Hannah Gersen - Home Field

To Stephanie’s surprise, there were other students in the library. She had to wait to use one of the computers to check her e-mail. She sat down on a nearby sofa, one with oversized and faintly prickly cushions. She felt impatient and wondered if she should take her grandparents up on their offer to buy her a computer for her room. But the Shanks were already paying for so much of her education. She felt guilty accepting even more. She was so tired of feeling guilty.

There was another memory of her mother she couldn’t get out of her mind: One morning — after the lemon incident — Stephanie had come down to breakfast to find her mother reading the Bible. But when her mother saw her, she put it away, returning it to its spot on the kitchen counter, next to the phone book. And when Stephanie asked her mother why she was reading it, her mother had said, “Oh, it’s just something I started doing in the mornings. I thought it would help.” And for some reason Stephanie had let the conversation end right there. She had not asked, “Help with what?” Even though Stephanie didn’t believe in God, the idea of God slipped into her thoughts. It wasn’t divinity she craved so much as an omniscient perspective, something to help her see past the speck of her ego-driven life and even past her family.

She glanced around the library at the quiet tall shelves of books that surrounded her and at the other students sitting at the long wooden tables. She felt exposed, sitting alone with her thoughts of her mother. As if everyone who passed by could see what a foolish, childish person she was.

Another girl was waiting with her on the couch. She was paging through the most recent issue of Spin magazine, a paper cup of tea balanced precariously on the cushion next to her. Stephanie recognized her from her brief trip into the cafeteria, in part because the girl had also avoided dining, but mainly because of the girl’s clothes. She didn’t wear the preppy, boxy, semi-unisex attire that dominated the campus. Instead she was dressed in a flowered minidress, shiny black tights, and purple lug-soled Mary Janes. Her short, bobbed hair was dyed red and adorned with plastic little-girl barrettes in bright neon colors.

“I like your barrettes,” Stephanie said in a library voice.

The girl seemed startled, but then she touched her hair. “These? I got them at the drugstore.” She gazed at Stephanie, who immediately felt self-conscious in her relatively pedestrian ensemble of black jeans, white button-down shirt, and Chuck Taylors.

“Are you taking Psych I?” the girl asked.

“Yeah.” Stephanie was flattered, thinking the girl had recognized her, too, but then she realized that her textbook was visible in her tote bag.

“I haven’t decided if I’m going to take it.”

“I kind of have to,” Stephanie said. “There are a lot of crazy people in my family.”

“That’s a good reason.” The girl laughed and then introduced herself. She was Raquel, or at least she was trying to be Raquel, now that she was away from home. At home she was Kelly.

“I mean, God ,” she said, making a face, “is there a worse name?”

“It’s not so bad. There were a lot of Kellys in my school.”

“That’s just it! There are so many Kellys. You must know how that is, as a Stephanie.”

“Yeah, I was always ‘Stephanie R.’ Or ‘Steffy.’”

“Don’t tell me that’s your nickname!”

“Sometimes, yeah. I have a good middle name: Geneva. It’s my grandmother’s name.”

“I love that.” Raquel squinted at Stephanie. “Do you want to go out tonight? I got invited to an incredibly stupid party.”

“I was going back to my dorm.”

“Come on, please come with me. It’s with a bunch of football guys. I can’t go alone, I’ll get raped.”

Raquel’s way of exaggeration was familiar to Stephanie. It was how Mitchell talked, and it was how Stephanie used to talk with Mitchell. But lately, she hadn’t felt like exaggerating. Her emotions always threatened to overwhelm; she didn’t feel the need to inflate things anymore.

“Maybe another time,” Stephanie said, standing up. “I should go.”

Raquel began to apologize in a reflexive, vague, and faintly pathetic way, but Stephanie strode toward the library’s front door without replying. She knew she was acting like a weirdo, and also that she was throwing something valuable away. But it felt good. It felt like a repudiation of the person she’d been in high school, a person she no longer liked, a person constructed to repudiate the person her mother was.

A person who had never really existed in the first place.

THE PIZZA BOXES were smashed flat, piled high next to the trash cans. Asaro’s had thrown in a few extra pies, but everything still managed to get eaten. Dean added one more grease-stained box to the tower. Out of nowhere that night Robbie had announced he was a vegetarian, picking off his pepperoni one at a time and stacking them at the edge of his paper plate. Tummy Boyer — nicknamed for his appetite — grabbed them off Robbie’s plate with a cheerful “You saving those for me?” Dean was pleased to see how well his boys were getting along with his players. It was good for them to be around older boys; it strengthened them — that was what Joelle and Stephanie couldn’t understand.

The team had a scrimmage tomorrow, against Greenbrier, an easy opponent, but it was their first time playing without Laird. Today was his last day. Dean nodded to Garrett to get the cake for him — a surprise sent over by the boy’s mother. Dean had stopped by Laird’s house earlier in the week to say good-bye to his parents, but Laird’s father had already left to start his new job. The hallways were crowded with cardboard boxes bearing the name of a moving company. Laird’s mother seemed tired, so Dean kept his visit short. But she ran out to Dean’s car after Dean and the boys had said good-bye, wanting to know if she could provide a cake for pizza night. She knew of a place that made football-shaped ones.

Garrett brought out the oversized cake on a wheeled ball cart, balancing it on the top two bars.

“Whose birthday?” someone called out.

“That’s just for Tummy.”

Tummy laughed and smacked his belly. For the time being, he was Laird’s replacement.

“Mrs. Kemp sent this over,” Dean said. “Laird, come on up here.”

Laird came to the front of the room, his head slightly bent in embarrassment. His dark, almost black hair was recently cut, and with his strong neck prominently displayed, he seemed more like an adult than ever before. He stood next to Dean, slouching until Dean put his hand on his back to make him stand straight. Dean felt unreasonably proud of him, as if Laird were an ambassador of Willowboro, going out into the world to represent the town.

“You all know Laird’s leaving,” Dean said. “And you all know what a loss it’s going to be for us. Maybe some of you who are seniors remember when Laird was starting out. He was always athletically gifted. He didn’t have to try. But he did. He worked harder than anybody on this team. He built this team. And now he has to leave. That’s a hard thing to do, gentlemen. So I want a big round of applause for Laird, for everything he’s done for us. And let’s wish him well in his new endeavors — and be grateful he’ll be playing Division II at his new school, so we won’t see him staring us down on the field.”

The boys whooped and clapped, immediately getting to their feet. The gym echoed with noise. Laird turned red, but he couldn’t stop smiling. “I’ll be back to see you play!” he yelled. “You guys are going to States!”

The noise got even louder as the boys began to stamp their feet. Dean felt a familiar swell of happiness in his chest. The buzz of youth. It was contagious. He looked for Robbie and Bry — he wanted to see their expressions — but the standing, cheering players blocked his view of them.