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“What?” Bridget exploded. Brittany Rodman was the goalie. This was the thanks she got?
Molly made her “Don't mess with me” face.
“Fine,” Bridget spat. She strode sullenly into the goal. She'd never played the position in her life.
Of course this was the moment Eric chose to come scouting. He couldn't help smiling at the sight of her, her hand planted on her stuck-out hip in the goal. She scowled at him. He scowled back. Sweetly, though.
She was busy making faces at him when a ball came flying at her. Her reflexes were good. She could hardly help herself. She snatched it out of the air.
When she saw the disappointment on all the faces, including Molly's, she threw the ball behind her, deep into the goal. Everyone burst into cheers. The long whistle ended the game. “To the Tacos, twelve to one,” the ref called.
Bridget looked to Eric. He gave her a thumbs-up. She curtseyed.
The Pants were good luck, even from the sidelines.
“Carmen! Jesus! What are you doing here?”
Tibby was in her underwear and a T-shirt when Carmen burst into her room. Carmen had only stopped at home long enough to dump her suitcase and call her mom at work.
She threw herself at Tibby, nearly mowing her friend down. She slapped a kiss onto the side of Tibby's face and promptly started to cry.
“Oh, Carma,” Tibby said, leading her friend over to her unmade bed and sitting her down.
Carmen really cried. She sobbed. She shuddered and heaved and gulped for breath like a four-year-old. Tibby put both arms around her, smelling and looking that comforting Tibby way, and Carmen was so relieved to be in a safe place with someone who knew her really, truly, that she let loose. She was the lost child in the department store, waiting until she was safe with her mother to cry a flood of tears.
“What? What? Was it so bad?” Tibby asked gently, when the volume and frequency of sobs had died down.
“It was horrible,” Carmen wailed. “It was miserable.”
“Tell me what happened,” Tibby asked, her sometimes remote eyes damp and open with worry.
Carmen gave herself a few more breaths to calm down. “I threw a rock through the window while they were eating dinner.”
This obviously wasn't what Tibby expected to hear. “You did? Why?”
“Because I hate them. Lydia, Krista.” Pause. “Paul. Their whole stupid life,” Carmen said sulkily.
“Right, but I mean, what happened that made you so upset?” Tibby asked, rubbing her back.
Carmen blinked. What a question. Where to begin? “They . . . they . . .” Carmen needed to stop and regroup. Why was Tibby interrogating her this way? Why wouldn't she just be regular and accept Carmen's feelings as proof that whatever was wrong was wrong? “Why are you asking so many questions? Don't you believe me?”
Tibby's eyes opened wider. “Of course I believe you. I'm just . . . trying to understand what happened.”
Carmen bristled. “Here's what happened. I went to South Carolina expecting to spend the summer with my dad. I show up and—surprise! He's moved in with a new family. Two kids, nice big house, the works.”
“Carmen, I know all that. I read your letters. I promise.”
For the first time Carmen observed that Tibby looked tired. Not just stayed-up-too-late tired, but tired on the inside. Her freckles stood out against white skin on her nose and cheeks.
“I know. Sorry,” Carmen said quickly. She didn't want to fight with Tibby. She needed Tibby to love her. “Is everything okay with you?”
“Oh, yeah. Fine. Weird. Good. I guess.”
“How's Wallman's?”
Tibby shrugged. “Mostly despair. As usual.”
Carmen gestured toward the guinea pig cage. “How's the rat?”
“Mimi's fine.”
Carmen stood and hugged Tibby again. “I'm sorry for putting on the drama class. I'm so happy to see you. I've just wanted so much to spill to you, I can't even make any sense.”
“No, it's okay,” Tibby said, squeezing Carmen back hard, then sitting on the bed. “Just tell me everything that happened, and I'll tell you you're good and that the rest of them suck,” she promised, sounding more like her usual self.
I'm not good were the words that bubbled to the surface, but Carmen kept them in her mouth. She sighed and lay back on Tibby's bed. The wool blanket was itchy. “I guess I just felt . . . invisible there,” she answered slowly, thoughtfully. “Nobody paid any attention to me. Nobody listened when I said I was unhappy or complained when I acted like a brat. They just want everything to look and seem perfect.”
“‘They' is Lydia mostly? Your dad?” Tibby let the last word linger.
“Yeah. Lydia mostly.”
“Are you feeling mad at your dad too?” Tibby asked carefully.
Carmen sat up. Why couldn't Tibby just get mad with her? Tibby was the master of anger. She judged without reason; she loathed on a dime. She hated your enemies more than you did. “No I'm not! I'm mad at those other people!” Carmen shot back. “I don't want to have anything to do with them. I want them to go away and for it just to be me and my dad again.”
Tibby backed away a little. Her eyes seemed wary. “Carma, do you think . . . I mean, is it really . . .” Tibby pulled her feet up onto the bed. “Is it possible it's not the worst thing in the world?” she asked, looking down. “I mean, compared to the really bad things?”
Carmen gaped at her friend. When had Tibby become Miss Perspective? Miss Proportion? If anybody got feeling sorry for herself and blaming other people for it, it was Tibby. Why was Tibby making her be reasonable when she just needed to be heard?
“Where'd ya put Tibby?” Carmen finally asked with a punctured lung and walked out of the room.
Dear Lena,
So the movie is going along, but it isn't how I expected. Bailey has become my self-appointed assistant. I let her do the interview with Duncan, Assistant General Manager of the World. It didn't come out funny, like I'd planned. But it was kind of cool anyway. The people I find most laughably insane, she seems to find most interesting.
So how's the boxing Bapi? How's ineffable Eff? Don't torture yourself, Len. We love you too much.
Tibby
That afternoon was their match against the Gray Whales. Meanwhile, Los Cocos, Eric's team, won their first match too. They were playing against team six, the Boneheads, tomorrow. Then the grand all-Coyote championship match was planned for the day after. Bridget took it for granted that the Tacos would be playing in the finals.
They waited for six o'clock, for the sun to sink and the air to cool to start the game. The whole camp was watching this time. The light was pink and pretty, slanting across the field. Bridget watched Eric sitting on the ground with a couple of other people on a checked blanket, laughing at something Marci said. Jealousy stabbed through her heart. She didn't want other girls making him laugh.
She'd brought the Pants with her again. She carefully folded them on the sidelines.
Molly was regarding her. Bridget didn't like the look on her face. Was Molly going to play her at goalie the whole game? “Bridget. You play defense.”
“What? No way.”
“Yes way. Get out there. Don't go past midfield,” Molly added bossily, like Bridget had never watched a soccer game in her life.
“Go, Bridget!” Diana yelled from the sidelines. She was kicking back on the grass with a bunch of other girls, eating chips and salsa.
Bridget lined up at defense. She toiled back there all game long as Ollie and Jo and other girls played for glory. At least Bridget could feel good about destroying the Whales' offense.
By the middle of the second half it was 3-0. Bridget saw her chance. It was too good to pass up. There was a big skirmish on the sidelines, drawing nearly everybody from their positions. Bridget found herself drawn up to midfield with the far half of the field almost completely open. Ollie had the inbounds pass and spotted Bridget in the corner of her eye. Making sure she stood behind the midfield line, Bridget efficiently captured the ball and sent it in a high, fast arc toward the goal. The crowd grew quiet. Everybody's eyes were on the ball. The goalie reached high and
jumped. The ball sailed up and over her, sinking into the corner of the net.
Bridget looked directly at Molly. She was the only person on the sidelines who wasn't cheering.
“Bee, Bee, Bee!” Diana and her friends were chanting.
After that, Molly took Bridget out of the game. Bridget faintly wondered whether she would be asked back here next year. She sat on the grass and ate chips and salsa, enjoying the burning sensation in her mouth and the last rays of the sun on her shoulders.
Lena needed to get back to painting. She was just hanging around, day after day, wanting to see Kostos, waiting for him to please return her glance, waiting to discover that he'd told everybody what happened between them—almost wanting him to. Half the time she believed herself that she couldn't find any way to make her stony, impassive grandparents talk about it. Half the time she knew she was lying the other half of the time. She was making excuses for her own discomfort.
She couldn't drink another coffee with Effie at the place with the cute waiter. She couldn't spend another afternoon on the scorching black sand at Kamari beach. She couldn't take yet another fruitless walk past the Dounas place and down to the forge. It was pitiful, was what it was. She needed to get back to painting.
She'd return to her olive trees by the pond. Of all the paintings she'd ever done, the olive tree painting was her favorite. It was a little smeared, but it had mostly survived her temper tantrum. Today she packed a hat and a bathing suit. Just in case. She felt brave going back there. It didn't take much to make her feel brave.
The walk uphill felt even steeper than it had been nine days ago; the transformation from rock to meadow seemed even more dramatic. She felt an extra kick in her blood flow when the picturesque little grove came into sight. She went to the exact spot she'd been before. She could practically see the three holes her easel had made in the ground. Carefully she set up her panel and squeezed fresh blobs of paint onto her palette. She loved the smell of her paints. This was good.
