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She'd keep stomping them till he did. She stole ball after ball. She felt a strange elasticity, the capability to be both infinitely good and infinitely mediocre, depending on her mood. Today she raised the ceiling on good. She crashed through it. She made other legitimately fine, consistent players look like they didn't belong on the field.
“Pass, Vreeland!” Molly bellowed at her. At a higher level of play, Bridget wouldn't be taking crap like this. When your player is in the zone, you let her play. You give her the ball.
Bridget passed. The ball came back quickly. Her teammates acknowledged her power right now, even if her coach wouldn't. She scored again. Was it the third or the fourth?
Molly looked mad. She signaled to the ref, who blew her whistle. “Sub!” Molly shouted. “Come on out, Vreeland.”
Bridget was mad right back. She strode to the sidelines and sat down on the grass, her chin in her hands. She wasn't even winded yet.
Molly came over. “Bridget, this is a scrimmage. Everybody needs to play. The point is for me to see what we have here. You're a superhero. I see that, and so does everybody else, all right? Save it for the championship.”
Bridget put her head down. She suddenly felt all that intensity crashing in on her. She felt like crying.
She now knew she should have toned it down. Why was it so hard for her to make herself stop?
Dear Tibby,
Grilled shrimp canapés, salmon gravlax (what the hell is that?), crisped spinach, and roast pork loin. The flower arrangements involve tuberose (huh?) and magnolia blossoms (her favorite!). I could go on for another forty-five pages, Tib, but I'll spare you. It is ALL ANYBODY TALKS ABOUT in this place-of those people who actually talk, I mean. I'm going out of my mind. What has my dad gotten into?
Love and bitterness,
Carmen Lucille
“Which one is yours?” Carmen overheard a man ask her dad.
She was standing glumly a few yards away on the sidelines. Paul was the star of the team. In the eight minutes they had been there, he'd already scored two goals. Her dad was cheering like crazy. Down near the goal was Skeletor, made up nicer than a flight attendant. Every few seconds she took breaks from her hysterical enthusiasm to give Carmen a mean look.
“Which one is mine?” her dad repeated in confusion.
“Which is your kid?” the man clarified.
Her dad hesitated, but not for long enough. “Paul Rodman. He's playing forward.” Her dad pointed.
Carmen felt a little chill zap along her spine and up into her scalp.
“He's an unbelievable player,” the man said. He turned to look at her father. “He's built a lot like you,” he said, then moved along the sideline to follow the progress of the ball.
How can he be built like you? He's not your kid! Carmen felt like screaming at the top of her lungs. I'm your kid!
Her dad came over and put his arm around her shoulders. It didn't feel as good as it had five days ago.
Now you've got the son you always wanted, Carmen thought bitterly. She knew he'd wanted that. How could he not? He had a crabby ex-wife, a sullen daughter, four crazy sisters. Here was a big, silent, uncomplicated boy built just like him.
Carmen felt sick to her stomach. Paul scored another goal. She hated him for it.
She was awful at soccer. When she was six she'd played in a kiddie league. She raced up and down the field and never touched the ball once. Her dad went to those games too.
“It's exciting, isn't it?” her father asked now. “Do you mind if we stay the rest of the half?”
“Who, me? Mind?” Her tartness made no apparent impact.
“Great. They've got plenty of courts at the club. We shouldn't have any problem.”
Suddenly Skeletor appeared. She smiled sweetly at Carmen's dad. “Hi, Mr. Lowell, how are you?” she tweeted.
“Fine, thanks, Kelly. Do you know my daughter, Carmen?” he asked.
Kelly worked to keep the disgust off her face.
“We go way back. Hi, Kelly,” Carmen said.
“Hi,” Skeletor said stiffly. She turned to Al. “Isn't Paul just doing fantastic? You must be so proud of him.”
Carmen raised an eyebrow at her. Was Skeletor more intelligent than Carmen had imagined?
“Well, yes, of course,” her father mumbled.
Neither Carmen nor her father picked up the thread of conversation. Skeletor had a low threshold for social awkwardness. “I'll see y'all later,” she said to Al, heading back up the sideline. “Go, Paul!” she shrieked as Paul did something heroic.
Suddenly Carmen recognized the pale figure of Lydia practically running toward them from the parking lot.
As soon as Al saw her, he let go of Carmen's shoulders and hurried over to his wife-to-be. “What is it?”
“The Plantation. They called to say they overbooked. One of the weddings has to bow out. They said we were the second booking,” Lydia explained breathlessly. Carmen could see the tears quivering between her eyelids.
“Darling,” Al said, holding her protectively. “That's terrible. What can we do?” He drew her aside to talk in private. Her dad always had a natural instinct for privacy, even if what stood between him and privacy was just his daughter.
A minute later, her dad came back. “Carmen, I need to go over to the Plantation with Lydia. We'll play tomorrow, okay?”
It wasn't a kind of okay that required an okay back. He had already moved on to the next concern. “I'll leave my car keys with you, and Paul can drive you back home.” He kissed her forehead. “Sorry, bun, we'll have our tennis game. Don't worry.”
Carmen could have acted like a big girl, but instead she lay on the grass, right on the sideline. It was a lucky thing she'd turned invisible in South Carolina, because otherwise this might have been tacky behavior.
If she were real and not invisible, if she could get a look at herself through the eyes of her friends or her mother, she might have been able to examine her feelings. Alone, she felt floaty and transparent.
The sun shone nicely on her face. Eventually she heard the long whistle that signaled the end of the game. A shadow came over her. With her hand she blocked out enough sun to see that it was Paul. He looked at her for a minute. If he found her freakish, he didn't let on.
“Do you want to play tennis?” he asked.
It was their longest communication so far. She said yes.
She went on to cream him 6-0, 6-0.
Hours after the fight, Lena sat between the two surly old men in a clinic in Fira. Her grandmother had gone for coffee and snacks, but Lena suspected she could no longer tolerate the scowling and moaning. Clearly disturbed, Kostos had quickly returned to the forge. He didn't even look at Lena.
Bapi needed four stitches along his cheekbone, and though Bapi Dounas complained bitterly of a broken nose—it had bled a lot—he didn't actually have one. As Lena waited under the fluorescent lights without even the comfort of a People magazine, she noticed a speck of blood drying on the Pants. “I'm sorry,” she quietly told them. She went to the bathroom and tried to dab at the speck with some wet toilet paper. For a moment she felt guilty, remembering the washing rule, but who wanted the blood of a cranky old Greek man on their magic pants for the rest of eternity?
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her hair had dried funny from the pond water. It was slightly puffy, rather than smooth and straight. She had the sensation of being tipsy. She put her face right up to the mirror. Is that really me?
Returning to the waiting area, she saw how silly the grandfathers looked. Their plastic chairs were side by side, but in their efforts to spurn each other they were sitting almost back to back. Lena knew how ridiculous, how absurd—how comical, even—this whole thing was. But though it seemed funny, it didn't actually feel funny to her. It just felt bad. She felt ashamed. Obviously her grandmother believed that Kostos had physically attacked Lena, and she had told Bapi so. Now they both believed that their beloved Kostos was some kind of evil rapist.
Lena could see now how
profoundly she had overreacted. She should have told Grandma the truth and not let her jump to dramatic conclusions.
So Kostos had spied on her. He'd seen her naked. It was a bad and stupid and juvenile thing to do. Even so, she'd felt relieved to see his big sturdy self intervening in the fight and calming the two men down before they killed each other.
Kostos had spied on her, and she was annoyed at him for that. But he hadn't done the things her grandparents believed he'd done.
Now what? When everything calmed down and they'd all had a chance to rest, she would apologize to her grandparents and explain exactly what had happened.
And then she would explain it to Kostos.
And eventually everything would be fine.
Lena,
I played too hard at the scrimmage today. I need to chill. What do you say to me? Calm your body, Bee. I'm trying, but my legs have got the jumpies.
I'll go for a run. With Eric. I WANT him. Did I mention that? I know you are above your hormones, but some of us can't help ourselves.
Love,
Bee FF
“Hi, my name is Bailey Graffman. I'm a friend of Tibby's. Is she home?”
Tibby listened in astonishment at the top of the stairs as Bailey stood at the front door introducing herself to Loretta over the screams of a cranky Katherine. Had she saddled herself with a twelve-year-old stalker?
Tibby carefully put Mimi back in her box and prayed Loretta would somehow not know she was home. No luck. Sure enough, seconds later, Tibby heard Bailey hopping up the stairs.
“Hi,” Bailey said, waving from the door of her room.
“Bailey, what are you doing here?”
Bailey made herself comfortable on Tibby's unmade bed. “I can't stop thinking about your movie. It sounds so cool. I want to help you.”
“You can't. I haven't even started yet,” Tibby protested.
“So you definitely need help,” Bailey reasoned. “I'll be your cameraman. Or your sound man. Or your gaffer. Or your best boy.”
