Authors: Susan Ross
“Let's leave the love birds for the time being, shall we?” Dad pulled out two Cokes and threw hot dogs on the grill. “By the way, I'll need your help with chores tomorrow.”
“There's a girls' soccer game in the morning,” Jacques said quickly. “I'm kind of supposed to be there.”
“Ladies soccer, huh?” Dad grinned. “Somebody special on the field?”
“Coach Morrin wants the guys to show support, that's all.”
Dad flipped the hotdogs and nodded. “Coach is right. We can do the work in the afternoon.”
When Jacques looked up, Grandmère Jeannette and Mr. Silverstein were walking toward them. Grandmère Jeannette had the fishing rod in one hand and was
holding something gray and shiny with a white belly in the other. Her hair fell in loose curls below the cap, and her lips were open in the broadest grin Jacques had ever seen. Hanging from a hook in Grandmère Jeannette's left hand was a long fat bass for dinner.
The next morning Jacques pulled on his new Arsenal jersey and headed over to meet Sammy and Tim O'Shea on the way to the girls' match. By the time the boys got to the field, a group of kids had already gathered on the sidelines.
Lucy held a large neon poster with GIRL POWER written in capital letters and underlined twice. She was wearing a chunky green cardigan that made her eyes glow. When Lucy spotted Jacques she raised the sign higher and screamed, “GO, GO, GO!” even though the players were still warming up. She paused and glanced over her shoulder. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Jacques mouthed back. His heart was racing, but it was good, all good. Maybe he and Lucy could go get pizza after the game.
Mohamed and Yasin walked up beside them.
“We going to see what the girls can do!” Mohamed exclaimed.
Jacques grinned at the guys and nodded. “I heard some of them aren't half bad.”
Suddenly, Lucy whistled and waved her sign furiously toward the field. “Jacques, isn't that . . .”
A tall man wearing a COACH jersey was sprinting in front of the team.
“What the heck?” Sammy exclaimed. “It's yourâ”
“Dad!” Jacques shouted.
Dad turned and jogged toward the boys as Jacques ran onto the turf.
“What are you doing here?” Jacques gasped.
“See that man over there, the girls' coach? He's my sponsor, the one that's helping me with the drinking. So now I'm the assistant coach. His idea of therapy, I guess.”
“Why didn't you tell me?” Jacques's mouth was still open.
“Thought I might surprise you.” Dad stretched his arms and grinned. “Can't say I know that much about this game, though. You up for showin' your old man a few drills later on?”
“Sure, yeah. We could practice at the park.”
The ref blew the whistle to begin. Dad saluted and ran back. The boys watched as Lucy and Nicole led the crowd in a synchronized wave.
“Hey, look over there!” O'Shea pointed to the far end of the field. Jacques turned just in time to see the ball spinning through the air. A girl wearing a blue head scarf and long baggy gym pants was coming down from a header.
Jacques pivoted, grabbing Mohamed's arm. “What's going on? Is that Kiki? She didn't tell me! I thought . . .”
“Coach Morrin explained to Hooyo that girls who play soccer can get college scholarships. So Hooyo spoke to all the family, and she decided to let Kiki try.” Mohamed ran his tongue over his lips. “Coach says boys can get the scholarships too.”
Somebody booted a corner kick to the top of the penalty box, and Kiki lunged forward. In an instant, the ball hit the inside of her foot and flew into the air. The other girls slowed down to watch the ball speed toward the far edge of the goal, while the goalie tripped and rolled in a futile attempt to stop it.
“She scored!” Jacques grabbed Sammy's shirt. “Kiki got one in!”
The rest of the team surrounded Kiki in a group hug.
“Not too bad.” Mohamed knocked knuckles with all the guys, while Lucy and Nicole danced in circles.
Jacques watched as Kiki flew across the field. She was every bit as fast as her brother, dodging left and right and making contact with the ball with the same natural ease.
“GO, KIKI! GO!” Jacques yelled as loud as he possibly could.
Kiki turned for a split second and raised both arms in the air. With a quick twist, she swung to the left and raced away, chasing the ball like nothing could ever stop her.
Writing is a labor of love, and many whom I love help me write. THANK YOU to my many friends and colleagues at Westport Writers' Workshop, including Maggie Mudd, Valerie Leff, and Susan Lynton, as well as friends and readers Laura Toffler-Corrie, Sari Bodi, Christine Pakkala, and Michaela McColl, who listened over the years and poured over my proseâsmiled when something was good and shook their heads when something was dreadful.
Special thanks to my writing mentors: Suzanne Hoover, for her unfailing sense of craft and razor sharp nuggets of wisdom, and Pat Reilly Giff, for simply being the kindest, most generous, and encouraging role model in writing and in life.
It was Pat who first raved about my amazing editor, Mary Cash. Thank you, Mary, for bringing out the best writing with sensitivity and care. And grateful thanks to my terrific agent, Susan Cohen at Writers House,
for believing in this book, and her ace assistant, Nora Long, for her helpful comments.
My childhood home in Maine, which in recent years experienced a large influx of Somali immigration, was the inspiration for this story, and my father, who sought out any and all opportunities for cultural exchange when I was a child, is a secret character here, along with my remarkable mother, who came to America as a refugee and was the wedding gown saleswoman extraordinaire at our family bridal shop.
I could not have done this book without the help of wonderful, inspiring Somali teen readers. It was a privilege to see the experience of growing up in Maine through their eyes. Thank you for sharing your lives and for showing me how strong and resilient kids can be.
Big hugs to my childrenâyes, especially you, Sarahânot only for reading, but for answering every last question I ever have about what a kid in
any
particular situation just might think.
To my brilliant and darling husband, thank you for smiling through it all, or most of it. It was when you liked it, that I finally thought it was good.
And lastly, heartfelt thanks to Mrs. McDonald, my fourth grade teacher at Lake Street Elementary School, who let me stay inside at recess and write.