Like Lindsay predicted, the Katy beaters focus on me. They have no idea that Jackson probably wouldn’t survive a one-on-one duel, much less a two-on-one attack. As long as they keep going after the apparently easy prey, he’s safe. And in the meantime, he’s kicking ass at defense.
“You’re doing it,” I gasp at him while I run to tag my hoops. “You’re stopping them.”
“I control the balls now,” he mumbles back. His bludger sails straight into the face of the redheaded keeper with a vicious thump. “I am the ball master.”
It’s amazing to see. And it’s amazing to recognize the rush of pride that I feel when I see it. It’s bigger and better and less self-conscious than being happy with my own performance. That’s my teammate, this is my team, and this is how we fly.
* * *
• • •
When Aaron pulls the snitch, our sideline bursts into excited squeals that Karey has to shush until the refs confirm. The three-whistle blast sounds, and her “Hold on!” turns into a “Hell yeah!” as we all rush in for a dogpile on top of our very smooshed seeker.
We don’t try very hard to contain smug smiles as we line up to shake hands with Katy. Of course, Other Chris ruins it by being totally gracious and congratulating Karey on her coaching, even proposing a joint practice and scrimmage session before summer ends. Which would be awesome if I thought I’d be allowed out of the house for it.
“Third place, third place,” Melissa singsongs happily, hands on Karey’s shoulders in a two-woman conga line back to the tree. “We are the best—and by best I mean third best, which is still pretty good!”
I want to continue jumping and high-fiving, listening to Jackson gush about how much better it is to beat other people, watching the final match that started almost the second ours ended (because the tournament is already running late enough). But Connie inches closer and closer to me with a polite smile etched across her face, her head nodding toward the parking lot.
“I think I have to go.” I sigh. Aaron and Erin have their heads together debating some minor play and don’t respond, but Elizabeth gives me a solemn nod as I retreat to Connie.
“Bye, Ellen!” Melissa calls, running to wrap me in a final hug. “Don’t worry,” she whispers, “you’ll be fine. Just, like, text me if they take your phone away.”
“How would I even . . . ?” I let it go. “You and Karey have a ride home?”
Melissa nods. “We’ll be squished, but we won’t be breaking any laws.”
Most of the team has found seats along the sidelines to watch the finals alongside League City and Katy players. Jackson helps Lindsay limp to join them.
“Text me who wins?” I ask, watching a San Antonio chaser score on College Station. I don’t want to leave.
“Of course.”
“Ready?” Connie asks when my dragging steps bring me close enough. I nod and follow her toward the glare of the sun setting over the parking lot. Tiny noisy insects bat against my face, and Yasmín ducks a june bug with a squeak. A whistle blows behind us, and I try not to wonder which team scored.
“So,” I say as my eerily quiet family climbs into the car, “sorry you had to drive all the way up here. Well, you didn’t have to, but, um, sorry.”
Yasmín’s enormous yawn is the only response I get. She’s fast asleep before we get on the freeway, and she stays curled up with her head in the middle seat even when we stop for gas and gas station dinner. Dad stops at a place with a Subway, one of the only fast-food restaurants where I can eat, without even needing a reminder. He barely looks at me the whole time we’re inside, though. This distant niceness, first at the tournament and now on the road, freaks me out. I thought we were all silently agreeing not to fight in public, but now I don’t know how to read his mood at all. Something big must be coming—my stunt basically demands it—but the suspense is killing me.
My phone buzzes an hour or so into the trip. John.
I get what u said.
But I’m still mad.
But I’ll c u at practice.
If Karey lets me stay on the team.
Sorry for being a dick.
I really want to put off responding, but instead I text, I’m sorry, too. See you when I see you.
Sooner than I expect, the dark shapes of trees and black sky give way to a purple-orange glow that dims the stars. Not a sunrise, but a city-rise as we approach Houston’s light pollution. I shift my legs, finding new aches to add to my list of minor pains: sunburned neck, scraped knee, shin bruises, and sore right shoulder.
The meandering roads of our neighborhood make me dizzy after hours of straight freeway. I lurch forward when the car stops, just as Yasmín opens her eyes and blinks out the window. Dad opens her door and collects her in his arms while I drag my bags over my shoulder and hobble up the path to the front door. Nearly halfway up the stairs, already dreaming of my hot shower, a long inhaled breath stops me in my tracks.
“Ellen,” Connie sighs behind me. “Can you come to the kitchen, please? Your father and I want to talk to you.”
Of course I knew this had to be coming. But exhaustion and sore muscles spit out an answer that Yasmín would shake her head at. “Now? We can’t do this in the morning?”
“Drop the indignation,” Connie responds. “What you did . . .”
Okay, that’s fair. “I’m sorry,” I say, hanging over the banister. “But Xiumiao was here the whole time. You know she’s a good babysitter. I wouldn’t leave Yasmín if I didn’t know she was safe.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Connie snaps. “We need to know what’s happening in our own house. We need to know where our kids are and who they’re with.”
“She was right here with Xiumiao,” I repeat, starting back up the stairs.
“I wasn’t just talking about Yasmín!” Connie shouts.
It surprises me enough that I stop climbing the stairs.
“If you don’t realize what you put us through . . .” Connie shakes her head and climbs up a few steps after me. “Greg was . . . we worry about you. You can’t do that.”
“I—I’m sorry,” I say, and I actually mean it. I knew they’d be angry, but I didn’t think beyond that. I’m going to be in college soon anyway, so they’ll have to get used to the idea of not knowing where I am. Besides . . . “I was just giving y’all what you wanted!”
Dad opens Yasmín’s door, holds a finger to his lips. I remember what she said about overhearing fights from her room.