Burgess Honey Bees to a trophy for two summers straight, and the parents stopped complaining.
God, she had forgotten about that team until this very minute. And it had been so meaningful to her then—the coincidence of her nickname and the team name. “She’s the Bee-all! She’s the Bee’s Knees!” her grandpa used to shout from the sidelines, thinking he was so funny. Her father had never cared for sports, but her grandpa had adored them.
Had her father known when her grandfather died?
She let her mind drift. She’d never stopped to think about how soccer had started for her, but this was it. This was the beginning.
There was a strange thing about her memory, and she had noticed it before this. When she was eleven and the terrible stuff had happened, her brain had sort of erased itself. Everything from that time or before she’d either forgotten completely or remembered as though it had happened to somebody else. They’d made her see a psychiatrist for a few months after her mom died, and he had said her brain had formed scar tissue. She had never liked that image much.
She sat there, resting her scarred head on the back of the bench for a long time, until, as though in a dream, she heard footsteps and shouts and the beloved
thunk
of a foot against a soccer ball. She opened her eyes and watched, startled, as a group of boys took over the field. There were fifteen or twenty of them, and they appeared to be around her age, maybe a little older.
When one of the boys passed close by, she couldn’t help flagging him down. “Are you part of a team?” she asked.
He nodded. “The Burgess Mavericks,” he said.
“Is there still a summer league?” she asked.
“Sure.” He was holding a soccer ball. Though Bridget hadn’t touched one in more than nine months, she looked at his with longing.
“You have practice now?” she asked.
“Tuesday and Thursday evenings,” he answered in his twangy Alabama way. People seemed to talk with more syllables down here.
She remembered loving that accent, listening to it magically insert itself into her own vowels and consonants by the middle of August. And then she’d go back up north, her friends would giggle at the way she talked, and by October it would be gone again.
The guy kept turning his head to look at the drills starting up on the field. He was polite, but he didn’t want to talk to her anymore.
“And you play games on Saturday?” she asked.
“Yep. All summer long. I gotta go.”
“Okay. Thanks,” she said after him as he joined his friends on the field.
It was still strange to her how she related to the world now. A year ago, this same boy would’ve taken a look at her hair and been happy to tell her anything she wanted to know. He would have been show-offy and loud so his friends would see that he was talking to her.
Between the ages of thirteen and sixteen Bridget had attracted more wolf whistles and phone numbers and corny pickup lines than she could count. It wasn’t because she was—had been—beautiful. Lena was beautiful, truly and uniquely, and boys mostly looked scared when she passed by. It was that Bridget had been thin and striking and outgoing, and, of course, she’d had the hair.
She watched them kick around and run a few drills. When they started a scrimmage, she walked a bit closer to the sidelines. Already some girls—probably girlfriends—had appeared. As she studied the faces of the players, a few of them transformed from strangers into long-ago teammates before her eyes. Amazing. There was a ball hog she definitely recognized, what was his name? Corey Something-or-other. And the midfielder with red hair. He looked and played almost exactly the same as when he was seven. She was sure she recognized one of the goalies, and then there was . . .
Oh my.
Bridget clasped her hands to her chest. The name jumped right into her head: Billy Kline.
Oh, my God!
He had been the second-best player on the team and her best pal off the
God, she had forgotten about that team until this very minute. And it had been so meaningful to her then—the coincidence of her nickname and the team name. “She’s the Bee-all! She’s the Bee’s Knees!” her grandpa used to shout from the sidelines, thinking he was so funny. Her father had never cared for sports, but her grandpa had adored them.
Had her father known when her grandfather died?
She let her mind drift. She’d never stopped to think about how soccer had started for her, but this was it. This was the beginning.
There was a strange thing about her memory, and she had noticed it before this. When she was eleven and the terrible stuff had happened, her brain had sort of erased itself. Everything from that time or before she’d either forgotten completely or remembered as though it had happened to somebody else. They’d made her see a psychiatrist for a few months after her mom died, and he had said her brain had formed scar tissue. She had never liked that image much.
She sat there, resting her scarred head on the back of the bench for a long time, until, as though in a dream, she heard footsteps and shouts and the beloved
thunk
of a foot against a soccer ball. She opened her eyes and watched, startled, as a group of boys took over the field. There were fifteen or twenty of them, and they appeared to be around her age, maybe a little older.
When one of the boys passed close by, she couldn’t help flagging him down. “Are you part of a team?” she asked.
He nodded. “The Burgess Mavericks,” he said.
“Is there still a summer league?” she asked.
“Sure.” He was holding a soccer ball. Though Bridget hadn’t touched one in more than nine months, she looked at his with longing.
“You have practice now?” she asked.
“Tuesday and Thursday evenings,” he answered in his twangy Alabama way. People seemed to talk with more syllables down here.
She remembered loving that accent, listening to it magically insert itself into her own vowels and consonants by the middle of August. And then she’d go back up north, her friends would giggle at the way she talked, and by October it would be gone again.
The guy kept turning his head to look at the drills starting up on the field. He was polite, but he didn’t want to talk to her anymore.
“And you play games on Saturday?” she asked.
“Yep. All summer long. I gotta go.”
“Okay. Thanks,” she said after him as he joined his friends on the field.
It was still strange to her how she related to the world now. A year ago, this same boy would’ve taken a look at her hair and been happy to tell her anything she wanted to know. He would have been show-offy and loud so his friends would see that he was talking to her.
Between the ages of thirteen and sixteen Bridget had attracted more wolf whistles and phone numbers and corny pickup lines than she could count. It wasn’t because she was—had been—beautiful. Lena was beautiful, truly and uniquely, and boys mostly looked scared when she passed by. It was that Bridget had been thin and striking and outgoing, and, of course, she’d had the hair.
She watched them kick around and run a few drills. When they started a scrimmage, she walked a bit closer to the sidelines. Already some girls—probably girlfriends—had appeared. As she studied the faces of the players, a few of them transformed from strangers into long-ago teammates before her eyes. Amazing. There was a ball hog she definitely recognized, what was his name? Corey Something-or-other. And the midfielder with red hair. He looked and played almost exactly the same as when he was seven. She was sure she recognized one of the goalies, and then there was . . .
Oh my.
Bridget clasped her hands to her chest. The name jumped right into her head: Billy Kline.
Oh, my God!
He had been the second-best player on the team and her best pal off the
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