All Good Children - Catherine Austen [36]
My mouth hangs open. I flap my hands around as if they’re going to come up with a response on their own. I give up on Hendricks and run up the bleachers.
Saffron looks at me politely. “Hello. How are you?”
“Why did you quit the team?” I yell.
“Girls need their own teams to express themselves adequately. I’m tired of competing with boys.”
“But you kick their asses. Is there a girls’ football team at this school?”
She shakes her head.
“Get in uniform.”
She looks at the field, looks up at me, shakes her head.
“There’s no place for girls on this team.”
“Did the coach tell you that?”
She frowns. “I don’t remember who told me that.”
“You’re the best player on the team, Saffron. They need you.”
“I don’t like this conversation anymore.” She turns to her friend, a tiny black girl with purple hair clips and a white zip-up sweater.
“No girl has to converse with a boy if it makes her uncomfortable,” the friend says.
Every student in the back row nods and waits for me to leave. They have the same eyes, same words, same minds.
I shudder and nearly stumble off the bleachers.
The coach calls in the team and the game begins.
Mr. Hendricks was right. The Warriors have no hope of winning. The Chiefs are no bigger or faster but they have the advantage of not yet being zombies. They jump and scream on the sidelines, “Go, Matty, go! Come on, come on, come on!” They dive for tackles they have no chance of making. They run the ball like they’re fleeing spear-wielding cannibals. When they score, they shout and leap and slam into each other joyously.
The Warriors stand on the sideline and shout stock phrases for no particular reason. “Good try! We’re the best!” They only dive for tackles they can take. They run the ball like they’re jogging to school. And when they score—which they only do once—they clap politely. Clap, clap, clap, pause, clap, clap, clap.
Mom arrives late and stands apart from the other parents, nervous and out of place. Ally stands beside her like a mechanical doll waiting for someone to wind her up.
“Do you see what I mean?” I ask.
“Your team’s not very good,” Mom says.
“Not good? Look at them, Mom. They’re not right. None of them. Even the eighth graders are defective now.”
Chicago runs for the ball, but he fumbles and a Chief throws himself on top of it. Chicago smiles and brushes off his hands.
“See that?” I ask. “He lost control and he doesn’t care. He’s not angry. He’s not embarrassed. You should have seen that kid two weeks ago. He was a mouthy little punk with an ego bigger than this field. Now he’s a robot. They all are. Look at them.”
“They’re like the kids at my school,” Ally says. She holds her teddy tight to her chest. “They’re all slowed down.” Mom frowns. “They run almost as fast as the other team.”
“Inside,” Ally whispers. “They’re all slowed down inside.”
“They are a bit quiet,” Mom says.
“Hello, Karenna!” a huge white woman shouts. She walks over, smiling and wheezing. “I thought that was you.”
“Linda MacMillan,” Mom says. “I haven’t seen you for ages. Look, Max. It’s Linda. She worked at Manor Heights with me and your dad.”
I don’t recall ever meeting Linda, and she’s not someone you could easily forget. She weighs about five hundred pounds and she doesn’t wear them well.
“Isn’t this the best week of your life?” she shouts. “All these good children! I’m so thankful for Nesting.”
“Nesting?” Mom repeats.
“The New Education Support Treatment.” Linda looks at Ally and says, “She must have been done the first week of school. She’s in grade one, isn’t she?”
Mom opens her mouth to say something, but then she closes it tight and puts a hand on Ally’s shoulder.
“You notice it most with the little ones,” Linda says. “It’s harder to tell in the older grades until you get their marks— then you’ll see the difference.” She looks me up and down and snorts. “You’re a hefty boy for eighth grade. You should be out there on the field.” She wags her finger and says to Mom, “I recall you saying this