The Key to the Golden Firebird by Maureen Johnson

the news, which she had gotten along with everyone else, dished out cold at an impromptu team meeting after practice. Brooks had quit the team that morning. In fact, Brooks was completely AWOL. She hadn’t even been around to help Palmer get home. She’d had to bum a ride home with one of her teammates.
    When she heard the minivan pull into the driveway, she stopped her practice and went inside. Brooks was in the kitchen, staring into the fridge.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” Palmer said bluntly.
    â€œYeah,” Brooks said, “I was going to tell you.”
    â€œ Going to tell me?”
    â€œMay made you dinner,” Brooks said, pointing inside the fridge. “She says it’s meat loaf, but it looks like one of those old Duraflame logs from the garage.”
    â€œYou were going to tell me?”
    Brooks let go of the fridge door.
    â€œLook, I’ve just had enough, all right?” she said. “I’ve been playing for what, twelve, thirteen years?”
    â€œYou could get a scholarship,” Palmer said, her lips clenched. “Or try out for WPSL or the Olympic team…”
    â€œPalm,” Brooks said with a laugh, “I don’t want to go pro. And there’s no way I’d even make it.”
    â€œYes, you would. You could. Easy.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. I don’t want to.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you even tell me?” The strain in Palm’s voice was clear now.
    â€œI just decided,” Brooks said as she played with the fridge magnets.
    â€œSo? You should have told me before you quit.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Brooks said. “I should have. I was going to.”
    May ran into the kitchen. Without bothering to greet either of them, she moved Brooks out of the way, opened up the fridge, and grabbed at the meat loaf. She cringed when she saw it—it looked kind of wet, and it was dotted with soft, sick-looking peas. She sliced off a chunk, dropped it on a plate, and tossed it into the microwave. Normally she went right upstairs to remove her school uniform. Today she just pulled off her maroon blazer and threw it on a chair.
    â€œYou’re in a hurry,” Brooks said.
    â€œI have a driving lesson.”
    â€œWith who?”
    â€œPete’s teaching me,” May said, dropping her bag onto a chair.
    Brooks gave her a sharp sideways glance.
    â€œPete Camp?”
    May pulled out a book and instantly started reading.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Brooks asked.
    â€œHomework,” May said, not looking up. “It’s work. You do it at home. You take it back to school the next day.”
    â€œOhhh.” Brooks nodded, looking over May’s shoulder. “ Romeo and Juliet . How appropriate.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œGetting in the mood?”
    â€œI’m getting in the mood to wing this book at you,” May said, snapping to the next page.
    â€œTouchy, touchy.”
    Palmer watched this exchange, then sat down next to May and folded her arms over her chest.
    â€œDid she tell you?” she asked.
    â€œTell me what?” May asked, reaching around to grab the meat loaf from the beeping microwave.
    â€œShe quit the team.”
    â€œWhat?” May’s mouth dropped open. “You quit softball?”
    Brooks didn’t reply. Instead she bunched all of the magnets together and then started dividing them into groups—picture frame magnets, fruit magnets, baseball magnets….
    â€œCan you do that?” May asked. “I mean, can you quit in the middle of the season?”
    â€œYou can quit anytime,” Brooks said.
    â€œBut that’s not good, right?” May persisted. “If you wanted to play again?”
    â€œNo, probably not. But I don’t want to.”
    â€œNot even in college? I thought you wanted an athletic scholarship.”
    â€œWell, I don’t anymore.”
    â€œA scholarship , Brooks.