After the game it seemed like everyone wanted to congratulate Alyssa. She toweled off, drank a sports drink, and gave hellos and hugs to girl after girl, mom after mom, and even a few girls from the other team.
“Your friend down there is pretty popular,” Dad said, holding his hand over his eyes to block out the sunlight.
Coach Abrams put her hand on my shoulder. Moments later she said, “Don’t worry, Megan. She won’t run off. I saw her before the game and she said she’d come talk to me.”
I bit my lip and gave a little nod.
“It’s not a big deal,” I said.
“Aww.” She squeezed my shoulder.
Soon enough Alyssa broke free of the throng. She looked around, saw us, and then trotted over. When she arrived, she effortlessly hopped onto the first rung of the bleachers and said, “Hey, Coach! How’d you like the game?”
“You were very good as usual, dear.”
Alyssa spun around and plopped down next to Coach Abrams, opposite me.
“Thanks. I thought Julia let too many passes get by — but what-evs. We have time to work on it.”
“Julia Graves? Number twenty-seven?” Coach Abrams asked.
“Yup. That’s her.”
Coach Abrams nodded. “It’s a good team.”
“Sure is! I think we’ll make state. Anyhow, how is your team this year?”
“Good, well, okay. Some talent there. A couple total newbs, though.”
When she said the last part, Coach Abrams motioned to me. Alyssa leaned over her to get a better look.
“Hey, I’m Alyssa,” she said.
“Megan.”
She smiled, her face so close to mine. Then she sat back.
“So, Megan,” Coach Abrams said, “Alyssa was one of the first girls I coached, and so far my greatest success.”
“Yep!” Alyssa said. “I’d be nothing without Coach A.”
“And, although she’s too humble to brag, some of us are pretty sure she will make the Olympic team.” Coach Abrams turned and gave Alyssa a long look. “If she tries.”
“Might try, might not. Depends on this season.”
Coach Abrams put her hand on Alyssa’s knee. “Take it from your first coach, dear, you should try.”
Alyssa nodded.
By then the Strikers had cleared the bench and the girls from our team were arriving. Coach Abrams said, “Well, I guess Megan and I better get down there and join everybody else.”
“Cool,” Alyssa said.
“You taking off?”
“Uh — actually, I’ll probably hang out and watch you guys for a bit. Y’know, size up my future competition.”
Coach Abrams chuckled. “Okay, good. Maybe you can give some pointers.”
“Sure thing.”
Coach Abrams and I got up.
“Oh, Megan,” Alyssa said.
I turned back. “Yes?”
She sat forward. “This your first game, right?”
“Yeah.”
I was standing on the first rung, just before her. Our eyes were close to level.
She reached out her hand.
“Well, just do your best, okay,” she said.
I nodded. I looked at her hand, her long fingers, chipped blue nail polish, the light freckles that ran up her arm. Then I realized, her hand!
I took her hand. “Sorry.”
She grinned. “Are you a big soccer fan? Because you don’t need to be all — I dunno — wow or anything.”
“Sure,” I said, still holding her hand.
“I’m just a girl.” Her brown eyes twinkled. “And no matter how much dear Coach Abrams tries to talk me up, my chances of getting on the Olympic team are pretty slim.”
From behind me I heard Coach Abrams say, “Too humble, dear.”
She smiled. So warm! So lovely! “Aww,” she said. “You’re the best, Coach.” She winked. “Hope you win.”
She released my hand. I turned away, breathless.
“Good luck,” Alyssa shouted again.
“Go Megan!” Dad added.
I heard Kelly say, “Yeah! Give ’em hell, Meg!”
Coach Abrams took my arm and led me toward the bench. As we neared it, she said, “Well, what do you think of Alyssa?”
“Uh — she’s nice.”
Coach Abrams gave me a light shove. Then she said, “Yeah, she is. We all have a crush on Alyssa. Now get warmed up.”
She winked, as if she knew how warm I already felt.
Our turn. We warmed up, Coach Abrams gave a pep talk, there was a coin toss — we won and would have the ball first — and then we all trotted out to take our positions. I was in the backfield near the goalie. My job was to stop the other team, The Vipers, from scoring. Mostly, I had to get in their way, tackle if I could, and whenever I could, kick the ball back downfield to one of our midfield girls.
Seemed easy enough.
It was hard. During the first minutes of play, when we lost the ball fast to The Vipers midfield, one of their strikers, a tall, strong girl with long braids, came tearing down the field dribbling the ball. I charged to intercept, but when I got close she shifted fast — a few sudden flicks of the ball — and she was past me. She shot! A direct shot that flew right past Lily, our goalie, and into the net.
The Vipers and their fans erupted into cheering.
Our team, all of us, seemed to slump in place.
“Good try, Megan and Lily!” Coach Abrams shouted.
I didn’t feel like it was a good try. I felt terrible, she was watching me. But I didn’t have much time to be sad. Coach Abrams went on, “Now, no big deal. It’s just one point. Everyone get ready for the kick.”
We got ready. Lily took the ball and tossed it downfield. The referee got it and set it for the kickoff. Then she blew her whistle and the ball was in play.
I had a few minutes of reprieve as our girls dribbled and kicked the ball around trying to score. Becky got it downfield and took the first shot on goal. Their goalie deflected it and it bounced free. Then Sheila got to it, passed it to Becky, who passed it to a midfielder, who brought it forward while Becky and Sheila faded back — to avoid the offsides rule, I guessed. Then Becky brought it in again, passed it to Sheila. Another shot on goal! Cheers from the stands! A long, arcing path.
The Vipers’ goalie dove and caught the ball. More cheers from their side of the field.
“Good try, Sheila!” everybody shouted. I shouted it too.
Their goalie kicked it downfield and both teams battled for possession midfield.
Then, just like before, the girl with braids got the ball and broke free, right at me.
This time I didn’t charge her. No, I held back and waited. What would she do? Right? Left? I was poised and ready.
She saw me, stopped hard, and passed the ball to the other striker, a small, but fast black girl, who was running up the center line of the field.
I watched the girl dribble the ball. I watched our center defender run to intercept her. I was not watching the girl with braids.
But I knew where she would be. I saw the black girl glancing over to my left, and I guessed that the girl with braids was running that way to receive the pass and have an open path to the goal.
Coach Abrams shouted, “She’s gonna pass!”
But I didn’t need to hear that. I knew the pass was coming before the girl kicked the ball. I ran to intercept.
It was a hard, high kick. The ball shot near like a bullet, spinning in the air. I leapt and stopped it with my chest. Then, as I scrambled forward to get control, I sensed the girl with braids closing behind me. She was fast, but I was closer. I kicked the ball back down midfield.
Our fans cheered. Coach Abrams shouted, “Great!” I glanced to the bleachers and saw Alyssa clapping. When she saw me she waved.
“Fuck!” said the girl with braids. She retreated back toward her side of the field.
Soccer was fun.
By halftime the score was tied one-one, from an awesome play by Becky and Sheila — a sudden cross pass right in front of the goalie by Becky, and then Sheila putting it over the line with her head.
That was really nice. We cheered a lot.
When halftime arrived, most of the girls took a well deserved water break. I strolled slowly off the field and looked up at Alyssa. She was still in the bleachers, sitting near the top and talking to a couple other girls who wore the same sort of yellow jersey she did — teammates, no doubt.
It would seem weird to bother her, I thought. Plus I noticed Leah sitting alone at the end of the bench with her foot on a soccer ball, rolling it back and forth slowly. She didn’t seem to notice the other players. They didn’t pay any attention to her.
She had sat out the whole first half and needed to warm up. I went over to her.
“Wanna warm up now?” I said. “I’m sure coach will put you in second half.”
She shrugged. Then she hopped up from the bench. “Bring the ball,” I said.
We kicked the ball back and forth. She stumbled a few times, missed stopping my kicks a bunch, and her kicks never seemed to go where she wanted. I had to run after the ball a lot.
But, by the time halftime was over, she seemed warmed up and ready.
I said to Coach Abrams, “Are you gonna put Leah in?”
Coach Abrams nodded.
The other team started the second half with the ball. The whistle blew. The kick was solid. They kept possession past midfield and began their attack.
They seemed to focus on Leah’s side of the field.
The girl with braids charged Leah, dribbling hard. I shouted, “Go Leah! Stop the ball!”
I wanted to run over, but that would leave the other striker, the small, fast black girl, unguarded. And she was running over to the perfect place to receive a pass. No, for this Leah was on her own.
The girls with braids got past her easily and kicked on goal. Lily caught it in the air.
Whew!
Lily kicked it back midfield and now it was our turn to attack.
They battled for a while on the other end of the field, but soon the other team got the ball and attacked again. Like before, they went right at Leah.
“Go Leah” I shouted.
“Do your best!” I heard Coach Abrams say.
But again they dribbled right past her. Another shot on goal. Another great save by Lily.
“Yes!” Coach Abrams shouted. The fans clapped.
This repeated itself for several cycles without anybody scoring. Then our luck gave out. The girl with braids shot right past Leah, I guarded the other striker, another shot on goal, right past Lily and into the net.
Their fans cheered. Leah looked away.
“Good try, everybody,” Coach Abrams said.
Then it happened again.
Then again.
“Come on, Leah, just do your best!”
Then again. Lily stomped her feet and shouted, “Fuck!”
The other girls, including Becky and Sheila, were shuffling in place and kept glancing back at us.
Soon, it happened again. They were tearing us apart.
“Good try, Leah,” Becky shouted down the field, but her voice didn’t sound convincing.
Again! This time Lily stopped it and deflected it to me. I kicked it back down the field.
I glanced over at Leah, who now was just standing there looking devastated. But looking devastated did no good. Soon the girl with braids was back running hard with a pair of our midfielders hot on her tail.
Leah didn’t even try. Another shot on goal. Another point for them.
I heard Sheila call out, “Coach, can’t you pull her.”
Coach Abrams didn’t say anything. Leah began to cry.
Lily, who had got the ball and was preparing to kick it back downfield, stopped and stared. Several people ran to Leah. I was closest so I got there first.
When I did, the tears were streaming freely. Her eyes were wide and already turning red. I threw my arms around her and held her. “Leah, don’t cry. It’s just a game. It’s just for fun.”
“I suck,” she said through the sobs.
After me Coach Abrams arrived next. “Oh, Leah. Oh, sweetie, it’s okay. It’s just a game.” She put her hand on Leah’s shoulder.
Leah wrapped her arms tight around my waist. She nuzzled her face against me, below my shoulders and above my breasts.
Next two women arrived. One was tall and lanky and had cropped blond hair. The other had teased out dark hair and wore a flowing summer dress.
“Leah, dear,” the blond said. She reached out and took Leah’s shoulder, pulling her from me. “I’ll take over, hon,” she said to me. I let Leah go.
The lady turned her and held her by the shoulders at arm’s length. They looked eye to eye, the blond’s eyes sharp and blue, Leah’s red and streaming with tears.
“Honey, do you want to go home?”
Leah glanced around. “Uh — I dunno.”
Some of the other girls, from both teams, had wandered over and were watching. The rest remained down the field and waited, as if this sort of thing were normal and not worth bothering with.
Then again maybe it was better that they didn’t come down and gawk.
I saw the girl with braids walk over to the black girl and whisper something into her ear. The black girl said, “Shut up! Be nice.” Then she shoved the girl with braids.
The lady in the summer dress came over and put her hand on Leah’s arm. Her expression was sad, concerned. “Honey, we’ll take you home if you want. Or you can stay.”
The ref stood near holding her whistle. “What’s it going to be?” she said to Coach Abrams.
I was still next to Leah. “Leah, please stay. It’s just a game. The points don’t matter, just do your best.”
Leah and the blond lady looked at me. I reached and touched Leah’s arm, the one opposite from the arm the other lady was holding. She looked at me too.
“And, like, who cares if we win? Please stay. I promise, I’ll spend all of next practice with you working on how to tackle.”
Tears were still in her eyes, but not as many. How small and sad those eyes looked, so easily hurt, darting about, fearful.
The blond lady reached over and touched my shoulder. “Who are you?”
“I’m Megan, Leah’s friend.”
Leah’s eyes dropped again. The blond lady looked at me with — I don’t know — caring, thanks, admiration, relief. It was a very deep expression. The other lady, with her pretty dress — I noticed that beneath it she was deeply tanned and had large breasts — looked at me the same way.
Leah shuffled in place. Then, finally, she looked up at me again.
I wanted to hug her, to protect her somehow. I wanted to stop her tears.
Smile, Leah. Please smile!
Her mother and the other lady seemed to notice something. They both stepped back and watched me.
“You’ll play?” I asked.
Leah nodded, a tiny nod.
The whistle blew. The adults cleared out. Again the game began.
In the end we lost terribly, seven points to one. But for the rest of the game, it seemed the opposing strikers were not so hard on Leah. The girl with braids began to attack through me again. And when she did pass to the black girl, they seemed to play it slower, to give Leah a chance.
Didn’t matter much. They would still get it past her. But they worked it for a bit, and Leah seemed to have a little bit of fun.
After the game we had to shake hands with the other team. When I shook hands with their strikers, I silently mouthed “Thanks.” They seemed to understand and acknowledge that with their eyes.
Then Coach Abrams called us all together for a speech, while our parents (and their friends) looked down from the bleachers. She told us how it was just a game, that the score didn’t matter, only having fun and doing our best. She told us we were a team and should stick together and help each other. Yeah, we all got it, I think. And Afterwards, some girls did. Some were nice to Leah. A few patted her on the back. Even Becky.
Then back to the cars, each girl with her parents. When I headed over to meet Dad and Kelly, I noticed that they were chatting with Leah’s two ladies.
Leah and I got to them at about the same time.
“Hey, Dad, you ready?” I said.
“Sure, sweetie, sorry about the loss.”
Everybody got quiet and uncomfortable. Leah glanced around. I reached and took her hand. “We’ll do better next time.”
Leah gave a slight smile and a small nod. The two ladies looked at me with gratitude.
“So,” Dad said with a knowing grin, “I guess you’ve met Leah’s moms?”
Moms?
“Uh — ”
Leah had two moms!
Of course, I’d heard of such things, that — in the sinful world — gay people sometime adopted children, or even had babies with other gay people, and crazy things like that.
“Yes, dear,” the blond one said, “I’m Debra Collins, and this is my partner Mira. We’re Leah’s moms.”
I blinked. “Oh.”
Leah seemed to sense my discomfort. She released my hand and went to stand between her moms.
“You seem surprised,” Mira, the one in the dress, said.
“Oh. Yeah, I mean — Uh, no, it’s fine.” I stepped forward and touched Leah’s arm. “It’s cool. Really.”
Leah glanced up at me, then down. She held her arms in front of her chest and sort of turned from me.
“Seriously, Leah. It’s totally cool. It changes nothing.” I reached for her chin. “Come on, look at me.” I turned her head so that she looked at me. Her eyes were wide with fresh tears. She bit her bottom lip. “I’m serious, Leah, I’m your friend.”
I released her chin. She gave another slight nod.
“Good,” Debra, the blond one, said. “Very good.” She gave me a bright smile. “And, Megan — Thanks.”
Later, as we crossed the rocky lot heading to Dad’s Honda, Kelly said to me, “That was really sweet, Megan.”
“Yes,” Dad agreed. “I expect that poor girl doesn’t have many friends. I’m glad you’re helping her.”
“Sure, Dad.”
We walked a bit further. Then Kelly said, “Actually, you know what I liked?”
Dad said, “Hmm?”
“That we weren’t the scandal for once. That was a nice change.”
I heard a voice from behind. “Hey! Megan!” I turned and Alyssa was jogging toward us. “Hold on, I wanna talk to you.”
“Go on,” I said to Dad and Kelly. I jogged over to Alyssa and met her halfway.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.”
She stood right in front of me, very close. “Look, I just wanted to say that you did really well, I mean, for like your first game.”
“Thanks.”
She smiled and tilted her head. “Oh, and also, it was really, really cool how you helped that one girl, when everyone else was horrible to her.”
She took my hand and squeezed. I dropped my gaze.
“Thanks. Yeah, she’s nice. I wish everyone was nicer to her.”
I looked back up. She kind of rocked her shoulders back and forth and got closer.
“Anyway,” she said, “I just wanted to say that. And I think I’ll watch you guys play again. I bet you get really good fast.”
“Thanks.”
She released my hand.
“Well, seeya around,” she winked at me. Then she turned and jogged away. I found myself staring at her butt.
“Bye.”
Later Dad, Kelly, and I drove back toward Dad’s apartment in town. He and Kelly sat up front and discussed Leah’s moms, how nice they were, how great it was they could be open, how hard it must be for Leah, and so on. They seemed very pleased with themselves for being so open-minded.
I sat in back and let the conversation drift past. I rested my face on the glass and watched the town roll by, the old brick buildings, the rusting iron fences, the little parks with sprawling trees. I thought of Alyssa. How beautiful she was. So confident. So strong.
Softly, I ran my fingers up my thighs streaked with dirt. They tingled. Those tingles passed through me. I touched my arms, on the inside opposite the elbow. More soft feelings. I caressed my own face.
And I thought of her.
I wasn’t stupid. I realized what this was, that I was gay. Yes, me, gay. Somehow that pleased me immensely. Finally all my feelings made sense.
On Sunday morning Dad dropped me in front of the church with four minutes to spare. Out front Mother was waiting. Her arms were crossed. She was tapping her foot.
“Hi Dave,” she said with unmasked irritation. “You could at least try to get her here on time.”
Dad glanced at his phone, which rested on the center console of his Honda. “You have a few minutes. Oh, and, hi Claire. Nice to see you.”
She harrumphed. Then she reached and opened my door.
Dave and Claire, that was how they called each other now, as long as I could remember. They divorced when I was five, and I couldn’t remember anything before that. I wondered: before that had they called each other sweetie or darling? Hon or love?
“Come on, Megan,” Mother said.
I gave Dad a kiss on the cheek, we exchanged our, I love yous, and see you in two weeks.
I popped out of the car. When I did, Mother saw my knee-length denim skirt and sneakers. She frowned. “I wish we had time for you to change.”
On the weekends when I stayed with Dad, Mother would always bring along a modest dress and proper shoes, rushing me into the church restroom to change before service.
No time today. That was fine with me.
“Well, come along.” She gripped my upper arm and led me into the sanctuary.
The Holy Word of Faith Pentecostal Church was a sprawling thing. It’s “sanctuary” was really an auditorium with bleacher seating and a wide stage. Behind the stage were vast windows opening onto a greenway with a pond and fountains. The fountains were lit and glowed with an unearthly blue light. Beyond the pond were trees. Above the trees was a wide, clear sky.
The stage was huge. It seemed empty with only a single gold-colored metallic podium and a microphone.
Above us, suspended from the bare cement ceiling, were enormous speakers aimed right down onto the crowd. When we came in they were blaring repetitive, thumping music — some choir singing out ecstatic praises to the Lord.
We found a seat among the throng, me next to Mother. I straightened my skirt and got comfortable. Mother sat upright and stern, but as we waited, basking in the hum and excitement of the crowd, feeling the music pulse — I could actually see the speakers vibrate in time to the beat — and as we heard the song rise toward a crescendo — could it go higher? louder? — during all of that, Mother began to relax and smile. It wasn’t long before she grasped my hand and looked at me. A warm, loving look. She leaned and kissed my cheek. She mouthed, “I love you, Megan.”
I couldn’t hear her words over the music.
Pastor Bob stormed onto the stage holding a mike. The crowd erupted in praise. Everybody stood. Even me.
“Praise Jesus!” Pastor Bob shouted into his mike. His words boomed through the speakers.
“Praise Jesus!” the crowd echoed back almost as loud as him.
He stopped, looked at us, and smiled. “No, my friends, louder! PRAISE JESUS!”
The crowd shouted it back, much louder than before.
He beamed at us, and I believe that we all felt the fire in his gaze, his stern approval, his dark, penetrating eyes.
I closed my own eyes and looked down. Mother grasped my hand and pulled me close.
Pastor Bob called out, “Shall we sing praises to the Lord?”
It wasn’t really a question. Soon the crowd, still standing, began to sing praises to the Lord.
The music thumped. People stomped their feet in time. They called out, some singing the words of the song, others shrieking ecstatic nonsense. Speaking in Tongues, they called it. One woman a few rows ahead began to cry out and shake. Then she fell into the arms of a man in the row behind her. Several others gathered around, picked her up, and then carried her toward the stage.
“Praise Jesus!” Mother said. Others said the same thing.
The music stopped. The crowd settled and people began to take their seats. Those carrying the woman arrived on stage and brought her to Pastor Bob. He placed his hand upon her brow.
“The Holy Spirit is strong in this crowd today,” he said. “I can feel it.”
He strutted to the podium while the woman was carried to a little room to the side of the sanctuary where she could rest and be healed.
“Oh yes! The spirit is strong in you.”
The crowd fidgeted in their seats. A few called out, “Amen!” Pastor Bob began to preach.
He preached of the blessings in this life, the joy that Christ wants for you, here, now. Pray with a true heart, and God will deliver, he said. Give of yourself while speaking the Word of God, he claimed, and the blessings will come back to you tenfold. Indeed, had not this church itself been a blessing to us? Had not so many members found abundance through Christ?
He called for a witness. A man ran onto the stage and told of his broken life, out of work, his wife gone, his children lost to sin and drugs. But not anymore! Through the Word of God, he had a job, a new house — he showed a picture, it was too small to see — and, most of all, his family had returned. His wife and son joined him on stage.
“Praise Jesus!” Pastor Bob shouted.
“Praise Jesus!” the crowd responded.
Again we sang in praise.
After that, another witness. A gay man, but not now! Through the Word of God he was cured of his filth and sin. And, most of all, he was now engaged. His fiance joined him on stage. She was pretty in a long, flowing dress. They held hands and faced the crowd.
Again we sang in praise.
“Thank God,” Mother said.
From above the music pounded with its pulsing rhythm. Like before people shook and cried out.
I sat down. Mother, when she sensed that, looked down at me and spoke. I could not hear her words. She reached for my arm. I bowed my head and held my hands before me in prayer.
Indeed I prayed. While the music coursed around me and seemed to press upon my mind, while the crowd cried out again and again in thanks to their Jesus. Yes! Their Jesus, the Jesus of big homes with happy families. With no gay children. With no divorce. Filled with joy and friends. No, not my Jesus at all. I prayed to my Jesus, merciful Jesus, the finder of lost children, the shepherd of broken things. I prayed until the service came to an end.