All Good Children - Catherine Austen [35]
I’m the first to walk off the field. Coach Emery catches up to me by the trailer. “I’m glad you made it today, Connors. I’ll remember that jump for years.”
I figure this is a good time to tell him I’ll miss Thursday’s practice.
His smile disappears. “For what reason?”
“The middle school has its first game.”
He frowns. “It’s good that you take your coaching seriously, but you can’t let it interfere with your own practice.”
“I need to be there, Coach. I’m asking my mom to come. You should come too.”
My teammates pass us on their way to the trailer. “Way to go, Max,” they say.
The coach lays a hand on my shoulder to hold me at the bottom of the steps. “Why on earth would I go? I have a practice to lead.”
“To see the kids. There’s something wrong with them. They’re like—”
“I’ve heard about the good children at that school,” he interrupts. “I’m glad you find them a pleasure to coach.” He glances up at the security camera while he pats my shoulder. Then he steps backward and collides with Bay. It’s strange—even with weak peripheral vision, you can’t miss somebody as big as Bay.
Coach Emery straightens up and says, “Let’s get out of the way.” He leads me to the back of the trailer where there’s no surveillance. “What are you organizing at this game?” he whispers.
I’m used to him shouting, so I’m unnerved. “I’m just asking people to see the kids.”
“Who are you asking?”
“My family. Dallas.”
He gasps. “Richmond’s family?”
“No. Just Dallas.”
“Don’t invite Arlington Richmond. And don’t invite any other teachers.”
“Why not? They should see these kids. You should see them. They’re not right.”
“Keep these opinions to yourself, Connors.” He holds me by the back of the neck and stares into my eyes. “I mean it. Do not go around talking this way.”
I don’t know if that’s a caution or a threat.
“I don’t have time for a football game,” Mom says. “Your games, yes, I love those. But the little kids? No. I’m tired at the end of the day. My shifts start at five am this month.”
“You have to come, Mom.”
“I know you’ve been working hard coaching them—”
“I told you, it’s not like that!”
“My teacher says you shouldn’t raise your voice to an adult,” Ally says. She sits across the table from me, eating her sandwich crusts. “The kids in my new school barely speak at all.”
“That’s too bad, Ally,” Mom says. “But Max and I are having a private conversation right now.”
“My teacher says private conversations are not good,” Ally says. “We work quietly all day long.”
Mom stares at her sadly.
“It’s not so bad,” Ally says. “There’s coloring and building.”
I interrupt before I have to hear the lonely details. “I need you there, Mom. I need to know if I’m imagining things.”
She sighs. “How long is the game?”
“An hour and a half. You could catch the end.”
She considers the minutes of lost money and sleep.
“Please,” I beg. “When have I ever asked you for anything?”
She thinks about that. “Never,” she says in surprise.
The middle school erected bleachers for the Warriors’ first game, and they’re full of students, uniformed and neatly spaced in rows.
A dozen parents stand on the sidelines, gabbing about the impending rain. Fathers scowl and pace with their hands on their hips, bellies sagging over polyester trousers. Mothers push the limits of their stretch pants and stare at the field with constipated squints.
The Chiefs bus over from the southwest quadrant. They’re no bigger than the Warriors but they look premium in red and orange uniforms that shimmer when the sun breaks through a cloud.
Mr. Hendricks shakes his head. “They’re a bit behind in Nesting. We’re never going to beat them.” Motivational leadership in action.
I shout at the Warriors as they pass by on laps. “Slow down, Frankie, save some for the game! That’s right, Chicago, get those feet off the ground!”
Mr. Hendricks rolls his eyes at me.
“Where’s Saffron?” I ask.
He points to the bleachers. Saffron sits at the end of the top row, watching her team jog around the field.
“Did she break a bone?”
“She quit,” he tells me. “It’s just as