* * *
The football game was as tedious as I expected. I spent most of it sitting behind the Booster Club merch table with Ricky Pizzoli, selling T-shirts and bumper stickers that said Go Larks! and Proud Lark Parent and I Love My Lady Lark. Ricky was a local landscaping magnate, a big man with a white mustache who severely overestimated his own charm. Unfortunately, he was also on the School Board, so I did my best to look interested while he ranted about the humiliating decline of our football program—we were having another terrible season—and the excruciating incompetence of our coach, Skippy Martino. Ricky was a former GMHS football player himself, a proud veteran of the Golden Age, back when Larry Holleran was Head Coach, and Green Meadow was one of the best teams in the state.
“You remember Larry, right?”
“Sure,” I said. “I took over for him when he left.”
Ricky looked puzzled for a moment, but then he did the math.
“That’s right, I forgot he was Assistant Principal. He was always just Coach Holleran to me.” His face got a little dreamy. “I’m telling you, Tracy, he was the most inspiring man I ever knew. Kind of a Vince Lombardi type. No excuses, that was his whole philosophy. You keep your mouth shut and you execute the plan and you win games. It’s not that complicated.” He glared at me, as if I’d suggested that it was, and then heaved a wistful sigh. “Man, I wish we could get him back here. He’d turn this ship around pretty fast, I’ll tell you that.”
“Maybe so,” I said, though it wasn’t very likely. Larry Holleran had left Green Meadow to coach football at a small college in western Pennsylvania, and according to Jack he was loving every minute of it.
“What can you do, though?” Ricky said. “You can’t blame an outstanding guy like that for moving on to bigger and better things.”
“No.” I forced a smile. “I guess you can’t.”
* * *
Still, I was glad I went. A lot of people stopped by the table to say hi and shake my hand, students and alums and parents alike, and they all seemed happy to see me. I chatted briefly with Mayor Milotis, and also with Charisse Turner, the only Black member of the School Board. Jack Weede gave me a thumbs-up, and Kyle Dorfman introduced me to his wife, Marissa.
“Oh, wow,” she said. “The famous Tracy Flick. It’s so nice to finally meet you. You’re a lot younger than I thought.”
She was wearing a long, belted sweater, and her hair was blowing charmingly across her face. I felt a little self-conscious in my oversized GMHS hoodie and no-nonsense ponytail.
“I’m not that young,” I said. “But thank you.”
“Well, you look it,” she assured me. “That’s just as good.”
Kyle and Ricky launched into a jargon-filled analysis of the game, cursing Skippy’s inept defensive strategy, which apparently had something to do with his use of a three-four in situations that called for a four-three, and vice versa. I was glad to see that Marissa was as bored by this as I was. Kyle flashed me a knowing smile.
“Guess you’re not much of a football fan, huh, Tracy?”
“Oh no,” I said quickly. “I love all the sports. It’s just, I’m more of a soccer mom. My daughter plays on Saturdays, so…”
“Good for her.” Kyle nodded at his wife. “Marissa was a soccer player. Varsity midfielder at Pomona.”
“Center mid,” she added, as if this was an important distinction. “But I quit after sophomore year. It was a huge time commitment.”
“Huh.” Ricky gave her a once-over that was more detailed than it needed to be. “I can see that. You’ve got those nice long legs.”
Kyle turned to me. “What about you, Tracy. What sport did you play?”
I hesitated. This was a bit of a sore subject, the only gap in my youthful résumé.
“I wasn’t much of an athlete,” I said. “I did everything else. Clubs and drama and yearbook and Model UN and the school paper. Student Government. That was my big thing.”
“That makes sense.” Ricky smirked, as if he’d suspected as much. “I bet you were President of your class.”
I stiffened a little, the way I always do when men speak to me in a condescending tone.
“The whole school,” I told him. “I was President of Everything.”
I didn’t mean it as a joke, but they all laughed, even Marissa. It must have been the way I said it.
“I ran a few marathons in my early thirties,” I added so they’d know I wasn’t a complete couch potato.
“Boston?” Kyle asked.
“Just New York. And the one up in Newport. I did that twice.”
“Damn, girl.” Marissa offered her fist and I gave it a bump. “That’s pretty badass.”
“What about you?” I asked Kyle. “What did you play?”
He shrugged, like sports weren’t really his thing, either. “Just intramural Ultimate for a couple of years, when I was an undergrad.” He paused, then broke into a sheepish grin. “And not to brag, but I was also three-time Ping-Pong champ of my frat.”
Ricky smirked. “You were in a frat?”
“The nerd frat,” Marissa explained.
“Maybe so,” Kyle admitted. “But those tournaments were intense.”
“I used to be pretty good at Ping-Pong,” I said.
“Huh.” Kyle studied me with fresh interest. “Maybe we should play sometime.”
“Fine with me.”
Ricky glanced at Marissa. “My money’s on Tracy.”
“Mine too,” she said.
“You guys are betting on the wrong horse.” Kyle slashed an imaginary paddle through the air. “I’ve got a wicked serve. She’ll be lucky to score five points.”
“You never know,” I said. “I might surprise you.”
“Nah.” He grinned and looked me straight in the eye. “I’ll crush you, Tracy.”
“Oh my God,” Marissa groaned. “I’m married to a seventh grader.”
A big cheer erupted from the visitors’ side of the stadium. Ricky and Kyle winced in unison.
“You know what our problem is?” Ricky observed. “We have a loser mentality. That’s what Larry Holleran used to say. Losers go out on the field expecting to lose, and they make sure that happens.” He shook his head in disgust. “They’re just fulfilling their own destiny.”
* * *
Sophia and her friend Izzy greeted me at the door, both of them in their red-and-white soccer uniforms, made festive by the addition of Mardi Gras beads. Boomer followed close behind, panting heavily, his entire back end wiggling in frantic welcome, as if it were about to break loose from the rest of his body. I wasn’t crazy about dogs—they seemed unclean to me, and a little pathetic—but Sophia loved Boomer so much I felt obliged to show him some affection. Unaware of my bad faith, he gazed up at me with moist, adoring eyes as I knelt and scratched his neck.
“How’d the game go?” I asked.
“We tied,” Sophia said. “Two to two.”
“Tied?” I averted my face to avoid the dog’s revolting breath. “Don’t they have an overtime or something?”