Defending Irene Read online

  “Giulia, I’m so sorry. I wish I hadn’t asked.”

  “No, no. It is nothing. I’m glad that you asked me. It means you wish to be friends, no? If only you had come earlier, Irene. I had already been the only girl for years. I knew I would never make the traveling team. I am a good player, better than many of the boys who quit before me. But now, it’s not worth the trouble.” She stopped and shook her head. “Maybe I played so long just to annoy Matteo.”

  I snorted.

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  “I know.”

  “I have lost a year, Irene. You will leave next summer, and I would have to quit again.” She paused and tilted her head to the side. “Of course, Matteo would hate it…”

  I let the silence between us lengthen, hoping that she might change her mind. Instead, she closed her eyes and shook her head. “I cannot. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s nothing. Don’t worry yourself. So, now it is my turn to annoy Matteo.”

  Giulia’s shoulders straightened. “Very good! I will come to the games to watch him suffer, and you can come to my volleyball games. Unless…”

  “What?”

  Giulia leaned forward. “Unless you’d like to quit soccer and play volleyball with me. I am learning to play. I am too short to spike or block, but you are tall. That is an advantage in volleyball, no?”

  If I switched to volleyball, it would be an honorable escape from a team that didn’t want me to a team that would. People might smile when I walked into practice instead of wishing I’d go away and never come back. I might lose a year, but I wouldn’t lose all my conditioning. And I was sure that Giulia would be more than happy to kick the soccer ball around with me for fun.

  I found myself staring at her. I could see traces of Emi in her nose and high cheekbones. She had his wavy hair, dark eyes, and warm enthusiasm. Had this been Emi’s plan all along—having his sister tempt me away from soccer with volleyball?

  “No. It can’t be,” I whispered.

  “No?” Giulia asked, frowning.

  What had we been talking about? Height. Volleyball. Advantage. “Er, sí. In volleyball, it is an advantage to be tall. But no, I can’t play volleyball.

  “Mmmmm. I see. Emi told me that you are a good player. Well, enough of soccer. Listen. Let’s go into the center. We’ll eat some ice cream. I know the best place.”

  “Where is it? On the promenade by the theater bridge?”

  “No. Pfff! That one is for tourists. I will bring you to the best. And maybe tomorrow we go to the pool with my friends?”

  “Perfect. No, wait. There’s soccer.”

  “But Irene, the pool is only two steps from the field.”

  “I know. I saw. But I cannot be dead tired for practice.”

  “Ah, sí. You’re right. Then how about the day after tomorrow?”

  “I’ll ask my mom. But without doubt, she will say yes.”

  The next day I thought longingly of the pool as I sat on a wooden bench outside the clubhouse and changed into my cleats. Dead-tired or completely baked: which was worse? My T-shirt was already damp, and I hadn’t done anything more strenuous that day than pedal my bike slowly to practice.

  The calm, hazy air was thick with pollution and humidity. But relief was in sight. Literally. Dark, threatening clouds hid the mountain peaks to our north; but while they shifted and changed shape, they did not move into the valley.

  A herd of sweaty munchkins limped past me. Max’s team of first graders.

  “Look! A girl!” one of them shouted.

  There were plenty of girls who had been dragged along to practice to pick up their brothers, so I assumed by the note of surprise that the kid was pointing me out. I was right.

  “Uaou!” said another. “She plays at soccer with the guys? How strange!”

  “How schifo!” put in a third.

  “True,” said a voice I recognized. “She is my sister.”

  “Really? Poor you!”

  Ha! I love you too, Max, I thought. The next time he wanted me to kick the ball around in the garden I would say no. Or at least make him beg. I glared at my brother from under my eyelashes as I finished tying my shoe. He grinned at me and stuck out his tongue.

  I leaped to my feet and took a step toward him. He bolted, shrieking happily. Most of his teammates dashed after him. But two girls at the end of line moved more slowly, looking up at me in wonder.

  I checked out the glass case on the wall with its collection of schedules and photos. One notice proclaimed that my group, the Esordienti I of Merano, had a game scheduled for this Saturday afternoon. I glanced at the first three names on the list:

  M. D’Andolo

  E. DeChechi

  L. Fornaio

  Matteo, Emi, and Luigi? The goalie and the top two forwards? Naturally, they would be first. I scanned the rest of the list for my name—I. Benenati. It wasn’t there. Not even with the substitutes. I checked again. Nothing. Had I been forgotten or left out on purpose?

  I don’t remember making a noise, but I must have, because Signora Martelli appeared at my elbow. “Ciao, cara. There is a problem?”

  “My name isn’t there,” I whispered, not trusting my voice.

  “Ah.” She nodded. “There are only enough places in the van for fourteen. Thirteen players and the mister.”

  “My papá could bring me.”

  Signora Martelli shook her head. “I’m sorry, but we do not do it like that. This time, it is you who stays. The other times you will go. Everyone plays at home games unless they annoy the mister.”

  “Oh. Uh, thanks.”

  “It’s nothing. Good work, cara,” she said.

  I nodded and faked a smile. I couldn’t complain—much. The plan made sense. I was the newcomer, the foreigner, the girl. Three strikes and I was most definitely out. Not that anyone would have the first clue about softball around here.

  Whump! Somewhere, out of my line of sight, someone’s foot connected with a soccer ball. It had to be one of my teammates. I doubted that any of the munchkins could put that much energy on the ball. I felt like kicking something myself, so I left my blue and white duffle on the bench and trotted down to the field.

  The mister stood with his feet planted on the white line. The mesh bag of soccer balls rested at his feet. His arms were crossed as he studied Luigi, the only player on the field so far. The man nodded at me as I pulled a ball out of the bag. “Irene.”

  I nodded back at him. A “ciao” would have seemed too friendly, and the formal “buona sera,” good afternoon, didn’t seem right for the soccer field.

  I dribbled my ball onto the dirt field while Luigi positioned his at the corner of the penalty area. He took a few steps back before booming it into the goal. I could imagine it sailing just above the gloved hands of a goalkeeper, leaping to attempt a save. Luigi didn’t have the quickness of Emi or Matteo, but he certainly had a good leg.

  I accelerated and charged forward, dribbling the ball at my top speed. A few steps after crossing into the penalty area, I slammed the ball into the goal. Luigi and I both arrived to bend down and pull our balls out of the neon orange netting at the same moment.

  Luigi raised his eyebrows. “You’re here.”

  “Of course. Where else?” I asked lightly, determined not to take offense at his obvious surprise.

  He shrugged. “In the shade. At the pool.”

  My chin dropped in outrage. Did he think I’d skip practice just because a sauna would be a cooler, drier place to work out?

  “Everyone else will arrive at four-thirty on the dot,” Luigi continued calmly before I had a chance to say a word. “Not early. Not late. It’s too hot today.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling foolish. “But you’re here.”

  “Ah, but my papá…” Luigi jerked his head in the direction of the mister. Then he stopped himself. “No, I mean to say, I must work now. I stand around during half the scrimmage.”

  “It’s the same for me,” I observed. “At leas
t you get to stand on the field.”

  Luigi’s lips twitched and then widened to a smile. He opened his mouth, but a roar from the sidelines stopped him.

  “Don’t chatter! Dai, Luigi!”

  I pressed my lips together, annoyed that the mister had yelled at my teammate. Practice hadn’t even started yet. Even worse—and this is going to sound completely stupid—he hadn’t yelled at me. What kind of coach would treat two players so differently? He sounded more like a father yelling at his son. And then it hit me: Fornaio. Luigi Fornaio. The mister was Luigi’s dad. I should have guessed it earlier. Luigi had practically said so. But to me, Luigi had seemed so much more like a fresh wad of Silly Putty than a chip off the old block of granite that I hadn’t been able to see it.

  This was still just a guess, and I had to know for sure. I waited a few minutes before timing my ball to fly into the orange netting a few seconds before that of Luigi’s.

  “The mister is your papá?” I asked Luigi in a voice I hoped would not carry.

  “Of course. This surprises you? Everyone says we are as alike as two drops of water.”

  Not to my eyes.

  I defended myself. “At the first practice, you called him ‘the mister.’”

  Luigi shrugged. “My older brother Renzo did the same. My papá has coached the Esordienti for years. It pleases me to play on his squad finally.” He broke off and pointed. “Look! Here come the others. Like I said: neither early nor late.”

  Eleven boys trotted onto the field. Matteo led the group with an easy loping stride. It hit me again just how gorgeous he was with his black curly hair and eyes of startling blue. The mister dumped half the balls onto the ground and kicked them one after another toward his players.

  The boys raced each other for a chance at the balls, laughing, pushing, and tripping each other. This friendly competition continued between them as we practiced shooting into an unguarded net. But no one touched my ball. It and I could have been invisible except that everyone stayed well out of my way. I felt like a magnet in a school science experiment, repelling rather than attracting the charged metal filings.

  Then, after four or five minutes of this, Emi darted in front of me. With a friendly “Ciao, Irene,” he tackled my ball and made off with it. I grinned.

  Practice was certainly taking on a confusing Alice in Wonderland air. I was happy when someone stole my ball and upset when the coach didn’t yell at me.

  I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. It felt good to have a short rest. My heart pounded in my chest. The same fast beat pulsed in my throat. I took a few deep breaths. One. Two. Three. Luigi was defending the goal now and returning as many balls as possible back to the attackers. I tensed my muscles and made a break for a nearby loose ball.

  Before I could reach it, someone slammed into me, knocking me to the ground.

  6

  Goal (gol)

  Goal

  I pushed myself onto my elbows and blinked. The mister was standing with his back to the field, talking to Signora Martelli. “Excuse me, Irene! I did not see you!” Matteo’s blue eyes were wide with well-faked sincerity. Ah, I thought. While the cat’s away, the mice dance. He held out his hand: an offer of help.

  I wanted to slap it away, but that was exactly what he wanted. And if I ignored him completely, he’d probably like that too. So I took his hand and let him pull me up. He braced his feet and grunted.

  “How strong and kind you are. A thousand thanks,” I murmured, batting my eyelashes for good measure.

  Matteo let go. I was ready for that, so I stayed on my feet instead of falling back into the dirt. He pointedly wiped his hand on his shorts. Afraid of girl germs?

  “This is not a sport for a ragazza here,” Matteo hissed. “Do you want to make us lose?”

  “No, I want to help us win. I am not so terrible.”

  “There are better places to meet boys, you know. No one will fall in love with you here.”

  I put my hand to my heart. “Thank heaven! You have reassured me so much.”

  Matteo muttered something. It sounded like one of the Italian words that Dad had always refused to teach me.

  A whistle sounded, a long blast followed by two short ones. Matteo whirled to face the mister. I half-expected the man to yell at Matteo for chattering, but instead, he spoke to the entire team:

  “Leave the balls and come here.”

  We all did as he ordered except for one boy, who began tapping the abandoned balls into the empty goal as he slowly worked his way toward the mister.

  “Federico! I said leave them!”

  Federico jerked in surprise. His right foot hung in the air above a ball, and he only narrowly managed to stop himself from kicking it. Then, head down, he sprinted to the line forming behind the mister. I tried not to smile.

  Something told me that Federico was as new to the Esordienti team as I was. He was taller than Emi, but there was a suggestion in his rounded face and the way he moved that he was a younger player—a good younger player with lots of promise. Had he been promoted ahead of the others his age?

  We all followed the mister along the sideline at a brisk trot, making a sharp right at the centerline to stay on our half of the field we shared with the other team.

  Practice had just started and I was already hot and tired. It had been impossible to pace myself with Luigi practicing at one hundred percent. I lifted my eyes to the massive cloudbank hiding the mountaintops. It sent out a few shifting

  tentacles, but otherwise, it hadn’t moved. There would be no relief from that direction.

  On our second lap, just as the mister turned the corner toward the opposite goal, a boy dashed down the small hill leading from the clubhouse. He slipped through the gate and onto the field, falling into line two spots ahead of me. He seemed to be trying to sneak onto the field without the mister noticing.

  “Dah-vee-day! Where were you?” someone whispered.

  Davide shook his head. His hair was wet, almost dripping. A scent like that of a freshly cleaned bathroom followed him. I sniffed. Chlorine? Had Davide lost track of time at the pool? His head and shoulders drooped and his steps dragged by the time we finished the fifth lap. Yes, I decided.

  The mister left off the skipping that afternoon, as well as the exhausting dribbling drill. Instead we took turns shooting against an empty net for a while. Then Luigi entered the goal for a new drill.

  The mister called out pairings: Matteo against Emi, Gianlucca against Roberto, and so on. After matching me with Davide, the mister placed the ball on the chalked line surrounding the penalty area and stepped back. Emi and Matteo sat on the ground a few steps away from the centerline with their hands in the air. The whistle sounded. Both scrambled to their feet and pelted toward the ball. Emi had a quicker start, but Matteo won the race to the ball. When he slowed down in order to control it, Emi caught up and tackled, tripping Matteo and sending him somersaulting across the dirt.

  The whistle blew. “Foul, Emi,” the mister called. “A penalty shot for the other team. Too costly.” Then he put the second ball down and blew the whistle for the next pair to come forward. Emi and Matteo trotted to the end of the line.

  I watched as my teammates took their turns. It became clear that whoever reached the ball first would be on offense while the other person became the defender.

  My turn arrived. The whistle sounded. My legs tangled as I scrambled to my feet. Davide beat me to the ball by three strides. Luigi deflected his shot easily.

  As I waited for my next turn, I studied the other players, trying to figure out the best way to get to my feet. Davide braced his hands against his knees and panted.

  Our second turn came. I sat down a few feet away from Davide, my knees bent and my feet flat on the ground. I held up my hands and waited.

  Tweeeet!

  The heels of my hands drove into the ground behind me, pushing me forward. I made it to my feet ahead of Davide and reached the ball first. I would be the forward,
the attacker.

  Luigi positioned himself by the near post, ready to block any shot. In a game, I would have looked to pass the ball. But now I sent the ball slicing across the penalty area. Luigi dove forward, trying to cut it off. He missed. It crossed the white chalked line only inches from the far post.

  Goal!

  Luigi plucked the ball out of the net and flung it to the mister—his father. I could still hardly believe it.

  “Nice shot, Irene!” Emi said as I passed him on my way to the end of the line.

  “Buona notte!” Matteo protested. “Good night! Luigi must be in love with her to let her score like that.”

  “Clearly,” said Matteo’s shadow, Giuseppe. “Irene plus Luigi.”

  “Irene Fornaio,” Davide muttered, giving me Luigi’s last name instead of my own.

  My surge of pride disappeared. Protests flashed down out of my brain and onto my tongue. But I clamped my lips shut. Don’t answer. Don’t answer. Don’t answer. Any reply to that rat could only make things worse.

  I had three more respectable shots on goal, but I still found myself on the sidelines as my teammates lined up on the field for the scrimmage. At least Davide had joined Federico and me, the two newest members of the Esordienti. He lay spread-eagled on the ground nearby, but he sat up at the kickoff as Emi passed the ball to Matteo. The two forwards drove ball down the field.

  “Bello!” Federico said, turning to me. “They play so well. You do too. That surprises me.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I said. Someone else could have turned the same words into an insult, but Federico had all the sincerity, enthusiasm, and grace of a St. Bernard puppy.

  “What class do you frequent?” he asked.

  “The second year of middle school. And you?”