“Ah, yes.” Her expression brightened. “Everyone’s scared of you, so they sent me here as representative of the team.”
Shock and dread flashed through me.
Scared. The kids were scared of me. I pushed aside how that made me feel. “Well, that’s understandable. Not everyone likes strangers and that video wasn’t the best introduction.”
“I like you, though,” she countered. “I think you’re pretty and I love your clothes. And I don’t think you have a resting witch face, like the rest do.”
I started to scoff but covered it with a cough. “That’s very kind of you, thank you, María.”
“You’re welcome.” María nodded, her smile splitting even wider. “I also think that we don’t really need Mr. Camelback.”
That time I couldn’t muffle my reaction. I snorted. Mr. Camelback. “And why is that?”
“Because you should coach us. Just like I said yesterday. Have you thought about it?”
“Oh.” My shoulders tensed. “No, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll look for a new coach, though.” Josie had said nobody was particularly excited about soccer but there had to be someone in this town who could coach a group of children. I’d do the rest. I’d start with the parents coming to pick up the girls later today. Some had given me a few skeptical glances at drop-off, when they’d discovered Cameron wasn’t around, but Josie had been here to appease them.
“I think it’s the best idea ever,” María insisted. “It won’t be hard for you. Chelsea and I googled you and you work for, like, a real team. Our last coach was Grandpa Moe, and I’m sure you’ll be much better at it than him. He’s fun, but one time he called a corner kick a touchdown when Juniper sent the ball off the field.”
I chewed on that information. No wonder Josie had been so keen on recruiting Cameron. “Is that what the team sent you to ask me?”
“Oh no, they sent me to talk to you about the plan to get Mr. Camomile back, but I think we should boycott the plan and do our own thing. We’ll be… a two-person team. Like Wednesday and Thing. Oh, can I be Wednesday?”
I… “What?”
María’s mouth opened but my phone rang.
“Hold on, this could be Miami.” I fished the device out of my purse and saw my father’s name on the screen. My father never called. Hope flickered in my chest. Maybe they’d realized I was needed in the office. Maybe I wasn’t all that disposable. “María, how about you go back to the girls and do some warm-up drills while I get this? Maybe… make a line with some cones and try to jog the ball between them? I’ll be watching from here.”
She turned around with a cheery “Okay!” and dashed back to the group that had gathered in the middle of the field.
I looked back at the ringing phone for an instant, then picked up.
“Dad—”
“Ay mi, Adalyn,” was immediately bellowed.
“Mom?”
“Adalyn, mi amor, dime que estás bien,” my mother all but screamed into the phone.
I stumbled back into the bleachers. “Mom, what are you doing in Dad’s office?”
“Don’t Mom me,” she warned in that thick accent that she’d never lost. “You know how much I don’t like that. Mom this, Mom that.” A dramatic huff. “That’s all I get after I find out that your father has kidnapped you.”
“Maricela,” I heard my father say in the back. “I haven’t kidnapped her, Jesus. I merely—”
But Maricela Reyes was angry, and when she was, there was one thing you couldn’t bring up.
“Do not bring Jesus into this!” she spat at my father. “Are you telling me you’re not keeping my only daughter somewhere against her will?” she continued, and I swore, I could perfectly see her clutching her chest in outrage. “Es mi única hija, Andrew. Mi sangre. Si mi santa abuela viera esto, nunca te lo perdonaría. Si…”
And so my mother went on and on about how my father didn’t know anything about the real values of blood and family. In Spanish, of course, which was my mother’s default when she was upset.
“Maricela,” my father pleaded on the other side of the line. “English, please. I don’t understand you when you get like that.”
I had to bite back the urge to defend my mother. But after years, I’d learned to stay quiet when they argued like this.
“And whose fault is that, huh?” she spat back. “Maybe if you’d ever made the effort, but no. Nunca. Porque tú…”
And so she went on again.
I exhaled long and deep, blocking out an argument I knew well. This was exactly what my father had wanted to avoid by keeping my mother in the dark. A conflict. One that always managed to find me in the middle, which was why I had agreed to his demand. It didn’t matter that my parents had never been married; on occasions like this, I knew what having divorced parents was like.
“Mom,” I said after a few moments. And when it went unacknowledged, I said, in Spanish, just like she always encouraged me, “Mami, por favor.”
As expected, that got me her attention. “I’m sorry. I just worry about you, Adalyn,” she said, her voice softening and my father immediately forgotten. “Are you okay?”
“Of course I am,” I lied. And because there was no point in burdening my mother with things she couldn’t help with, I added, “I promise. I’m perfectly fine.”
“No mientas, Adalyn.”
Ugh. She knew me too well. “I’m not lying,” I insisted, brightening my tone and feeling like a total fraud. “This is just a work trip.” I had to swallow before continuing, and even that way, my voice wavered. “Everything’s going great and there’s nothing for you to worry about.”
A thick silence followed my statement.
“See?” I heard my father tell her. “She’s okay. She’s also an adult, for crying out loud. You’re smothering her.”
I heard another of my mother’s gasps, followed by rushed steps and a door closing.