Field of Schemes (9 page)

Rachel laughed, forgiving me. I was so sorry that the parent she was left with was tearing at the seams. She prattled on, “So, Lisa says that Brandy’s older brother had a Harry Potter bar mitzvah and that—”

“A Harry Potter bar mitzvah?!” I shrieked. “What the heck is that?”

“They turn the place into Hogwarts and do a Triwizard Tournament and—”

“They transform a temple into Hogwarts?” I asked, appalled.

“Of course not, Mom. Just the reception hall.”

I told Rachel I remembered going to bar and bat mitzvahs when I was a kid. Sounding like, well, a mother, I asked, “You know what the themes were? Bar and bat mitzvahs. Not Harry Potter!” Darcy told me that her family had been invited to a seventies-style disco bat mitzvah where invitations were printed on vinyl and slipped into a cover that read “Saturday Morning Fever.” What remained of the Bee Gees actually showed up and gave one of their hits a Semitic spin—“Now You’re a Woman”—for little Katie Cohen.

“Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk about,” Rachel said.

“Sorry, honey.”
What was I doing? She wanted to talk about unkosher bar mitzvahs and I was going off on some ridiculous tangent.
“Go on.”

“So, Lisa says that Brandy’s older brother got thirteen blow jobs in the bathroom from girls in his class,” Rachel said matter-of-factly. “I didn’t want to ask her, but what’s a
blow job
?”

As I coughed my tongue out from the back of my throat, I tried to regain my composure. I wondered if there was a city we could move to where I could shelter Rachel from all of this. Another country? Planet? A plastic bubble?

I took a deep breath and looked Rachel square in the eye. “I think you have a very good chance of making the soccer team.”

“Really?!” she cried. “I hope so. I mean, I feel good about the tryout, but there were so many awesome girls there. I feel like why would Preston ask me to come if he didn’t want me on the team? But he did say he couldn’t make any promises, so it’s not like he said anything’s for sure, but still. I did do well on the shooting drills. I can’t juggle, though. Did you see how many Kelly did? She was at, like, 250 before she missed. I can’t believe they make girls from last year’s team try out again. Doesn’t that seem totally unfair?”

“I heard some of the girls from last year’s team won’t make it this year,” I said, trying to segué into a discussion of playing on the B-team.

“I heard that too,” Rachel said. “Not to be mean or anything, but it
does
make room for new girls.”

Okay, not the direction I was going.

“And the second team is just as good, I’m sure,” I said.

“No, it’s not,” she said. “That’s why it’s the second team. I want to play on the top team.”

“I’m not sure it’s the best place to start with club soccer,” I said as we continued onto the incline of the trail. “There’s something to be said for starting slowly.”

“And what is that?” Rachel asked.

“You have to crawl before you walk.”

“Daddy said that I never crawled,” she said.

“It’s an expression.”

“He said I got up one day and started running.”

I hated to debunk her father’s mythology, but that was not at all accurate. “Your father was an exaggerator. I was home with you and I assure you, you crawled, then stood, then walked,
then
ran.”

“You don’t think I’m good enough for the top team, do you?”

“I didn’t say that, Rachel!”

“When I play soccer, I feel better than when I’m doing anything else in the world. I
have to
make this team.”

“I hope you do.”

“Do you think I will?” she asked.

“I think so.”

Later that evening, I decided to address the blow job issue with Rachel. She caught me off guard on our hike, but I decided that if this was a term floating around among her peers, I had to answer her question. The alternative was letting a bunch of adolescent girls provide sex ed for my daughter. I thought about what Steve would say if I brought this up with him and decided to ignore my husband’s posthumous advice. I could hear Steve’s voice clearly defining, “Tell her it’s when I kick a boy’s ass and call the convent!” Instead, I took a deep breath between bites of dinner and reminded Rachel of her question earlier.

“Oh right,” she recalled when I revisited the term at dinner. “What does that mean?” When I Googled websites for parental advice on talking to preteens about sex, they all said to give kids the scoop in a very matter-of-fact fashion. One explained that if parents provide the info in a neutral way, we take away the emotional charge and give kids the assurance that we’re not going to freak out when they come to us with tough questions. I rehearsed my casual response a few times in front of my bathroom mirror, and finally got the words out without choking on the fourth try.

“It’s when a woman kisses a man’s penis,” I said, quickly, and somewhat coincidentally, shoving a piece of steak into my mouth immediately afterward.

Rachel looked incredulous. “That can’t be right,” she said. I shrugged and pursed my lips, nodding that I was, in fact, correct. “That’s gross! Why would anyone do that?”
Shit, they didn’t cover this on the website! Why, why?
“It’s, um just something that adults sometimes do.” I longed to talk about soccer again.

“I’m sorry, Mom, but you must have it wrong. That has nothing to do with blowing.”

Shit, what do I say now? Do I insist that I’m right or let it go?

“Rachel, you know, things get more complicated as you get older. Like remember how you once saw Cousin Chloe’s math homework and thought you’d never understand long division?”

“No,” she said.

“Well, it was when you were in first grade and you were just learning how to add and subtract,” I reminded her. “You were really stressed over the fact that you couldn’t figure out her fourth grade equations. Your dad told you to concentrate on what you were doing in first grade because division wouldn’t make sense until you mastered addition and subtraction, then moved on to multiplication.” Rachel shook her head, letting me know she recalled none of Steve’s words. “Well, he said that and he was right. If you don’t understand this other stuff, it’s because you’re not ready for it yet. Give yourself a few years and it’ll start to make more sense.”

I could hear Steve yelling from heaven, “A few years? What’s with this
few years
business?!”

Then, straight from the “suggested tips” section of the Planned Parenthood website, I thanked Rachel for coming to me with her questions about sex and asked if there was anything else she wanted to know.

“If there are four spots on the top team, do you think I’m going to get one of them?” Rachel asked.

Oh, thank God!

At the Friday afternoon callback, Dick graced us with a sober arrival and held court on one of the sidelines. A group of parents new to club soccer gathered around him like he was Jesus delivering the Sermon on the Mount. But instead of multiplying fish and loaves, he pulled covered beer cans from his cooler. He was clearly insane, but Dick seemed to know what was going on and many of us were eager—okay, anxious—for information. The soccer messiah told a dozen parents everything that was going on at the other clubs in our area. “Hot Shots started their last season strong, but had some real personnel issues, if you know what I mean,” he said.

I didn’t, and by the quizzical looks on several faces, I was not alone. As I looked around, I noticed that the group of girls had dwindled to about forty. At this session, there were only eleven- and twelve-year-olds. Dick explained that they weren’t going to rotate coaches to observe the girls the way they did the first time around. At this session, all twelve coaches would watch girls for the entire time. They would be evaluated and given a score between one and one hundred. Next week, the coaches would go to a meeting, discuss every player, then one by one vote them off the island.

“What kind of personal issues?” asked a vacant looking woman with long, straight black hair. She looked far too young to be anyone’s mother, much less an eleven-year-old’s. She wore a lingerie-style top that exposed her taut, indoor-tanned midriff. My maternal instincts kicked in before my jealousy did. When I first caught a glimpse of the scantily clad jailbait with her perfectly scooped boobs, I thought to offer her a sweater. Upon further examination, I saw that she was weighed down by a sparkling doorknob on her left ring finger. Trophy bride. Let her freeze.

“Person
nel
issues,” Dick corrected. “Their leading scorer tore her ACL and was out for the season.” Everyone shook their heads as if to say what a shame this was, though it was unclear whether they were lamenting the serious injury or the loss of the impact player. “Had to have surgery on it, then spent the rest of the season in rehab.”

Gia, the trophy bride, gasped. “She was on drugs too?! They keep getting younger and younger.” A few people snickered, but Nancy, an earthy mom who looked like she bought her brown rice from a wooden barrel, caught my eye and made a face as if to say,
What a piece of work.

Dick guffawed, eating up his role of being parent-in-the-know. Let me rephrase: Guzzling down his role of being parent-in-the-know. “Physical therapy.” He looked at Gia like the wolf in a porn version of
Little Red Riding Hood
. He may have actually licked his chops at one point.

“Whoa,” Gia remarked. “That poor girl has
a lot
of problems.” She started shaking her head ruefully, then seemed frustrated when she couldn’t get a grip on her hair to pull it back into a ponytail.

“That’s terrible,” I said. “Is she okay?”

“That remains to be seen,” Dick said, raising his brows. “No one’s seen her play yet. After surgery, they’re never quite the same, but she’ll be strong, that’s for sure. She was one of the top-ranked forwards in the state.” A few people seemed as revolted by his response as I. Looking at the group, most of these parents looked imminently normal, except for Drunk Dick, Loud Bobby, Trophy Bride Gia and one guy who tilted his head far too much when listening with an expression of studied concern on his face. There was just something slightly unhinged looking about him.

Then there was the guy who was pure, unadulterated attitude. It was the same guy from the first callback who assumed that his daughter would be selected on the spot. He cultivated a purposefully ghetto look, which included barbed wire and graffiti tattoos, a silver-rimmed front tooth and a stocking on his head. “No way, man,” he said when Dick described the hoops we’d all have to jump through before our daughters were offered a spot on the team. “You can’t be
sivious,”
he muttered. It took me a few times to realize he was butchering the word “serious.” Darcy told me that “dadditude” was a common problem in club soccer. Many fathers seemed to feel that they were above the rules and refused to comply with just about anything the club asked of them. These guys always had exceptionally gifted daughters, so the clubs gritted their teeth and dealt with the fathers who were exceptionally gifted at being pains in the ass. They were male versions of divas.

One elderly grandmother was wearing a black veil on her head and had rosary beads hanging around her neck. She looked so out of place, at first I didn’t realize that she was here for the soccer tryouts until a little girl named Giovanna ran from behind the woman’s long black skirt. At first I assumed she was one of those itinerant vendors who intrude on your dinner at a restaurant, selling flowers or key chains. I thought she was hawking rosaries at a soccer field. Hell, I would’ve bought one. We’re Presbyterian, but I was willing to concede that maybe the Catholics had the answer. Steve’s family was Catholic and he had a lot of sports trophies. If that rosary could crack the code, and get Rachel on this team, I was ready to learn the Hail Mary and go for it.

Okay, so characterizing
most
of the parents as normal may have been a little generous. Especially since I was walking the line myself.

Dick looked around for dramatic effect. “Rumor has it she’s up for grabs.”

“The knee girl?” Gangsta Dad asked.

Dick confirmed. “My source tells me she may show up here Monday.”

His source? He has a source?! What was this, Watergate?

Wait a minute, what did he mean “show up here Monday”? Someone new could show up on Monday?!
Even with my limited knowledge of soccer, I could see that Rachel wasn’t a shoo-in for the top team. She picked up the drills quickly and performed well. Still, others were faster, more agile and had better moves.

I couldn’t be near Dick any longer. I had to walk around the field and focus on something other than soccer.

As I passed another group of parents on the opposite side of the field, I couldn’t help noticing a dad with wavy, slightly overgrown brown hair and a square jaw that screamed sexy. His broad build, squinty eyes and full lips were attractive, but what was really appealing was the way he carried himself. The way he chatted with the others, nodding his head slightly, laughing deeply. There was an indefinable something that pulled my eye toward him, and his toward me. After I passed him, my heart was still racing with excitement. Chemistry was invigorating, though slightly guilt-inducing too. This was the first glimmer of my sexuality returning and I was torn about it. It was magically delicious (so much more so than Lucky Charms). At the same time, if I was attracted to someone other than Steve, I was filling a void that his death left. I’d somewhat guarded my voids, painful as they were. Filling them was a denial of their existence, and it felt intensely disloyal to even entertain the idea.

Every time I passed the group of parents, my eyes locked with Sexy Dad’s. I wished I brought my running shoes so I could go faster and pass him more often. What a sexy, sexy dad he was. I felt like going to Victoria’s Secret and buying frilly pink panties and a matching bra.

Stop it, Claire! This is probably someone’s husband.