The crunch of dry grass echoes beneath the arches of my bare feet. I hold my stance and block off the angle of the closest forward watching him weave through the hopeless defenders. His leg cocks back farther than a regular stride; adrenaline fogs the vision of my surrounding area. The ball in front of him threatens to break my imaginary boundary: the goal, the forward, and my mental arc on the grass. The forward shoots, his naked foot shaking from the impact. I pounce as the ball flies in a perfect arc into the right top-hand corner of the goal, hands making an extension of my body, reaching out. I almost hear the thud that comes from the ball as it was plucked out of the air. The ground greets me with such force I’d be winded, if I wasn’t used to the collision. I was nearly horizontal when I caught the ball, leaving my whole side vulnerable to the harsh ground.
I jump up almost haphazardly as my sweeper comes back to check on me.
“Don’t you get scared when you do stuff like that?” Jack asks. He was my younger brother, and was curious about everything I did in goal. I think for a second.
“If it was the world’s last cookie, would you dive for it?”
He laughs, and then processes the thought. “I see what you mean. Hey, what is it with you and cookies?”
“You got a problem with them yourself?” I punch him on the shoulder and send him up the soccer field. The ball spins in my hands and I see the play lie itself out before me. A straight punt up the middle would get my outside forwards open, leaving the perfect shot opportunity. I send the ball away with a sweep of my foot, watching it pose for imaginary fans in mid-air. It lands right outside the opposing goalie box, but my bare foot throbs from getting it there.
My Mid-Forward traps the ball with his chest and passes it out to the Right-Wing, who chips it into the goalie box right in front of the back left post. The Left-Wing springs into the air and whacks the ball with her head, her ponytail snapping up and hitting the opposing sweeper. The ball makes itself at home in the back corner of the net, where it’s supposed to be, and the goalie looks almost confused from what had happened. He throws off his gloves and runs off the field, shouting some foul things a good-mannered girl shouldn’t repeat.
“Great assist, Joey!” I yell from my safe haven, on the other side of the field, “And the header! Heather! Have you been practicing that?” She waves off my comments and stations herself back at mid field for the kick-off, but Mother called from the back door, postponing the game. The opposing players, being from the other side of the neighborhood, go off and eat at spread-out locations. Some stay at the field and sit under the big Oak tree to rest. Our team was made up of mostly family members, except for Joey and his little sister, who played Right-Wing defense, and his older brother, who played Mid-Forward. We didn’t have any halfbacks on either team: there plain-out weren’t enough kids.
Mother was raised in the South, and like a good-old southern gal she always wore beautiful sun dresses during the summer. Today she had on a flowing yellow one, with roses embroidered in the fabric. Father called it her Texas dress, and he called Mother his “yellow rose of Texas.” Mother always laughed when he said that and even started blushing a little. I never understood the saying, but I guess it meant something awfully nice.
Mother smiled as we trampled the back door. She fanned her face jokingly and said, “You kids smell like sweat! Go wash up before you eat!” She laughed and sent the lot of us to varying bathrooms. Heather and I both ran upstairs to our bathroom. I dropped my gloves in the room we shared before trotting through the hall, peeking into the boy’s room to see what concoction was devouring their floor before washing up.
“Hey, can I borrow your shorts tomorrow?” I ask Heather while I waited for her to wash her hands. My fingers were tangled in my curly hair. I was jealous of Heather’s hair because it was perfectly straight.
“Which ones?”
“The short ones.”
“Jana, they’re shorts. They’re going to be short.” She rolls her eyes at me through the mirror and dries off her hands.
I snort. “You know, the short shorts. The ones you wore last Tuesday?” Heather and I happened to be the same size in everything. I don’t know if it had to do with being twins or not, because we weren’t identical.
“Oh. Those.” Heather laughs but stops herself and looks at me closer. “You’re wearing mascara.”
“Yeah, so?
“You never wear make-up. I bet you like Joey.” She smiles.
“Nu-uh!”
“Uh. Yeah. I can tell. I bet it’s that weird twin telepathy stuff. Plus, he likes you, too.” She winks at me and walks out of the bathroom, strutting off like the prettier sister. Which, inevitably, she was.
I run out after her. “Are you serious?”
“I knew it! You so like him!”
“Wh—“
“Admit it.”
“No.”
“I won’t tell!”
“Fine. I like him. But only a little.” I felt embarrassed to tell that even just to Heather.
“Jana.”
“What?” I snap.
“Seriously. Your secret is safe with me. Pinky promise.”
“Pinky promise,” I repeat, "Now let's go downstairs and eat. I'm starving and I want to get back to playing!"
She laughs, obviously looking forward to teasing me about Joey secretly at the lunch table and the field. "Yeah, sure you do!"
