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Sage has been dressed casually since arriving in California. Tight fitting tees cropped short around the waist. Baggy jeans or short shorts.
But when I imagine her teaching her class, it’s a 1950s portrait. She’s sitting in a chair, and kids surround her on the floor, looking up at her with admiration. Her flowery skirt spills down to her calves, and the pattern matches a thick headband. She’s holding a book out to the side, maybe sounding out a word or a color or whatever they teach you in kindergarten these days. In my imagination, she’s in her element.
We need to figure out what’s going on so she can return to her classroom. To her kids. To her life.
* * *
“Is Max going to be here?” she asks as I slam the trunk closed.
“Nah. Max doesn’t care for kids’ games.” Or kids. I side-eye her, wondering if she’s crushing on the tank. She wouldn’t be the first.
“But you do?”
Felix stands on the sideline of the field, arm thrust in the air, waving at us like we can’t pick the crew out of the parents lined up along the soccer field with folding chairs.
“I like sports. I’m thinking about volunteering as a coach next season.”
I’ve got our chairs tucked under one arm. Sage has Millie’s leash, but her attention is on the three-year-olds with jerseys down to their knees. The little tikes are cute, but as a soccer player, it’s painful to watch the game too closely. The coach does his best but calling it soccer is a stretch.
Maria, Felix’s wife, shouts, “Hey, Knox,” but she never puts her phone down. Her thick black hair is tied back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a visor that protects her from the sun as she videos the game. Phones are recording all down the line, with proud parents either clicking or videoing. There’s one woman on the corner of the field with a 35mm camera and a long lens. She lowers her camera and shouts, “Kick the ball, Lucy!”
Yes, with three and easy, it’s unisex. Boys and girls toddling around, sort of chasing the ball.
“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” Sage says at my side.
Ryan gets up and shifts a chair to the side, making room for two more. “Don’t bother,” I tell him. “We’ll start a second row.”
Stella jumps out of her chair when she sees Sage. Trevor heads my way, and Stella points at Trevor’s vacant chair, telling Sage to take his seat.
“Wasn’t sure you were gonna make it,” Trevor says. We’re ten minutes late, but the game only lasts thirty minutes. Still, it’s not our kid.
“Aren’t Ryan’s kids playing later?” The sporting complex features nine soccer fields. They split one soccer field into three fields for the littles. Games last all day, with the age of play increasing as the day progresses.
“At eleven. The ladies were talking about going to the playground, then the game, then lunch.”
“Sage may want to join. I’ve got the dog.”
“We can find a lunch place that’s outdoors,” Trevor offers.
“Where’s your dog?” Stella always has Charlie, their dog, with her.
“Charlie’s getting older.” Trevor folds his arms, his attention on his wife. “Took him on a run this morning and Stella insisted he needed to rest. Plus, she’s worried about him in the sun and heat.”
“Did he do okay with you on the run?”
“He’s slowing down. He tries, though.”
“That’s tough. How old is he?”
“Nine. He’s still got good years left, but Stella might be right. I should probably shorten his runs.”
“You’re questioning if your wife is right?” That earns a snort.
“I would never.”
Ryan joins us. We’re all three standing in a row, facing the field, a few feet behind the line of chairs. None of us has a kid in the game, so we can do this without looking like total jackasses.
Felix screams at the top of his lungs, as if a gold medal is at stake, “Go, Ryder! Kick the ball!”
