Field of Schemes (3 page)

Rachel leaned to the left as if she were going to shoot to that corner, then suddenly shifted her weight and shot to the opposite corner as the keeper was mid-dive in the other direction. It was stellar. When the ball made it into the net, our coach ran onto the field and put Rachel onto his shoulders. The other girls exploded into a screaming celebration and rallied around Rachel, cheering.

This was good. Whenever I second-guessed my decision to move to the suburbs, I would visit this mental snapshot. Here she had community. Here we could build a new life. Here we could sew together a patchwork family with good people, top schools, and kids’ sports.

In my mind the season ended with that goal. As the parents formed a London Bridge-style tunnel for the girls to run through, Celeste handed out boxed Yoo-hoos and cookies frosted to look like soccer balls. She cheerfully reminded everyone that our team party was that evening.

I had closed the chapter on soccer until next season. My daughter and the man in the Adidas warm-ups, however, had different plans.

He was a bold presence, a physical specimen of ebony muscle making his way toward our cluster of parents. He had an official look about him, his clipboard and club logo embroidered on his chest.

“Who’s that?” I asked a mom. Just then Rachel ran toward me, asking if I’d seen her goals. “Of course I did, Rachel! You were amazing!”

Though sports weren’t really my thing, I tried to match her enthusiasm because soccer seemed so important to her. I didn’t want to be like my own mother, an anorexic Popsicle who refrained from facial expressions because they caused wrinkles. Whenever I brought home exciting news, she would say, “I expect excellence from you, Claire.” In her own way, she was being supportive, but I yearned for a mother who was supportive in my own way. A child simply can’t understand the subtlety of presumed excellence. I could’ve used a high-five every now and then. Or at least a smile. I couldn’t control the fact that I didn’t get a mother who would meet me where I was emotionally, but I could control the type of mother I was to Rachel, so I bubbled over as she did. When she ran to me with her youthful buoyancy, I held her hands and jumped a bit with her. “Really awesome, Rachel. You’ve never played better,” I told her. Satisfied, she scurried off to chatter with her teammates.

Margo answered my question. “That’s Preston,” she said. “From the club.”

“Why do you think he’s here?” I asked, already knowing that he was there to reprimand Bobby. I have found many friendships were formed by having a common enemy. Loud Bobby’s asinine behavior seemed like a fun conversation starter.

“He’s here for Rachel, silly,” she answered.

My mouth fell open in shock. “What has Rachel done?”
Did she gloat when she scored goals and I just didn’t notice it?

She looked at me as if I were an imbecile. “Are you kidding? She’s broken every record in rec soccer history. Haven’t you noticed him out here for the past couple of weeks?”

“Yeah,” I said sheepishly. “I thought he was here to discipline Bobby.”

“Bobby? What did Bobby do?”

“Don’t you think he’s sort of a jerk at games?”

Margo dismissed me with a laugh. “No, I think he’s
very much
a jerk, and not only at games, but that’s not the kind of thing that’s going to get Preston out to the field. He’d never have time to recruit if he spent his time dealing with every obnoxious parent on the sidelines.”

As Rachel sped across the field, making her way back to me, Preston called out to her in his Caribbean accent. “Hey Number Nine. Your dad here today?”

I felt like someone punched me in the gut, but tried not to react. Rachel was going to have to learn to deal with these questions more and more now that we were in a new neighborhood where no one knew our history.

“No, but my mom is,” Rachel replied. Rachel’s pumpkin-colored hair sprang for a full minute after she stopped running. She inherited my lanky body and red hair and Steve’s athletic prowess and competitive nature. What was completely hers was the untarnished innocence with which she viewed the world. Her eyes were bright with optimism, and the smattering of freckles on her nose gave her an even greater sense of freshness. “She’s right over there,” Rachel said, pointing in my direction. “You’re Preston Sanford, right?” Not just an island accent, but a soap opera name too?

He flashed a smile and waved a hand before heading toward me. “Quite a little soccer player,” he said as he and Rachel reached me. His hair was shaved so close I could see his skull. This accentuated his high cheekbones and full lips. Preston’s eyes were like slits with long lashes draping both top and bottom lids.

“Thanks,” I replied, not sure of what the protocol was for accepting compliments made about your child. “Rachel really loves it.”

The team started trickling away, waving as they left. “See y’tonight, Claire!” shouted Bobby as he and Cayenne walked to their car.

“I’m Preston. Preston Sanford,” he said, extending his hand.

Erica Kane,
I did not say. “Claire Emmett.” We shook hands.

“Rachel’s got a lot of talent,” Preston said. “I like what I saw out there today. I want to see her at tryouts in the spring.” Turning to Rachel, he continued, “I can’t make promises, but you’ve got the raw material and you definitely have the desire. With proper coaching, you could go far.”

“Thank you,” Rachel said, unable to contain her fidgety excitement. She looked a little bit like she had to pee when she thanked Preston for the third time and told him how “honored” she’d be to play for the Kix Club. Really, she said
honored
.

“Tryouts?” I queried, handing Rachel her sweatshirt. The wind shook the green and brown leaves clinging to the trees so they looked like shaking pompoms cheering for my daughter. Turning back to Preston, I continued. “She didn’t have to try out this year.”

Rachel looked a bit embarrassed. She inhaled to speak, but Preston put his hand out as if to yield traffic. “She’s been playing recreational soccer. The club is competitive,” he explained.

What? We always try to win.

“So competitive soccer is different than recreational because—” I paused for him to finish the sentence for me.

“Rec is only for fun,” Preston replied. “Club soccer is fun, but the players are at a higher level, commitment- and skill-wise. The coaches are all professionals, so they really know how to teach technical and tactical skills.”

Technical and tactical skills?

This is the point where I was ready to say no thanks and grab a hot cocoa. Who needed technical and tactical skills at any age, much less eleven?

The next words answered my question. “That sounds like a tremendous opportunity,” Rachel said.
A tremendous opportunity?
Who was this kid? I guess no one
needed
technical and tactical skills, but one eleven-year-old wanted them with every ounce of desire she possessed.

“When you say commitment level, are you talking about more practices or more money?” I asked, to Rachel’s great mortification.

Preston smiled as Rachel rolled her eyes, trying to distance herself from her mother. “Yes and yes, but the money can be worked out if it’s an issue.”

“It’s not,” Rachel said hurriedly. She wanted this deal closed immediately. “We’ve got plenty of money, and I’m so totally committed to soccer, I’d be excited about the two practices a week and summer tournaments. And State Cup,” she said, nearly sighing. “It would be a dream come true to play at State Cup.”

Smiling again, Preston said, “Looks like you’ve been doing your homework, young lady.”

“Kelly plays club, Mom,” Rachel explained. Kelly Greer was Rachel’s best friend and our next-door neighbor. I’d popped by the house to chat with her mother when we first moved into the house in July, but I hadn’t been back since. I confess that my sole purpose in meeting her was to make sure Rachel wasn’t dining with the Osbournes. I didn’t really have any desire to make a new friend. When Darcy started chattering incessantly about her incompetent pool guy, I found her energy a bit overwhelming. She seemed sweet enough, but seven months after losing my husband, everyone else’s problems seemed annoyingly petty. I felt as fragile as a light bulb and Darcy was like a Tasmanian devil wielding a hammer. After a few minutes, I had to get out of her house.

“Kelly Greer?” Preston asked.

“She’s my best friend,” Rachel said as if that might help her make the team.

“Tremendous athlete. Nice girl. Has she filled you in on club life?”

Has she? How did this slip by me? Have I been so consumed in my grief that I haven’t paid attention to my daughter’s first love?

Rachel giggled, affirming his suspicion.

“Anyway, Mrs. Emmett, we’ll go through all the details at tryouts, assuming you’re interested.”

“Oh, we’re interested,” Rachel said. She was sooo not a Rules Girl.

“May I take your phone number and call you before tryouts?” Preston asked me. Handing me his business card, he told me to call him anytime with my questions. The white linen card had the Kix logo and Preston’s private phone number. His title was simply “Player Acquisition.” I gave him our phone number and prepared to turn around and go.

“Preston played on the Jamaican National Team when they qualified for the World Cup in ’98,” Rachel told me. Well, she pretended to tell me. The truth was that she knew very well that I could not care less about the World Cup. What she was really doing was trying to impress Preston with her vast knowledge of soccer, his career in particular.

And it worked. His eyebrows rose as he acknowledged, “Ah, you know the Reggae Boys?”

“Who doesn’t?” she said, shrugging.

“Smart girl,” he laughed. “I guess we’ll see you in spring then?” He shook my hand again and reminded me to call him anytime with my questions.

As he walked away, Rachel said, “Have a great Thanksgiving. Happy holidays! Good luck in State Cup!”

Did she want to wish him a happy birthday while she was at it?

On the drive home, I asked the stupidest question of my parenting career. “So, you want to do this club soccer thing?”

“Totally!”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why do I want to play club soccer?” she returned with incredulity.

“Yeah, why not just stay in rec?”

“You’re not going to let me try out?!” she cried.

“I didn’t say that,” I replied. “I’m just trying to understand this a little better. I mean, it seemed like you had such a good time on the Purple Sparrows. Why fix what isn’t broken?”

I could understand running away from unpleasantness. In fact, for my entire life I’ve been guided by the three-strikes rule. If one bad thing happens, I locate my nearest exit. At strike two, I’ve got one foot out the door. By strike three, I’m out of there. But Rachel wanted to move on from recreational soccer when the experience had been a positive one. Who flees at zero strikes?

“I did have a good time,” she protested. “I kinda feel like I could have a better time if the team was good. Kelly says rec soccer isn’t even soccer; she calls it ‘swarm ball.’ ”

“It is
not
swarm ball!” I said, mustering as much righteous indignation as I could fake.
What the hell is swarm ball?
“You guys just beat the Blue Kittens!”

“Come on, Mom,” she scoffed. “The Blue Kittens? This is really important to me.”

That’s when she got me. I had absolutely no idea why playing for a professional coach who wanted to teach her technical and tactical skills held any appeal whatsoever, but she did and that’s what mattered.

“Okay,” I said.

“Really?!” she screamed.

“Yeah, Rachel. You can go to tryouts, but remember that Preston said he couldn’t make any promises. Keep your expectations realistic.”

“I cannot wait to tell Kelly about this! When I told her Preston was showing up at our games, she totally knew he was going to recruit me, but I kept saying, ‘No way! It’s my first season.’ But she was like so sure, and she was right. Yes!” she cried, doing some crazy little dance of excitement. Rachel was experiencing the familiar exhilaration of scoring a goal, while I, for the first time, knew what a goalkeeper felt like when a ball slipped through her hands. What just happened here?

The Greer home was everything mine wasn’t. I sensed that from the moment I rang the bell, before Darcy even invited me in. With its dark wood double doors and autumn wreaths of clustered miniature pumpkins, there was a finished feeling to the home. Though Rachel and I moved into our new house in July, we still had unpacked boxes in every room and hadn’t hung a single picture. The family photos, I knew, would be the last box opened.

Darcy flung open the door wearing a coffee-colored turtleneck and Thanksgiving theme sweater, looking rushed. She had dark brown eyes and a full head of curly black hair pulled into a low pony tail. A thick-boned woman, Darcy reached just beneath my chin and had a slight underbite. She was exotically attractive, the type of woman who would be cast to sell plum wine rather than light beer in a television commercial. “Have I caught you at a bad time?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she quipped, smiling warmly. “But if you want to wait for a good time, it’ll be another ten, fifteen years, so come on in.” Her frenetic energy wore easier on me this time. In fact, I found her candor disarming. Most of the women in Santa Bella looked so well sewn together, it was reassuring to find someone who seemed to feel as frayed as I did. “How are you settling in? Come on in.”

“Good,” I said, following her into the kitchen.

Darcy’s ultramodern kitchen looked like something off the cover of
House Beautiful,
with dominant tones of light wood and brushed steel illuminated by a flood of natural light. The only place I’d ever seen more windows was in a greenhouse. The ceiling was covered in silver with multiple crisp wires suspending sleek halogen lights. The centerpiece was a wood and stainless steel island with a gas range and granite cutting station. Around the periphery was light wood cabinetry that sunk into the surface of the walls. A few family photos were perched on a mantle over a small fireplace. Everyone was smiling on a sailboat, Darcy beaming and her husband tan and laughing. The lighting was such that I couldn’t really see her husband’s face as he wore a fishing hat and sunglasses, but I could tell he was a handsome man by the way he held himself, the way he looked confidently into the camera. Steve also looked straight into the lens. I always turned a bit, as if hoping that a different perspective might make me look better. I never noticed this until Steve once asked me why I looked like I was hiding in photos. When he said this, I looked back at all of my pictures and noticed I’d been posing this way since I was about eight years old.