Since we don’t have our varsity jerseys.”
“Whatever you girls want. A T-shirt, a tank top. Then hustle upstairs and grab some food. We’re going to have a team meeting on my front lawn in five minutes.”
Upstairs, the kitchen island is beautifully set for a breakfast buffet—platters of croissants, little glass cups of yogurt parfaits, a crystal bowl of summer berries, fresh squeezed OJ—but there’s no real time to eat. So the girls just grab stuff. Whatever they can palm.
Phoebe doesn’t take any food. She’s doesn’t feel hungry. She’s focused on the pain in her knee, which seems to be getting worse now that she’s up and using