Over the End Line (11 page)

"I'm surprised they didn't wanna go."

"They did."

Annalisa was so unlike Trinity and Stephanie. I'd wondered why the two of them bothered making her a part of their little triumvirate, since they seemed to be following in the footsteps of Sloan Ruehl. Annalisa would surely just get in the way.

"Better hope they don't find out the truth," I said.

"Yes, I do not want them mad at me. Stephanie, especially."

"You mean Trinity."

Annalisa shook her head and, for a moment, seemed serious. "No," she said. "I mean Stephanie."

"Yeah, well, she's got a big ego to fill being Kyle's little sister," I said. "I'm sure she's enjoying that."

"I do not think so," Annalisa said.

"Trust me," I said. "I've known her a long time."

But Annalisa was insistent. "Stephanie comes over my house, even without Trinity. We sit for hours in my bedroom; sometimes she stays for the night. She talks about her parents. And Kyle. Once she told me that she thought her dad wished she had been another boy—or a girl that played sports the best. She was being honest, I am sure. Sometimes we look at magazines of movie stars. I think she wants people to notice her, too." Annalisa bowed her head a little. "I guess some people like that."

"Can we talk about something else?" I asked.

Annalisa nodded.

"I'm kind of tired of all things Saint-Claire."

"But understand, Jonny, Stephanie has been good to me," Annalisa said, in earnest. "From the beginning, she told me to stay close with her and school would be fine. It was difficult coming from far away. Living in a new country, new people ... new everything. I was worried I would not make friends in America. Stephanie fixed that."

And then we were both quiet for a moment.

As we dangled our feet just above the water's surface, I looked at Annalisa, studying her face. She was delicate, beautiful, and had flawless skin that, even with summer long over, seemed tanned. She had brought a bag of
cioccolata
and a book of poetry. We ate the candy and took turns reading our favorite poems out loud. When a small-mouthed bass jumped, not more than a few yards away, I offered my knowledge for how to catch it. I explained lures and baited hooks, and pointed out all the ideal spots for catfish and perch. Most of the time, though, we talked about teachers and school and Short Hills. I told her that everyone thought her father was in the Mafia.

She laughed. "The Mafia?"

"Yeah," I said. "Supposedly, your family moved to Short Hills so your father could set up a money laundering operation for people back home."

"Money laundering?" she said. "What is this?"

I shrugged. I didn't know.

Annalisa shook her head. "You Americans watch too many criminal movies."

In fact, the Giannis came from Arma di Taggia, a small town on the Mediterranean coast, one hundred kilometers from San Remo. Annalisa's father was an executive at an Italian telephone company working on a project with AT&T in Bedminster. The plan was for their family to stay in Short Hills for the next year or two. However, recently she overheard her parents saying that the company might transfer her father much sooner than that. Annalisa hadn't told anyone. I wished she hadn't told me.

"That'd be lousy," I said.

"I think you are right," she said.

We sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the sun set, squinting our eyes from the reflection off the pond's surface, pressing in tight when a chilly wind rustled the treetops and rippled the water. I asked if she was cold. Annalisa nodded. So I pulled off the sweatshirt I was wearing. She was curious about the logo.

"Princeton," I said. "It's where my mom went to college."

"Will you attend there, also?"

"Doubt it."

"Why?"

"My mom's super smart; I'm just kinda smart," I said. "I'll apply, but I don't wanna get my hopes up. It's my favorite sweatshirt, though."

Annalisa slipped it on. The sweatshirt fell off her thin shoulders and hung well below her waist. It looked good on her. I told her to keep it. A small gift from me. I think she liked that.

Eventually dusk came.

"It is beautiful here," Annalisa said softly.

"Like Arma di Taggia?"

"It is beautiful there; it is beautiful here..." she said. "And peaceful..." I looked at her. She seemed to be thinking about something more. Then, she said, "'Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles...'"

"What?"

"'Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles,'" Annalisa repeated.

"What's that from?"

"Oh, no, Jonathan," she said. "You must tell me."

"I must?"

"
Si.
"

I tried to think of something special to say. "Okay, Ms. Gianni..." I said, hoping a few moments' delay would help. "You tell me what this is from." I stood up, pointed to the horizon, and said in a deep, throaty voice, as if I were on stage at the Papermill Playhouse, "Behold, the brownish afterglow marking the day's lonely movement into night, and the continued ceaseless march toward our own inevitable passing..." I looked at Annalisa and shrugged. "Sorry, that's all I got right now."

She clapped and smiled. "I do not know what that is from."

"It's a Jonathan Fehey original."

"You made it up?"

"I did."

"
Bellissima!
" she said. "You are so poetic."

"I don't think so," I said, sitting down. But it did feel nice hearing her say it.

It was getting dark, so I walked Annalisa home. We took the long way, down Lake Road, over Redemption Bridge, across Western Drive, then up Highland Avenue. At her house, I followed her up the driveway. But she stopped me, kissed me on the cheek, and said, "
Sei un amico speciale.
"

"What's that mean?" I said.

But she just smiled.

I watched her go inside. Then I jogged home, thinking how that was exactly, and perfectly, the way a day off should be spent.

Flash—

My mind went black.

Then I heard voices. I could smell grass. Or dirt, maybe. Someone was pulling me up from the field. He was wearing gloves. Our goalkeeper, Stuart, I figured.

"Man, did I nail you," he said. "You okay?"

I wasn't. I got up on one knee, but my head was ringing, and I had to fight like hell from booting right there on the field.

"What ... happened?" I heard myself mumble.

Stuart was talking, but I couldn't make total sense of what he was saying. Something about me launching myself into the air ... for a header ... he came out of the goal... punched the ball away ... the impact was severe ... that was the only thing I was sure about.

Pennyweather walked up. "Heck of a collision."

"Hadn't noticed," I managed to say.

"Why don't you sit out awhile?"

"I'm fine." I undid the laces of my cleats, and then retied them slowly. The few extra seconds helped to clear my rattled head a little.

"Let's go!" Maako yelled. "While we're young."

Pennyweather turned. "Relax, Erik." Then he called out, "Defense stay put. First-string offense!"

I got up and jogged to the sideline as straight as I could, while the starting forwards and midfielders took their positions for a corner kick. I stood, taking in deep breaths, fists at my hips. Kyle glanced over at me.

Pennyweather blew his whistle. From the corner arc, Gallo lofted an out-swinger to an area at the top of the goal area. There was a clash of players. Maako came out of the melee with the ball, taking a few strides before clearing the ball out of the zone with a booming kick. "That's how you do it, girls!"

"Same defense," Pennyweather said. "Second-string offense back in." He gestured to me.

"I'm okay," I said.

I half jogged back on the field and set up even with the far post of the goal area, just a few yards behind Maako, who stood at the center of the defensive zone. My vision still shimmered when my eyes were open, but I noticed no one was marking me. Willie, our backup right winger, placed the ball on the corner arc. When he looked up, I touched my finger to my hand and pointed to the near side of the goal area. Willie stepped back, then kicked the ball.

I was already running parallel to the goal line, pushing past Maako, catching enough of his thigh to knock him off his feet. Willie's corner kick was perfect, sailing head-high off the ground. I jumped up and flicked the ball with my forehead. When I looked back, I saw Stuart standing in the same spot—he hadn't even had time to react—with the ball in the back of the net. My ringing head suddenly didn't seem so bad.

There was a loud "Whoa!" from the other players.

"Hell, yeah!" someone yelled.

A few guys started clapping.

I jogged over to Willie, high-fived him; then both of us went to the sideline with the rest of the second-stringers. I looked back again. Maako was picking himself up off the ground. Little on a soccer field had ever felt sweeter.

"What the hell was that?" Maako shouted, throwing his arms in the air.

"Next group," Pennyweather called out. "Starting offense and second-string defense on the field."

Maako started toward me. "That's bullshit, Fehey."

"Enough," Pennyweather said.

But Maako ignored him. His hands were curled into fists. He started toward me, then suddenly charged, catching me by surprise. I backpedaled, but before Maako got to me, Kyle grabbed him in a bear hug. In an instant, we were surrounded by a mob of players.

"Get your hands off me!" Maako yelled at Kyle.

"Give it up," Kyle said.

"Protecting your little girlfriend?" Maako sneered.

"You're a dick, Maako," I said. I pushed forward, driving my legs into the turf, trying to get close enough to throw a punch. But I couldn't. Gallo and Maynard had ahold of me—a really good hold. They wouldn't let me move. In a voice only loud enough for me to hear, Gallo said, "Don't even think about it, Jonny."

"I'm gonna wreck you, Fehey," Maako shouted.

I laughed at him. "Sit your ass on the bench."

"The day I spend a minute on the bench with you is the day I quit this team," Maako said, then punctuated it with a wad of phlegm that whizzed past my head.

"Dirtbag," I yelled.

But Maako just grinned.

Pennyweather wedged himself into the fray. "Cut it out, you two. Start acting like men."

I thought we were.

There was still some pushing and shoving, but Pennyweather's threat to have the team run laps for the rest of practice got the other players' attention. Everyone soon calmed down. Except me and Maako. We were left to seethe on our own, spending the rest of practice doing pushups and sit-ups at opposite end lines. I didn't care. It gave my head a long time to clear.

***

I knocked on the office door. "You wanted to see me?"

Pennyweather waved me in. "Take a look at this." He was watching video footage of our last game against Verona, a 3-1 victory. He pointed to the screen. "Richie's open, but Dennis doesn't see him. He's not even looking. See? That's what I'm talking about—poor execution. We can't have this when we get to the postseason tournaments..."

While Pennyweather continued with his analysis, I glanced around the room. There were newspaper articles tacked to a corkboard and copies of
Soccer America
spread out on the desk. Then I noticed the wall behind me.

Holy shit
... I almost said it out loud.

Pennyweather had a framed photograph of him with Pele, Franz Beckenbauer, and Giorgio Chinaglia, teammates on the New York Cosmos. Next to it were framed tickets from the 1978 NASL Championship game at Giants Stadium. Above that was a photo of Pennyweather standing shoulder to shoulder with Rick Davis and Shep Messing, two of the first great American soccer players. But the centerpiece of the office was a ball autographed by French immortal Michel Platini, and Paolo Rossi, striker on Italy's 1982 World Cup championship team.

"Know who they all are?" Pennyweather asked.

"Of course," I said. I had read about each one. I rattled off the significance of each player. Pennyweather seemed impressed. Or, at least, surprised.

"I've been around soccer a long time," he said.

"Ever meet Mario Kempes?" I asked.

"El Matador."

"Yes."

"Nope, never did," he said.

Pennyweather turned the video off and sat down behind his desk. "Jonny, we're coming down to the wire. Only two regular season games left. Madison next Wednesday, Summit the Saturday after. Then the postseason tournaments. I don't want any unnecessary injuries in practice—the team can't afford it. And I definitely don't want injuries because of some stupid grudge."

I knew what Pennyweather was getting at. He had to coddle the starters, even someone like Maako. "I was just practicing hard," I said. "Exactly what you ask for every day."

"Practice hard, practice fair," Pennyweather said. "But no cheap shots out there."

"I never do."

"And no more fights."

"I'll try."

"Not 'try,'" he said. "No. More. Fights."

"Yes," I answered.

I wondered if there was even a snowball's chance in hell that Pennyweather would be bringing Maako into this office to read him the riot act. I wondered if Maako was entitled to more screwups than the rest of us.

"But don't back down, either," Pennyweather said, as I started out the door.

I looked back at him.

But Pennyweather was already shuffling through some papers. He didn't acknowledge that I was leaving, and I didn't say another word. It was as close as we'd ever come to some kind of understanding.

The doorbell rang. I looked at the kitchen clock. It was ten thirty—late for anyone to be stopping by, even for a Saturday night. I walked into the front hallway, called out to my mom, "I got it," and opened the door.

It was the last person I would have expected. Trinity, with raccoon eyes and a pretentious pout, was leaning oh-so-casually against one of the portico columns, wearing knee-high boots buckled from top to bottom, a black skirt, and fishnet top. Her Celtic knot and purple fingernails glinted in the dim light.