Get Hooked on a Girl Named Fred...

HE said: Fred Oday is a girl? Puh-leeze. Why is a girl taking my best friend’s spot on the boys’ varsity golf team?

SHE said: Can I seriously do this? Can I join the boys’ team? Everyone will hate me—especially Ryan Berenger.

HE said: Coach expects me to partner with Fred on the green? That is crazy bad. Fred’s got to go—especially now that I can’t get her out of my head. So not happening.

SHE said: Ryan can be nice, when he’s not being a jerk. Like the time he carried my golf bag. But the girl from the rez and the spoiled rich boy from the suburbs? So not happening.

But there’s no denying that things are happening as the girl with the killer swing takes on the boy with the killer smile....

Ryan

The anger behind Seth’s eyes got worse. The blood vessels around his forehead looked freakishly ready to explode. “Some girl named Fred Oday got my spot.”

“A girl?” I was speechless. My eyes narrowed.

“Here’s the best part,” Seth continued, his voice growing raspier. “Coach isn’t even making her try out.” He chuckled darkly. “He handed my spot right to her.” His glassy eyes stared back at me. “Sweet deal, huh?”

I shook my head. Hardly.

I didn’t even know this girl, but I already hated her.

Fred

I’d been in Ryan Berenger’s classes since freshman year, and he picked today to finally acknowledge my existence.

I’d seen him tons of times at the Ahwatukee Golf Club over the summer, too. He and his short stocky blond friend were always speeding by the driving range in a golf cart. Lucky them, they

didn’t have to wait till after five o’clock for the chance to play for free like I did. Ryan could play whenever he wanted.

And now we were teammates. As my brother would say, that was irony.

That would also explain why he’d glared at me in English class and gripped my book as if he wanted to shred it to pieces. Apparently he’d gotten the news that I was on the team, too. What else would make him so angry?

It’s game-on for Fred and Ryan!

Hooked
Liz Fichera

www.miraink.co.uk

For the memory of my mother and father,

Mildred and Joseph F. Fichera

Contents

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Epilogue

Golf Girl Gab

Acknowledgments

When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life so that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice.

—Chief White Elk (Oto Nation)

Chapter 1

Fred

I BELIEVED THAT my ancestors lived among the stars. Whenever I struck a golf ball, sometimes the ball soared so high that I thought they could touch it.

Crazy weird, I know.

But who else could have had a hand in this?

Coach Larry Lannon towered over Dad and me, his shoulders shielding us from the afternoon sun. “So, what’s it gonna be?” he said, his head tilted to one side with hair so blond that clear should be a color. “Are you in?” He paused and then lowered his chin. “Or out?”

I drew in a breath. Even though Coach Lannon had said that I could smack a ball straighter than any of his varsity players at Lone Butte High School, his confidence still rocked me off my feet sometimes. He wanted me on the team. Bad.

“Chances like this don’t happen every day,” he added, and I ached to tell him that they never happened, not to my family. Not in generations.

See, here’s the thing about Coach Lannon. I met him by accident at the end of the summer as I waited for Dad at the Ahwatukee Golf Club driving range. At first I thought he was some kind of golf-course stalker or something. He kept gawking at me as I hit practice balls. It was kind of creepy. I figured he’d never seen an Indian with a golf club.

Anyway, I pretended not to notice and concentrated on my swing. I smacked two buckets of golf balls beside him with my mismatched clubs as if breathing depended on it. After my last ball, Coach Lannon walked straight up into my face and declared that I had the most natural swing he’d ever seen. The compliment shocked me. And when I told him that I was going to be a junior at Lone Butte, one of only a handful from the Gila River Indian Reservation, the man practically leaped into a full-blown Grass Dance.1 He’d been stalking me at the driving range ever since.

Now that school had started, he was making his final pitch to get me to join his team.

“Will you at least come to practice on Monday and give the team a try? Please? If you don’t like it, you’re perfectly free to quit. No questions asked.” Coach Lannon’s lips pressed together as he waited for my answer, although the question was directed mostly at Dad.

From the knot in Dad’s forehead, I could tell he was unconvinced. And the coach didn’t bother hiding his urgency, especially after telling us that he was tired of coaching the worst 5A golf team in Maricopa County. Another losing year and Principal Graser would send him back to teaching high school history full-time, something he didn’t relish. I’d never had a teacher confide something so personal to me like that, not even at the Rez2 school.

Dad pulled his hand over the stubble on his chin, studying Coach Lannon. Deep red-and-black dirt outlined each of his fingernails and filled the crevices across his knuckles, one of the consequences of being the golf club’s groundskeeper. “I don’t know,” Dad said in his lightly accented tones.

Coach Lannon leaned down to hear him.

“Is it expensive?” Dad asked.

“Won’t cost you a thing,” the coach said quickly.

“But how will she get to the tournaments? We only have one car.”

“A bus takes the team. There and back. I can drive her home, if it’s a problem.”

“Are the tournaments local?”

“All except one, but don’t worry about that. I’ll have her back the same day.”

Dad exhaled long enough for Coach Lannon’s eyes to widen with fresh anxiety.

“I’d look after Fred like she was my own daughter,” the coach blurted out. “I’ve got three of my own, so I know how you feel.”

I sucked in another breath as I waited for Dad’s answer. I knew that he wasn’t fond of me traveling off the Rez. The daily trip to the high school was far enough, and not just in miles. He’d agreed to Lone Butte only because our tribe didn’t have a local high school.

After another excruciatingly long pause, Dad said, “I guess when it comes right down to it, the decision isn’t mine. It belongs to her.” He turned to me and placed a steadying hand on my shoulder.

I exhaled.

Dad’s forehead lowered, and he looked at me squarely with eyes that were almond-shaped echoes of mine. “It’s time you made up your mind, Fredricka. Is this what you want?”

I cringed at my old-lady name, but as quickly as it took me to blink, I answered Dad with the lift of my chin. Coach Lannon had said that there’d be a chance I could get a college scholarship if I played well for the team. He said college recruiters from some of the biggest universities attended high school golf tournaments flashing full tuition rides for the best players. No one in my family had ever gone to college. No one even uttered the word. How could I refuse? I only hoped Coach Lannon understood the power of his promises. I wanted college as badly as he wanted me on his team, probably more.

Only a few silent seconds hung between us, but it seemed another eternity. This was the moment I’d been waiting for these past few weeks—my whole life, really. I’d been hoping for something different to happen, something special.

There was only one answer.

“I’ll be there on Monday. I’ll join your team.”

Coach Lannon’s shoulders caved forward, and for a moment I thought he’d collapse into Dad’s arms. He’d probably wondered whether I had the courage to join an all-boys’ team, and why shouldn’t he? It wouldn’t be easy for anybody, least of all a Native American girl from the other side of Pecos Road and the first girl to join the Lone Butte High School golf team.

Before I could change my mind, Coach Lannon extended his beefy hand.

I placed mine in his and watched my fingers disappear.

“We’ll all look forward to seeing you on Monday after school, Fred. Don’t forget your clubs.” Coach Lannon turned to Dad. “Hank?” He extended his hand, along with a relieved grin. “You’ve got quite a daughter. She’s got one heck of a golf swing. She’ll make you proud.” He smiled at me, and my eyes lowered at another compliment.

Dad nodded, but his smile was cautious. He was still uncomfortable with me competing with boys, especially a bunch of white boys, the kind who grew up in big fancy houses with parents who belonged to country clubs. That was why it had taken me two weeks to mention it to him.

But Coach Lannon had explained that there wasn’t enough interest in a girls’ golf team. “Maybe there’ll be a girls’ team next year,” he’d said. “Or the next.” Except by that time I’d be long gone. It was the boys’ team for me or nothing.

And Dad knew me better than anyone. When I’d finally told him, I hadn’t been able to hide my excitement. It would have been easier to hide the moon. Truth be told, it had surprised him. He’d never dreamed that I’d love golf like breathing; he’d never dreamed I’d become so good.

Neither had I.

Fortunately, Dad never had the heart to say no to his only daughter.

“Happy?” he said after the coach disappeared down the cart path, leaving the air a little easier to breathe.

I nodded, my eyes still soaking in the attention. I was beginning to kind of like Coach Lannon. He was okay, for a teacher.

“Good,” he said. “Then I’m happy, too. For you.”

Still dizzy from my decision, I nodded.

Dad sighed at me and smiled. Then he picked up my golf bag, one of his many garage-sale purchases last summer, along with my clubs. The red plaid fabric was torn around the pockets and the rubber bottom was scuffed, but it held all fourteen of my irons and drivers with room to spare. Dad had told me yesterday that he’d try to buy me a new one, but between his job and Mom’s waitressing, there wasn’t a lot of money for extras. And the plaid bag worked just fine.

“Come on, Fred,” Dad said, threading the bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go home and tell your mother. We’re late. She’ll be worried.”

“Uh-huh,” I replied absently as I smashed one last golf ball across the range with my driver. The ball cracked against the club’s face and made the perfect ping. It rose above us like a comet before it sailed high into the clouds.

Thank you, I said silently to the sky, shielding my eyes from the setting sun with my left hand. I waited for the sky to release the ball. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, I chanted to myself like a kid gauging a thunderstorm. The ball hung in the air an extra second before it dropped into the grass and rolled over a ridge.

And that’s when I knew.

My ancestors heard me. I imagined that they asked the wind to whisper, You are most welcome, Daughter of the River People. I was as certain of their loving hands on my destiny as I was of my own name.

* * *

We drove south on the I-10 freeway to the Gila River Indian Reservation in our gray van that was still a deep green in a few spots on the hood. Despite the peeling paint, it ran most of the time. Somehow Dad always found a way to make sure it got us to school and work and then back home.

Home was Pee-Posh, at the foot of the Estrella Mountains where the earth was as dark as my skin. That’s where we lived; that’s where my grandparents had lived and my great-grandparents before them. To reach it, we had to drive for miles along narrow roads with no stoplights, over bumpy desert washes dotted with towering saguaros and tumbleweeds that scattered across the road whenever it got windy. Most days, I wished Dad would keep driving, especially on the days when Mom started drinking.

“Maybe we shouldn’t tell her that I joined the team. Not yet anyway,” I said to Dad without turning. My bare arm folded across the open window as the air tickled my face. I closed my eyes and pretended that the wind was a boy kissing my cheeks. When Dad didn’t answer, I opened my eyes and sighed. “Let’s wait a while. A week, maybe.” Good news only stoked Mom’s bitterness, especially after a few beers.

“You sure?” A frown fell over his voice.

“Positive. Please don’t say anything.”

He smacked his lips, considering this. “If that’s what you want,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe waiting a week is wise. By then we’ll see if you still like being on the team. You could always change your mind—”

“I won’t,” I interrupted him, turning. How could he even suggest it? “Why? You think I’ll fail?”

“Hardly.” Dad turned his head a fraction. “That’s not what I said.”

“You don’t think I’m good enough?”

He chuckled. “Now you’re being foolish. Of course I think you’re good enough. I just don’t want...” His lips pressed together, holding in his words.

“Don’t want what?”

He inhaled. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up and then be disappointed. That’s all. You’ve never played on a team before. And that coach, the boys you’ll play with—well, their ways are different than ours.”

I frowned at him. Of course I know that, I wanted to tell him. But I hated when Dad talked about the old ways. They sounded primitive. And hadn’t I already survived two years of high school?

“Don’t doubt me, Fred. You’ll learn soon enough.”

I turned back to the open window and lowered my chin so that it rested on my arm, considering this. It was true. He had a point. Sort of. I’d never played team sports. I’d never played much of anything; that was part of my problem. “Let’s just not tell Mom, yet. Okay?” I said without turning.

Dad sighed, just as tiredly. “Okay, my daughter. We’ll do as you wish.”

My brow softened with an unspoken apology for being curt, but there was no need. With Dad, forgiveness began the moment the wrong words left my lips. So I smiled at him. But my happiness faded as soon as we drove up the two narrow dirt grooves that led to the front of our double-wide trailer.

Our nearest neighbor lived a half mile away, which is to say that most days it felt like we were the only ones on the planet.

Two black Labs circled the van and started barking as Dad parked under a blue tarp alongside the house. The engine sputtered for a few seconds after the ignition turned off, and then the desert was quiet again except for the doves in the paloverde tree next to the trailer. They cooed like chickens.

Mom sat outside in the front yard on a white plastic chair. Her legs were crossed, and her right leg pumped up and down like it was keeping time. She had a silver beer can in one hand and another crushed next to her chair. “Where’ve you two been?” she yelled. Her words slurred, but there was still enough of a smile in her voice for my shoulders to relax a fraction.

Mom was still in the happy stage of her inebriation. But the happy stage usually morphed into the overly talkative stage, which then blended into the argumentative stage where she brought up a laundry list of regrets, like having gotten pregnant so young or earning a living waiting on stingy rich white people at the Wild Horse Restaurant at the Rez casino. “You’d think a five-star restaurant would attract a better class of people,” she’d complained a thousand times. And that’s exactly when I’d wish that I could disappear into the sky like one of my golf balls. I’d fly high into the clouds and never come back.

“Had to work late,” Dad said. His tone was cautious, like slow fingers checking the wires of a time bomb. “I brought dinner, though.” He raised a box of fried chicken in the air.

“Good.” Mom grinned. “After the day I had, I don’t feel like cooking.” She lifted her hands, spilling some of her beer, revealing splotchy fingers that had spent most of the day juggling hot plates.

Dad bent over to kiss her cheek before turning for the front door, and for a moment the corners of Mom’s eyes softened. “Just need to take a quick shower.” He reached for the torn screen door. It creaked whenever it opened. “I feel like I’m covered in golf course.”

Mom laughed and my throat tightened. Mom used to laugh a lot more. Everybody did.

Then Mom took a long swig from her shiny beer can before resting her narrowed eyes on me. Her head began to bob. “So, Freddy, tell me something that happened today. One happy thing.” She framed it like a challenge, as if answering was statistically impossible. A second beer can crunched underneath her sandal while she waited for my answer.

My mind raced. I sat in the plastic chair across from her and wondered how long it would be before I could retreat to the safety of my bedroom, if you could call it that. My room barely fit a twin bed and nightstand, but at least I didn’t have to sleep on the pull-out sofa in the living room like my older brother, Trevor. “Well,” I said, dragging my tongue across my lips to stall for time. There was no easy way to answer her question. I’d lose no matter what. “I got an A on a social-studies pop quiz today,” I said finally.

“Social studies?” Mom’s wet lips pulled back. She stared at me like I’d grown a third eye. Then she reached inside her blue cooler for another beer. “Who needs social studies? What exactly is that anyway? Social studies?” Her words ran into each other. “How’s that going to help you pay for your own trailer?”

My jaw clenched as I coaxed my breathing to slow. I knew this was only Mom’s warm-up, and I wouldn’t be dragged into it, not today. It wasn’t every day a high school coach begged you to join his team. I only hoped that Mom would drink the rest of her six-pack and pass out like she always did. Then I could practice next to the house where Dad had built me a putting green with carpet samples from the dump.

“I’m not real sure,” I said. “Anyway, it’s not that important.” I certainly wouldn’t share that I’d earned the highest score. That would only make the night more painful, especially for Dad, and I often wondered how much more he could take. He’d left us once, two years ago, and that had been the worst three months of my life.

Mom jabbed her third beer can at me, and a few foamy drops trickled down her fingers. “Don’t lie to me, girl.” Her face tightened into the mother I didn’t recognize. “I can always tell when you’re lying.” Her dark eyes narrowed to tiny slits as she peered at me over her beer can.

“I’m not. Really.” I rose from my chair, my toes pointed toward the trailer, anxious to be inside. “You want me to get you anything?” My voice turned higher. “I’ll heat up the chicken.”

Mom sighed heavily, slurped from her can and let her head drop back. She stared up at a purplish-blue sky where stars had begun to poke out like lost diamonds. The beer can crinkled in her hand. “No,” she said. “Just leave me alone. Everybody, just leave me the hell alone.”

I climbed the two concrete steps to the front door, biting my lower lip to keep from screaming. Even though we were surrounded by endless acres of open desert, sometimes it seemed like I lived in a soap bubble that was always ready to pop.

“Hey, Fred,” Mom said, stopping me.

I gripped the silver handle on the screen door and turned sideways to look at her.

“They’re short a couple of bussers at the restaurant. Wanna work tomorrow night?”

My jaw softened. “Sure. I need the money.” I’d been saving up for a new pair of golf shoes. A little more tip money and I’d have enough. And, thanks to Coach Lannon, I now had a reason to own a real pair.

Mom smiled and nodded her head back like she was trying to keep herself from falling asleep in her chair. “Good girl,” she slurred. “You’ll want to make sure the chef likes you so you’ll have a job there when you graduate.”

I bit the inside of my lip again till it stung. Then I quickly opened the door wider and darted inside. The screen door snapped shut behind me.

* * *

A crescent moon hung in the sky by the time Trevor coasted his motorcycle down our dirt driveway. Low and deep like a coyote’s growl, the engine blended with the desert. I knew it was Trevor because he always shut off the front headlights the closer he got to the trailer. Less chance of waking anyone, even the dogs.

I waited for him on the putting green. With my rusty putter, I sank golf balls into the plastic cups that Dad had wedged into the carpet samples. Dad had even nailed skinny, foot-high red flags into each of the ten cups to make it look authentic. The homemade putting green wasn’t exactly regulation, but it was better than nothing, and he had been so excited to surprise me with it for my birthday last year. The moon, along with the kitchen light over the sink from inside the house, provided just enough of a glow over six of the twelve holes.

“Hey, Freddy,” Trevor said after parking his bike next to the van. The Labs trailed on either side of him, panting excitedly.

“Hey, yourself,” I said after sinking another putt, this time into a hole near the edge that I couldn’t see. I liked the hollow sound the ball made every time it found the edges of the cup. It was strangely comforting. And predictable. The ball swirled against the plastic like it was trapped before resting at the bottom with a satisfied clunk. “How was work?”

“Oh, you know, same shit, different day.” Trevor’s usual reply.

I smirked at his answer. I should be used to it by now, but a small part of me wished that once, just once, he’d surprise me with something different. Something better. Something that could take my breath away.

Trevor worked at a gas station in Casa Grande off the Interstate doing minor car repairs like fixing tires and replacing batteries when he wasn’t making change for the never-ending cigarette and liquor purchases. His long fingers ran through the sides of his thick black hair as he waited for me to pull back my club for the next putt. His hair hung past his shoulders, all knotty and wild from his ride. If he wasn’t my brother, I’d have to say that he looked like one scary Indian.

“When are you going to quit that job?” I looked up at him.

“And do what?” He chuckled but not in a sarcastic way.

“I don’t know,” I said, purposely casual. I struck the ball and looked at him. “Go back to school, maybe?” I walked over to the cup and reached inside for the ball. “You always said you wanted to open up a repair shop one day.”

“Don’t need school for that, Fred.” He sat on the edge of the carpet, stretching out his legs and crossing them at the ankles.

“Wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yeah, well, when I win the lottery, I’ll let you know.” He looked up at the kitchen window and lowered his voice. “Don’t worry, you’ll find out soon enough.”

I swallowed. I worked hard not to picture the future at all. I couldn’t imagine working at the gas station, the restaurant or even the Indian casino for the rest of my life. Whenever I did, it felt like someone pressing on my chest with both hands.

“Mom?” Trevor said.

“Asleep. Finally.” I laid down my putter and sat next to him, pulling my bare knees into my chest. “So’s Dad. I think.”

“Bad night?”

My shoulders shrugged. “Same shit, different day,” I said, regretting it instantly. I hated swearing. My chin dropped to my knees.

“You don’t mean that, Fred.” Trevor placed his arm across my shoulder and pulled me closer. “You really don’t want to let yourself get angry. Because once you start, it’s hard to stop.” His voice turned softer. “Look what it’s done to Mom.”

My eyes closed as I sank deeper into the corner of his arm. His shirt smelled like grease and cigarette smoke, but I didn’t care.

“And just remember,” Trevor said, “it hasn’t always been like this.”

“It’s getting harder to remember when it wasn’t.”

He pulled me closer, and together we stared up at the stars. There were so many filling the sky that there didn’t seem to be enough room for the moon.

“Are you staying home tonight?” I lowered my chin to my knees again. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote howled, and both Labs lifted their snouts from their paws long enough to grumble.

“Nope.” He stroked the smooth coat of the black Lab next to him. “Just gonna go inside for a quick shower and change.”

“Where to tonight?”

“Not sure. There’s a party in the Estrellas—”

“Take me?” I interrupted, sucking in a breath.

“No way. You’re too young.” His stock answer. In Trevor’s mind, I was perpetually ten years old.

“Am not.” I frowned. “I’m sixteen.”

“Forget it, Fred. You can’t come. This crowd isn’t for you.”

“What crowd is?”

“Not this one.”

“Killjoy.” I lightly punched my fist against his chest. I never went to parties. I never got invited to any either. It was depressing, really. “Will you come home after that?” My tone remained hopeful.

“I’ll probably head over to Ruth’s. Haven’t seen her in a couple of days.” Ruth was Trevor’s girlfriend. They’d been dating for almost a year, but Ruth lived on the other side of the Rez near Coolidge. Between Trevor’s job and Ruth’s night shifts at the Walmart, they didn’t see each other very often.

“How about tomorrow?” My eyebrows pulled together as I felt the weekend sinking away. I was probably the only teenager in all of Phoenix who counted down the hours till Monday mornings.

Trevor’s eyes squinted into the darkness. “Not sure.”

“Oh.” I swallowed back more disappointment. Home was always way more fun when Trevor was around. The air inside the trailer felt lighter. Mom didn’t snap at everyone as much, probably because Trevor was always making her laugh, knowing exactly when to lift her spirits right before they threatened to nosedive.

“Don’t worry, Freddy. I’ll be back Sunday. Monday at the latest.”

With a heavy sigh, I lifted off his shoulder and padded across the carpet to where I’d left my putter and golf ball. I placed the ball about six feet away from the nearest cup. I could barely see the hole, but I gripped the club handle, right hand over left, and pulled back the club just enough before hearing the satisfying plunk inside the cup. I smiled when it hit bottom.

“Good shot,” Trevor said, standing. “Hey. How’d it go today with Lannon?” Trevor was the first person I’d told about the coach’s offer to join the team, even before Dad. But I hadn’t told Trevor the whole story.

“He asked me to be on the team,” I said with mock disinterest. “And I accepted.”

“No kidding?” His teeth glistened in the moonlight. “That’s great. Congrats.”

“There’s just one catch,” I said as I sank another putt.

“What?” He laughed. “He didn’t dig your groovilicious golf bag or something?”

I ignored his jab. “I’m on the team.” I paused, making him wait. “It’s just that I’m officially on the boys’ varsity team.”

Silence.

Trevor’s neck pulled back. In the soft glow, I watched the whites of his eyes grow dangerously wide. If he hadn’t been certifiably scary-Indian-looking before, he was now.

I lowered my gaze, focusing on the ball.

“Um, Freddy, did you say the boys’ team?”

“Yep,” I said, popping the p. “Lone Butte doesn’t have a girls’ team.”

He scratched the side of his head, considering this. “I don’t know, Fredders. A boys’ team? A bunch of spoiled, rich white boys? That doesn’t sound...”

“What?” I prodded.

“Normal,” he blurted finally.

My voice got louder. “Why not?”

His voice got louder. “Because the boys there ain’t gonna like it.”

“And why not?”

He stepped closer, his hands jammed in his front jean pockets. “Because that means you’re taking someone’s spot, someone who’ll think he deserves it more than you.”

Air sputtered through my lips. “Well, that’s just stupid,” I said. “What’ll it matter, if we win tournaments? The coach told me I was probably the best player on his team.”

Trevor chuckled as his chin pulled closer to his neck. “Oh, great. He told you that, too? Believe me, Freddy. It’ll matter. It’ll matter to someone.”

I swallowed hard but said nothing. Till now, I’d never thought that I’d be taking someone else’s spot. I’d thought Coach Lannon had merely created a new one. He was the coach, after all. Couldn’t he do such things?

“You’re being paranoid,” I said finally.

“Am I?” His doubtful tone caused a line of goose bumps to fly up my neck. “Just be careful,” he said before turning toward the front door. “You’re gonna need to watch your back. Stick close to the other kids from the Rez when you’re at school, at least at first.”

“That might be kind of hard. Not to mention freaky.” There were only seven Rez kids in my entire school, four boys and three girls, including me. Kelly Oliver and Yolanda Studi were both seniors. Kelly was the only other person I’d ever heard utter the word college, mostly because she wanted to become a nurse. Yolanda was her cousin and best friend, and I was pretty sure Kelly was the only reason she hadn’t dropped out. Yolanda had a mouth and attitude worse than my mother. Then there were Sam Tracy, Peter Begay, Martin Ellis and Vernon Parker. Vernon was a freshman, skinny and quiet as a saguaro; Martin was a sophomore; and Sam and Peter were my age. Sam was big enough to play football, but he had no desire to be on the Lone Butte team. Like most of my people, there were trust issues with anyone off the Rez that ran so deep I couldn’t begin to understand where the puzzle pieces started and where they ended.

I’d known these Rez kids my whole life; they were like family, even if we rarely hung out. They all lived miles away from our trailer. But just like family, whenever we bumped into each other, like in the school hallways or sometimes in the cafeteria, our conversations pretty much continued where we’d left off, whether it had been a day, a month or even six months.

“Just promise me you’ll stick close to them. Will you do that, Fred?” Trevor said again.

I nodded reluctantly, not because I didn’t love my friends, but because I certainly didn’t need any babysitters. “Turn the light out for me? In the kitchen?”

“Why?” he said, opening the screen door.

“I want to make sure I can sink putts with my eyes closed.”

“You’re possessed.” He chuckled again.

“Maybe,” I murmured but not loud enough for him to hear.

I swung my club back just below my waist and waited for the whirling noise of the ball against the plastic rim. It spun around and around before it finally settled in the bottom of the cup.

I could sink putts all night.

1 A Native American ceremonial dance expressing harmony with the Universe.

2 Rez is short for Reservation. It’s what all the cool Indian kids say. I try to be cool when I can.

Chapter 2

Ryan

“DUDE, WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU been?”

I ran to Seth’s silver pickup and threw open the passenger door before the truck had a chance to stop.

Seth slammed the brake, and the truck lurched forward. Under the dim glow of the dome light, his grayish-blue eyes narrowed as he glared at me. “What are you, my mother?”

Friday night was definitely off to a bad start.

I was already fighting with my best friend, and I hadn’t even jumped in his truck yet.

I shook my head and climbed in anyway, slamming the door. My heart was racing a million miles a minute. “Just blow,” I told Seth, sinking lower into my seat and not bothering with the seat belt.

“Okay, man. Whatever.” Seth shifted the gear. “We’re outta here.”

Just hearing those words lightened my shoulders.

The tires screeched across our circular driveway and then straightened toward Pecos Road. The front end almost took out a saguaro near the mailbox next to the street, but Seth didn’t lift his foot from the accelerator for a second. He always drove crazy that way. Crazy Seth. Even crazier than me.

Seth didn’t bother asking me what was wrong either. He already knew. “Where to?”

“Anywhere.” I pulled my baseball cap lower on my head.

“Fisher is having a ripper. His parents are in Hawaii.” Seth’s eyebrows wiggled.

The night was improving exponentially.

“Some of the girls from pom team were invited, too.” He shot me a sideways glance. “Maybe even Gwyneth...” His voice trailed off in a grin.

The corner of my mouth turned up in a careful smile.

Gwyneth Riordan had been hot for me since the eighth grade. Don’t ask me why, but I’d have had to have been blind not to notice and crazy not to want her. I was a little of both. We usually hooked up on the weekends and had become a couple by default.

“Beer?” I breathed easier the farther we got from my street.

“Some.” Seth’s head tilted toward the backseat. I turned and spied a brown bag. He could always swipe a six-pack from his stepdad’s stash unnoticed. “Where’s yours?”

“My dad was home,” I grumbled, remembering that my original plans for tomorrow night were now officially deep-sixed. “I couldn’t chance it. But I need something stronger.”

Seth pulled a hand over his chin, considering. “Like what?” he said carefully.

“Anything.”

“You got cheddar?” It really wasn’t a question.

I tapped the pocket to my jean jacket that held the four fifties from Dad. He expected me to buy a birthday present for Mom’s party tomorrow night. “Plenty,” I said, staring into the darkness. All I could see was my angry reflection in the passenger window. It glowed an eerie green from the dashboard lights. I opened the window and leaned my arm along the frame, inhaling a gush of fresh air. Warm wind billowed into the front seat, almost knocking off my cap. Black as oil, the Gila River Indian Reservation stretched across the right side of the four-lane road, with Pecos Road the clear dividing line. Even when I squinted, I couldn’t see a single spec of light anywhere—not a porch light, headlight, even a firefly. It was like squinting at the edge of the world. When I was a kid, I’d wondered if anyone lived beyond Pecos Road. Sometimes I still did.

I’d been on the reservation twice in my entire life. One time with Seth to buy beer and cigarettes with our fake IDs at a gas station near Casa Grande, the other time on a school field trip in the fourth grade to spend the day with reservation kids. It had felt like the bus had driven us into the middle of the desert. Tumbleweeds had bounced across the road like lost brown beach balls. Where are all the houses? I remembered wondering. The parks? The malls? The people? When we’d finally arrived at their school, which was one big musty-smelling room with desks pushed to the edges, we’d sat on the floor in a circle, our legs crossed, and listened to an old man. He must have been at least one thousand years old, with braids that stretched down to his knees and skin with more wrinkles and folds than I could count. He’d talked as softly as a whisper, telling us crazy stories about coyotes and stars. I’d sort of half listened, peering around the room at the reservation kids, who’d numbered half as many as the ones in my class. With jet-black hair and eyes to match, they’d all looked alike and fidgeted just as uncomfortably as we had—all except one girl with ponytails high above her ears. She’d sat across from me. When our gazes had met, her eyes had sparkled like marbles. She’d smiled at me, revealing a gap between her two front teeth, but the grin had lasted only an instant. The girl with the shiny ponytails had never given me a chance to smile back.

“Let’s make a stop in Chandler. I hear Grady’s selling,” Seth said.

I blinked. “Cool.” Then I closed my eyes and filled my lungs with more desert air as Seth cranked the stereo to something with plenty of electric guitar. We flew all the way to the Interstate with the reservation right beside us, still and endless. It felt like driving straight into the sky.

When we reached the light before the freeway on-ramp, Seth pulled up alongside a big dude on a motorcycle. The guy was dressed all in black like he was freaking Zorro or something. We were the only vehicles waiting for the green. This light always took forever to change.

“Let’s have some fun,” Seth said, turning down the stereo.

“Don’t—” I said, but I was too late.

With one arm draped over the steering wheel, Seth lowered his head to peer out the passenger window and yelled, “Nice leather!”

The guy turned, the whites of his eyes widening with surprise. Black hair blended with his jacket and hung down to the middle of his back. First he looked at Seth. But then, with his nostrils flaring, he glared at me.

My heart began to hammer against my chest. I spoke through clenched teeth, “Don’t do anything, Seth.”

Seth revved the truck engine anyway.

Biker Guy shook his head like we were both idiots. After a few agonizing seconds, he pulled back on the throttle. The motorcycle roared one hundred times louder than Seth’s engine.

There was only one thing left to do.

The light turned green and Seth and Biker Guy jumped on their accelerators, tires squealing, racing toward the freeway.

Seth let out his maniacal laugh, the one that meant we were headed for nothing but crazy trouble and I would end up regretting it the most.

I braced my arm against the door as the truck picked up speed. “Don’t!” I yelled into the wind. “Don’t race this guy!” The last time we’d road-raced a guy from school, Seth had almost flipped the truck.

Still laughing, Seth replied by cranking the stereo. The bass competed with my pounding temples.

As the lanes merged from two into one, Seth ground the accelerator to the floor. Blue-and-white smoke billowed around our windows in angry circles.

The front of the truck stayed even with the motorcycle. One heartbeat later, Seth flew the truck past Biker Guy, pinching him off. On purpose. Biker Guy had to swerve into the emergency lane to avoid getting clipped, but not before glaring one last time at our truck, his gaze settling squarely on me.

“Dumb Indian!” Seth yelled, even though the wind and the stereo drowned out his voice. “Nothing can beat my truck!” He slapped the steering wheel with both hands.

I turned to Seth, breathing like I’d just run a marathon, and shook my head.

He mouthed, What?

“You’re freakin’ crazy!”

He kept grinning, the green lights from the dashboard glinting in his eyes. “I told you we were gonna rock tonight!” He offered me a fist bump.

I ignored it. But then a smile slowly built across my face when I looked in the rearview mirror and saw Biker Guy stopped on the side of the road, the front tire of his motorcycle still spewing gray smoke. He was giving us the finger. For some reason, I thrust my hand out the window and returned the gesture, maybe because I was mad at him for challenging Seth, mad at the whole world for simply existing or just relieved that we’d never see Biker Guy again.

Mostly I was glad no one had wound up in the hospital.

My head was spinning and my lips were feeling rubbery when someone at Zack Fisher’s party mentioned something about Coach Lannon.

My ears began to function, even though Gwyneth Riordan was sitting in my lap, grinding against my crotch. She had been saying something about renting a houseboat at Lake Havasu for spring break. “We just need your parents’ credit card for the deposit,” she said after getting me so hot that I would have gladly stolen all of Dad’s credit cards and given them to her.

Three of my teammates from the Lone Butte High School golf team and their girlfriends were crashed around a glass table in Zack’s backyard next to the swimming pool. Music blared from hidden speakers in the corners of the patio, and the pool lights cast a wavy glow across everyone’s faces. I had to blink a few times to focus.

“Coach said he was going to make a big change to the team on Monday,” Zack yelled over the music as he chugged from his beer can. The table was littered with gold-and-silver cans and empty bags of potato chips. Zack crushed his can underneath his foot and tossed it with the empties. “Didn’t say what, though. But that’s what I heard.”

Zack was an okay dude, but he was always hearing things; most of the time he got it wrong.

“Who said that? Who said he was making a change?” I leaned forward, pushing Gwyneth’s legs to one side, struggling to stop seeing double. Gwyneth pouted, but golf was one of the few things at school that mattered to me. The team had struggled last year, and this year we expected to do better. We had to. Every varsity team at Lone Butte except ours had won a state championship—football, basketball, wrestling, even fencing. Who fences?! Anyway, we wanted our trophy in the glass case at the front of the school with all the others. And Principal Graser wasn’t exactly shy about pointing out its absence at assemblies.

“Walesa said so. He overheard Coach talking to another teacher during gym class.”

“When?” Seth asked, sitting straighter.

“Friday morning,” Zack said.

“When will he tell us?” My lips sputtered as I tried to release a strand of Gwyneth’s blond hair from the side of my mouth.

“Monday after school, I think,” Zack said. “Maybe he’s made some changes to the schedule. Maybe we’re in more tournaments this year or something.” His shoulders shrugged like it was probably nothing major.

I leaned back against my chair. I turned to Seth, who also gave me a shoulder shrug as if to say, Hey, it’s no big deal. And then he smirked and nodded toward Zack. Consider the source, he mouthed.

Gwyneth turned herself around in my lap, eager for more attention. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed her glossy lips against mine. She tasted like candy. Her hair cascaded over my shoulder, invading my nostrils with strawberry.

My nose wrinkled. It felt as if I could suffocate from the sweetness in her hair, but I pulled her closer, searching for her tongue with mine. She wanted me, and I guessed I wanted her, too.

Tomorrow I wouldn’t remember a single thing anyway.

* * *

Saturday night, all available bussers and waitresses at the Wild Horse Restaurant, along with a gray-haired guy on a sad-sounding wooden flute, sang a Native American birthday song to Mom for her fortieth birthday, even though she’d begged everybody not to. The song seemed better suited to a funeral than a birthday. No one in my family understood the lyrics either, the words sounding more like grunts and heavy exhales.

Dad grinned uncomfortably at the six-person wait team who’d tended our table all evening, clearing dozens of white porcelain plates and soup bowls, filling crystal water goblets whenever they drained only a fraction, scraping crumbs from the linen tablecloth with razor-blade knives. My younger sister, Riley, and I sank lower in our chairs while everyone else in the packed restaurant interrupted their five-course dinners of grilled venison and mackerel salads and turned to stare at our round table smack-dab in the middle of the floor. The only thing missing was a strobe light pulsating above us as we watched the presentation of a six-layer, custom-made mesquite-honey mousse cake. It was pure torture.

I tried to tune out the misery by picturing the cheeseburger and fries that Riley and I would scarf down as soon as we got home and ditched Mom and Dad for the nearest Burger King. The sooner this nightmare dinner was over, the better.

Mom beamed at her cake, pressed her hands against the base of her neck where her birthday present rested, mouthed I love you to Dad and then blew out the half-dozen candles in the middle of the cake. “Thank you for not ruining this gorgeous cake with forty candles,” she told the waitress, a thin woman with black hair and matching eyes. Her twisted bun was pulled back so tightly that it raised her smooth cheekbones. Like the rest of the restaurant staff, she wore black pants and a long-sleeved white shirt. The only color she sported was a teal-blue silk sash threaded through her belt loops. The real colors, the menu boasted, should unfold on your plates and through the restaurant windows where you can see uninterrupted desert all the way to the Estrella Mountains.

Riley had laughed when I’d read it aloud to her with a haughty English accent, and Mom had frowned from across the table, but, you had to admit, it sounded cheesy.

The waitress cut the cake in four equally huge slices and placed each slice on a microscopically small plate even though the only one who’d eat it was Mom. As the waitress cut each piece, she handed the plate to a younger girl, the same one who’d kept dropping things all night—the rolls from the bread basket, the extra soup spoon Dad requested, ice cubes from the water pitcher that crashed down into our glasses whenever she poured. I wondered why our waitress didn’t simply banish her someplace else. She was definitely not waitress material. Even I could see that, hungover or not.

The girl’s eyes remained lowered as she used both hands to deliver a dessert plate to each of us. Everything proceeded smoothly until she delivered the last piece.

Mine.

Her eyes rose and flickered at me as she moved alongside my right elbow, brushing against it.

I was still majorly numb from Zack’s party, so I barely noticed—until the piece of birthday cake that I didn’t want, in a fancy restaurant with my parents where I didn’t want to be, eating weird food that I hated, fell off the edge of my white plate like a brown avalanche and plopped straight into my lap.

“Oh, god!” the girl gasped. The plate dropped to the floor and shattered. Her hands flew to her mouth.

I leaped out of my chair, but it was too late. “Shit!” I said as the gooey mess rolled off me in a solid, heavy lump. In the confusion, my wooden chair crashed backward like a gunshot, reverberating inside my head.

A lady screamed behind me.

I glared down at the girl, angry and more than a little embarrassed. “What is your problem?”

The girl’s black eyes widened. “I am so sorry.” She reached for a linen napkin on the table and tried to blotch out the chocolate stain on my pant leg but succeeded only in spreading it. And making me a million times more uncomfortable as her hands reached dangerously close to my crotch.

My breathing quickened. I could hear it whizzing through my teeth as I continued to glare at the girl.

No doubt every head in the restaurant had turned to watch the entertainment as the room grew silent, except for harps and flutes, playing through hidden speakers, that sounded just like the mind-numbing music played in the girls’ yoga classes at school.

“Settle down, Ryan,” Mom said, her gaze sweeping about the room. “It was an accident, for god’s sake.” She grabbed my arm as Dad watched from across the table with tightly pressed lips, his disappointment as obvious as the wet stain on my pants.

Not a huge surprise.

Riley, meanwhile, tried to stifle nervous laughter by biting down on her linen napkin.

All in all, epic! Why hadn’t I stayed home? Pretended to have the flu or something?

“Can we get some towels over here?” Dad called to the waitress on the other side of the room, the one who seemed to be in charge of our table. He waved his hand over his head. The woman darted over to us.

“Certainly, sir.” She began pointing to other bussers for water, napkins and possibly even another mesquite-honey mousse cake. “My apologies,” she added. “We’ll take care of it.”

I would have told her not to bother, but I was too preoccupied with the wet stain on my pants and the girl who’d caused it. She kept trying to blotch it with a napkin.

My breathing was still pretty heavy. “Just...just leave it alone,” I stammered, sitting back down in the chair, which someone had picked up for me. “You’ve done enough already,” I said as she took a step back, the stained napkin still clutched in one hand, poised and ready.

“Fred?” the waitress called from behind the girl. “We need you in the kitchen. Now.”

I looked around, blinking, waiting for a quarterback with a wide neck to appear with an armful of heavy trays. Instead, I watched as the girl darted for the kitchen, her chin buried in her neck. I blinked again, my gaze finally clearing. The last thing I saw was her braid, swinging across her back like a windshield wiper. It almost reached the teal-blue sash wrapped twice around her waist.

Brighter than the sky, it was the only color I remembered all day.

“I’m disappointed in your behavior, son,” Dad whispered behind his hand.

I swallowed, pulling my eyes away from the blue sash. “It wasn’t my fault.”

Mom’s nostrils flared. “I’m going to make another appointment for you with Dr. Wagner.” But she directed it to Dad, like I wasn’t even there. Done deal.

My head dropped back, and I sighed. “I don’t need to see Dr. Wagner.” My temples began to pound louder. I’d vowed last time that I wasn’t going back to our quack family therapist. It was a complete waste of time. All he did was talk in circles.

“I’ll be the judge of that, Ryan,” Mom said. Mom thought everything could be cured by doctor visits and enough medication.

“Are we done yet?” I snapped. My feet fidgeted like I was readying to run a marathon.

“Yes, we are.” Dad’s lips pressed together again. “And thank you for ruining your mother’s birthday. I hope you’re satisfied.”

I stared back at him, speechless. My life totally sucked.

Chapter 3

Fred

“I TALKED TO a falcon sitting on top of a paloverde tree this morning.”

“Where?” I asked while Dad tinkered underneath the van. I sat on a towel in the dirt beside him, handing him tools. It was Sunday, but that didn’t mean Dad got a day off. The van leaked again, bluish-black oil as gooey as tree sap. That couldn’t be good.

“The one out by the road. The same one you and Trevor used to climb when you were kids. Remember?” He paused to bang something against the van’s metal frame. “Hand me the silver wrench, will you?”

“Yeah, I remember,” I said, handing him a tool that held more rust than silver. I squinted against the morning sun toward the tree, which stood not far from the road that ran alongside our trailer. Trevor had carved our initials into one thick green branch, but the tree had grown so high that I could barely see the letters anymore. “How’d you know it was a falcon? Maybe it was just a crow,” I said as if that would make the sighting less significant.

Dad chuckled. “I think I know a falcon when I see one, Fred. Aren’t many out here, you know.”

I lowered my chin to my knees, considering this. A falcon could mean something. A falcon could be another sign. My life was full of them lately. It was one thing to see a falcon; it was quite another to understand its meaning. “What’d it look like?” I asked, still a little doubtful. The Rez was covered with birds—mourning doves, quail, crows as chubby as cats, even hawks and the occasional horned owl. But falcons? I hadn’t spotted too many, at least not around the trailer.

Dad yanked on the frame as he spoke, and it sounded like he was talking through gritted teeth. “Pretty thing. White breast, notched beak, gold-and-brown feathers that look like a checkerboard.” He stopped to suck back a breath before giving the van another whack. “I haven’t seen her in a while.”

“How’d you know it was a she?”

He chuckled again. “Thought I heard some of her chicks chirping nearby.”

“Well, what’d she tell you? Did she happen to mention when I’m going to get a new pair of golf shoes?” I said glumly. After last night’s restaurant fiasco, I figured that I was permanently banned from any kitchen within a hundred miles. I wouldn’t be asked back, not unless the chef got desperate. And that meant an end to my source of cash. The Rez wasn’t exactly brimming with teen job opportunities.

It was just that I was nervous about Monday’s practice, my very first with the team, especially after what Trevor had said about needing to watch my back. I’d never had that worry before. Usually it was the complete opposite. Was life easier when nobody noticed you?

Like an idiot, I’d dropped things all night—silverware, napkins, bread, rolls—and then finally the dessert right into the boy’s lap. That had been the last straw, though it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it. I’d recognized Ryan Berenger from English class at school, although I’d bet my parents’ trailer that he hadn’t recognized me, not that he would. Boys like Ryan and girls like me moved in different circles—well, I was pretty sure he had a circle; I simply moved.

I couldn’t understand why he’d sat and glared at everybody all night, even his own family. He’d acted as though he would have preferred to jump through one of the restaurant windows than enjoy a dinner with them. And his parents seemed so lovely, so perfect. They’d looked like the perfect family, out enjoying a perfect dinner on a perfectly good Saturday night. How nice would it be to have your parents treat you to a fancy restaurant with a special birthday cake and everything? Where’s the misery in that? Clearly Ryan Berenger was deranged.

Dad slid out from underneath the van on a piece of dusty cardboard. “No, the falcon didn’t say anything about shoes.” He sat up and brushed his hands together as if he was trying to wipe away my sarcasm. His hands were coated with dirt and grease that never seemed to wash away, no matter how much he scrubbed. “The falcon told me about something better than a pair of new golf shoes.”

I could manage only a half grin. “Better?” Dad always told me old stories and Indian legends when he thought I needed a bit of cheering up. After last night, he’d be right.

But I needed more than cheering up—I needed a decent pair of leather golf shoes, with real cleats, that didn’t pinch my toes when I walked. Was that asking the ancestors for too much?

“The falcon is a clear sign of new beginnings and adventure, but you already know that, don’t you?”

I nodded, the smirk disappearing from my face.

“With a flutter from her wings on the tree’s tallest branch, she asked me to remind you that yours is just getting started,” he said without a trace of humor in his voice. “The falcon said, ‘Tell the child born to the mother of Akimel O’odham and father of the Pee-Posh that her adventure has just begun. She should not fear the journey.’” He stood, dusted off the front of his overalls with a few pats and then walked to the driver’s door of the van.

I watched him, saying nothing, because what could I say? I would never doubt my father or the wisdom of the animal spirits. Dad had taught me all about them, from the mole to coyotes to bobcats, just like his father and his grandfather before him. Animal spirits were as much a part of our lives as eating and breathing. Only a fool wouldn’t listen. And a bigger fool would mock them.

I stood and brushed the dirt off my shorts while Dad pulled open the glove box in the van and rummaged inside. With his hand behind his back, he walked to where I stood in front of the van. Then he held out a thin package as long as an envelope wrapped in brown paper. “For you. From your mom and me.”

“Mom?” My eyes widened.

“Well, yes. And no. She doesn’t know I bought it, of course.”

My smile returned. At first all I could do was stare blankly at the package, too startled to open it. It wasn’t every day I got a present, especially when it wasn’t my birthday.

“Open it, Fred. Go on, now. It’s for you.”

Finally, I accepted the gift from Dad. I took my time tearing off the wrapping paper and laid it on the hood. Openmouthed, I stared as a piece of leather as luscious as butter fell into my hand. The leather was white with pale pink accents around a mother-of-pearl button.

“It’s not a pair of golf shoes, not yet. But you needed a new golf glove, too.” Dad stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his overalls so that only his thumbs showed.

Speechless, I tried on my new glove. It slipped easily over my hand. I snapped the button at the wrist and then stretched my fingers and clenched my fist, testing the leather.

“Golf pro at the clubhouse said that one’s the best. Size small, too, just what you needed. Now you’ll be able to grip your clubs a whole lot better,” he added when I didn’t say anything. His eyes narrowed. “Do you like it?”

I swallowed back a lump growing in the back of my throat. “Like it? It’s perfect,” I whispered. Then I wrapped my arms around Dad, not saying another word. One more syllable and I would have started blubbering, and crying made Dad all fidgety, like he didn’t know what to say.

Dad patted my back when I didn’t release him right away. “Now, now, Fred. It’s just a glove,” he said in my ear.

Just a glove.

I sniffed back a tear and then pulled away reluctantly, still unable to speak.

“New beginnings, Fred. Greet them with your eyes wide open. Don’t forget that. That’s what that old mother falcon told me this morning.” Dad’s forefinger pointed to the cloudless sky, as if that golden-brown bird circled somewhere above us, eavesdropping.

“I won’t,” I said finally, unable to look away from my new glove. Suddenly a new pair of golf shoes seemed unimportant, at least for today.

Tomorrow I could think differently.

* * *

The next morning, Dad dropped me and my golf bag off in front of Lone Butte High School, along with Sam Tracy and Peter Begay, who’d ridden in the backseat. Pete’s dad had overslept and couldn’t get them to school in time, and they’d been thinking about ditching until we saw them hanging out at the gas station by the freeway. Dad had insisted they hop in.

“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Oday,” Sam said, turning to me.

“Next time, call if you need one,” Dad said. “It’s no trouble.”

Sam nodded. “Need help with your bag, Fred?”

“No. I can manage. Thanks anyway.”

Sam hitched his backpack higher on his shoulder, looking doubtfully at my golf bag lying in the back of the van. “See you around.”

“Later,” I said as I walked around to the back door and retrieved it.

Dad pulled away, leaving me alone at the curb. And I felt alone. Really alone. Like only-person-in-the-universe alone. I realized, too late, that maybe I’d been too quick to refuse Sam’s offer.

The air had grown so thick that I wondered if the sun had swallowed all of the oxygen. My plaid bag made being inconspicuous impossible. It might have been my anxious imagination, but I felt tracked by a thousand pairs of beady eyes in the front of the school. They peered at me from everywhere, even the windows.

Head lowered, I struggled to keep from hyperventilating as I carved a path through the crowd toward the rear gymnasium door. The back door was supposed to take me to the coaches’ offices, exactly as Coach Lannon had instructed. But to get there, I had to trudge down a narrow sidewalk lined with students all vying for spots in the courtyard where the popular kids hung out. Up ahead, I saw Sam’s and Pete’s dark heads, but they were too far away for me to catch up—not unless I started running with my golf bag thumping against my back. Why not present me with the Biggest Dork Award and get it over with?

* * *

It felt like the first fifteen minutes of freshman year all over again, only worse. Despite my best efforts, I felt my cheeks burn all the way down to my neck.

“Plaid much?” someone murmured while another girl giggled beside her. With wide eyes, they looked me up and down like I was sale merchandise.

I didn’t stop to argue. What was the point? The bag was hideous.

So instead I kept my head down, walked faster and focused on the bottom of my shoes as they slapped against the pavement.

One, two, three... I counted each step as I absently twisted my hair into a roll to give my free hand something useful to do, all the while ignoring more giggling and hushed voices. It seemed forever before I reached the end of the courtyard and another narrow sidewalk that took me to the rear gymnasium door.

The gray metal door had a sign that said No Admittance, but I pulled on the handle anyway.

It didn’t budge.

I moaned. Then I tried again.

Locked.

I knocked hard till it made a hollow sound.

No answer.

My stomach sank. Maybe Trevor was right. Maybe this was a mistake.

But I’d just die if I had to walk all the way to the front of the school again, and what about my bag? It wouldn’t fit inside my locker, and forget about calling Dad. He’d never leave work, not unless I was being rushed to the hospital or something.

I sucked back another breath, feeling stupid for banging on a locked door, but I knocked again anyway. This time with a balled fist.

Miraculously, the door opened and my breathing resumed.

“Fred.” Coach Lannon smiled before opening the heavy door as wide as it would go. “So glad you didn’t change your mind.”

I nodded and tried to match his enthusiasm, but smiling only made my cheeks feel like they would crack. I slipped through the door and waited for Coach Lannon to lead the way down the bright hallway. I’d never seen this part of the school before. It was one colorless office door after another separated by gray-speckled linoleum tiles and pale yellow walls. The hallway smelled like the girls’ locker room, musty and thick, almost as heavy as the air outside.

Coach Lannon stopped at the second door on the right side of a wide hallway. “You can leave your bag in my office during the week,” he said. “Some of the other boys have already been by to drop off theirs.”

My back stiffened.

Although I was anxious to get started, I wasn’t ready to meet my new teammates. I’d already lost sleep imagining what they’d think about me, the lone girl on the team. Would it be too weird?

“And don’t worry. Your bag is always safe in here.”

An anxious chuckle rumbled inside my chest as the coach took my bag. Someone steal my plaid bag and rusty clubs? Not likely.

I quickly scanned his office. Besides his desk and the other golf bags stacked against the wall, there was barely any room to stand. His desk was littered with folders, but I did notice a framed photo—a woman and three teenage girls, all smiling, probably around my age. I smiled inside. At least Coach had been honest about having daughters.

“Practice starts at 3:30,” he said as he led me outside his office.

Like I could forget.

I nodded, tried to smile again and then lowered my head before walking down the long, musty hallway that I hoped would lead me to the classrooms and oxygen.

Coach Lannon called after me. “One more thing...”

I stopped and turned, my shoes squeaking on the linoleum. I’d almost made it to the end of the hallway.

A grin spread across his face. “Welcome to the team,” he said, just as two boys, one tall and one short, with dark golf bags threaded over their shoulders, barreled down the hallway. Their bags brushed my shoulders as they passed. They exchanged confused looks.

Instinctively, my gaze returned to the dotted specs on the linoleum floor.

It was going to be a very long day.

Chapter 4

Ryan

WHAT’S UP WITH HER? I TRIED to mind-meld with Seth as we passed a girl with the ends of her black hair wrapped around her hand. She looked at the floor as soon as we spotted her, like we’d caught her snitching or something.

As Seth and I approached Coach Lannon’s office, the coach filled his doorway, absently scratching the side of his head.

I’d seen that pinched look on his face before. He looked a little pissed, and I wondered if word had gotten back to him about Friday night’s party. We’d been in trouble with the coach a couple of times last year for partying, but nothing major. He’d given us the “don’t do drugs” speech and warned us about how alcohol burned brain cells, and we’d halfheartedly promised to stay out of trouble—or at least promised ourselves behind his back not to get caught. I’d heard that one of Zack’s neighbors had called the police because of the music, but, really, I barely remembered any of it.

“Seth,” the coach said, clearing his throat as we stopped at his door. “Got a sec?” The warning bell buzzed in the background, indicating a ten-minute window before Homeroom.

“Sure, Coach.” Seth balanced his dark blue TaylorMade golf bag in front of him. He grabbed the sides with both hands and waited.

The coach’s right eyebrow shot up. “Alone,” he said. “Sorry, Ryan.”

“Oh, right,” I said as I wedged myself and my bag between them. My best guess was that the coach was going to give Seth another warning about failing grades and ditching class, two things that Seth had done really well last year. Although I’d probably ditched as often, I’d maintained a decent grade-point average without trying too hard. Seth really needed to start taking the coach’s rules seriously. One more warning and he’d probably be off the team. Before I could think it through, I said, “If it’s about Friday night, I can explain—”

The coach cut me off with a wave of his hand. “What about Friday night?” But then he shook his head and sighed. “Forget it. It has nothing to do with that, Berenger.” His jaw clenched, and I realized that I’d just made things worse.

Before I could make him angrier, I dumped my golf bag inside the office where six others already crowded one of the corners, including a busted-up plaid one that must have been someone’s idea of a joke. Then I turned around for the hallway without stopping. “See you in class,” I mumbled to Seth as I passed through the doorway.

Seth flashed me a grateful grin, but I could tell by the way his lip twitched that he was anxious.

Coach Lannon barely gave me a chance to leave before he closed the door.

That couldn’t be good.

* * *

The next time I saw Seth, his nostrils were flaring.

He marched into Homeroom with his fists clenched. His eyes blazed and his chest heaved as if the coach had just forced him to do one hundred push-ups. The veins in his forehead looked ready to pop.

Seth scanned the room until he found me. I nodded at him from the back row and lifted my backpack from the empty seat next to mine.

I wasn’t the only one who noticed Seth. At least thirty other faces in Homeroom watched him storm his way to the back of the room. He dropped so heavily into his seat that his desk knocked into the guy seated in front of him, but the dude didn’t turn around and bitch. Probably too scared.

I feared the worst. “What’d the coach say?” I whispered to Seth as he jammed his backpack underneath his seat. Fortunately the Homeroom teacher was too busy going through her attendance sheets to care.

Seth shook his head and stared into space, then garbled something unintelligible. Totally not like Seth to act so out-of-control crazed.

I leaned in and tried again. “Come on. Tell me. What happened?”

Seth’s face darkened another shade, and all I could think was He got expelled. That had to be it. I wondered if I should get a hall pass to see Coach Lannon and try to explain a way out of this. I could promise that both of us would be on our best behavior all year. We had practiced so hard over the summer. The coach had seen us tons of times at my parents’ country club. And if I had to, I’d even break down and beg Dad to reason with him. Dad was an expert at convincing people to do stuff they didn’t want to do.

Finally, Seth spoke, but his teeth stayed clenched. “Dude, you are so not gonna believe this.” He exhaled as the principal’s voice filled the room over the loudspeakers with a list of upcoming SAT test dates.

I pulled closer, full-on curious.

“He. Kicked me. Off. The fucking. Team.”

“Say what?” My shoulders caved forward. “That is so busted!”

Seth nodded, nostrils still flaring.

“Maybe if I talked to him. Maybe if my dad talked to him...”

A frenzied smile took over his face. He looked as whacked as I’d ever seen him. “Don’t bother,” he said, surprising me again.

“Don’t bother?” My chin pulled back. Seth never gave up without a fight. “Why not? We could talk to him. We could talk him out of it—”

“Save it, Ryan,” he said.

“Why?” I said. “Why not try?”

“Won’t matter,” he fumed.

“But the coach saw you at the club this summer, practicing your ass off.” Seth might not have been the best player on the team but he had gotten a lot better. The coach had to have noticed.

Seth half laughed, half snorted. “Seems I got axed anyway.”

“Did it have to do with the party? Did he hear about it?”

“Had nothing to do with the party.”

“What, then? Why?”

Seth’s tight-lipped smile faded, but the anger behind his eyes only got worse. The blood vessels around his forehead looked freakishly ready to explode. “Some girl named Fred Oday got my spot.”

“A girl?” I was speechless. My eyes narrowed. There was that odd girl name again: Fred.

“Here’s the best part,” Seth continued, his voice growing raspier. “Coach isn’t even making her try out.” He chuckled darkly. “He handed my spot right to the bitch.” His glassy eyes stared back at me. “Sweet deal, huh?”

I shook my head. Hardly.

I didn’t even know this girl, but I already hated her.

* * *

Homeroom was only fifteen minutes, but it felt like fifteen hours.

Afterward, Seth stormed into the hallway. “I gotta ditch,” Seth told me. “I need to chillax before my head explodes.”

“I’ll go with you.”

Seth shook his head, surprising me again. “No, I just got to figure out how to explain this to my parents. They’re going to go ape-shit.” What Seth really meant was that his stepdad would freak. Getting cut from the golf team would give him one more reason to be disappointed in Seth. Unfortunately, Seth’s stepdad had a habit of showing his disappointment with a few well-placed punches, most of which left a bruise or two.

There was no stopping Seth either. He darted toward the student parking lot to get his truck.

Students with backpacks as big as tortoises shuffled alongside me as we all carved our way down the narrow hallways before the next bell. Normally I hated the claustrophobic feeling of the hallways and all the pushing and shoving, but today I barely noticed. I was still trying to wrap my head around Seth’s news: Some girl named Fred Oday.

Some girl? Had Seth heard that right?

She’s already got a spot on the team.

How was that fair?

Coach isn’t even making her try out.

Not even an informal tryout?

And her name is Fred Oday.

Fred? What kind of a girl’s name was that?

My temples began to throb as I replayed the news in my head. None of it made any sense.

And where had I heard the name Fred? Where had I seen her? Surely she hadn’t just dropped out of the freaking sky. She must be at least a junior. And why would Coach Lannon put a girl on an all-boys’ varsity golf team? Was he high? Weren’t there rules against stuff like that? Shouldn’t there be? Our chances of winning the state championship had just crashed.

Still numb, I almost head-butted Zack Fisher on my way to English. I was going through the door as he was busting out.

“You hear?” Zack said to me, predictably. Of course Zack had heard. Thanks to him, probably everyone in the entire school already knew about Seth.

I stared back at him, still a little dazed.

“Well? Have you heard?” He grabbed my shoulder.

I shrugged Zack’s hand off my shoulder. “Yeah. I heard. I sit right next to him in Homeroom. Remember?”

“Can you believe that?” Zack’s head of tight brown curls shook indignantly, his eyes shiny and wide with the news. “And now we’ve got a girl on the team? Are you kidding me?” His voice got higher, louder. Angrier. “Why don’t they just start a girls’ team?” Several freshmen glanced curiously in our direction as they passed us in the hallway.

“I know,” I said, unsure what more to say.

“You know her?”

I shook my head. “Never heard of her.”

Zack chortled. “Well, she better be good. That’s all I got to say.” He said it as if he didn’t think it was even remotely possible. I wanted him to be right.

“Yeah,” I said. Especially since she just got my best friend kicked off the team.

The bell rang, and we both turned for the door. Mrs. Weisz, our English teacher, was already at the podium and shuffling papers. She peered at us over her wire-rimmed bifocals. A quick flicker of her eyelids reminded us about her views on tardiness. But then I realized, too late, that I’d rather be anywhere other than inside her stuffy classroom discussing lame hundred-year-old books that never made any sense. I should have ditched with Seth.

Too late now.

With my backpack slung over my right shoulder and my hands jammed in my front pockets to keep them from punching a hole in the door, I wove my way to my usual spot next to the window. Every seat was taken, and the rows were so tight that there was barely any room to wedge between the desks. When I finally made it to the last row, I passed by a girl seated in the front desk and accidentally knocked over her book with my backpack.

“Sorry,” I murmured, bending over to retrieve it. When I stood up, my eyes swept over her desk and then landed on her face. It was the same girl who’d walked out of Coach Lannon’s office.

For a moment, we locked gazes, and I began to piece it together. But then before I blinked, the girl lowered her eyes and began fidgeting with a strand of her hair. It twirled around her finger like a shiny black ribbon as she stared down at a blank page in her notebook. Her eyes hid under feathery eyelashes.

And then, for some odd reason, I squinted at the cover of her book in my hand: The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. In the right corner, written in perfect cursive letters in black ink, I saw another name: Fred Oday.

My jaw dropped. Fred Oday? That Fred Oday?

My temples started to pound again. My eyes traveled back down to the girl’s forehead. Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes stayed lowered. She was sure as shit avoiding me.

You’re Fred Oday? I wanted to shout.

I almost choked out my question until Mrs. Weisz said, “Mr. Berenger? Something wrong?”

I didn’t answer her. My gaze refused to unlock from the top of the girl’s head.

“Will you take your seat, Mr. Berenger?” Mrs. Weisz snapped.

I nodded numbly. And then I remembered.

All of the details came flooding back as clearly as the writing on her book. Everything.

She was the girl who’d dropped cake right into my crotch at Mom’s birthday dinner, almost as if she’d done it on purpose. She was the girl who’d passed Seth and me outside Coach Lannon’s office. And she was also the girl who’d robbed my best friend of his spot on the golf team.

I dropped the book onto Fred’s desk. It landed with a splat.

Then I stormed down the row and dropped into the last empty seat.

Chapter 5

Fred

I WANTED TO hide in Coach Lannon’s office for the rest of the day.

The whispers and hushed voices started in earnest sometime after Homeroom on my way to English, even worse than when Dad had dropped me off at the curb. When I tilted my head and struggled to eavesdrop on hallway conversations between classes, voices faded. It was like trying to catch words in the wind.

But then in first-period English, for the very first time, he looked at me: Ryan Berenger. The pretentious, moody guy who couldn’t be bothered to have dinner with his family, the one who always had his arm around the bleached-blonde girl from the pom squad who was always pictured in the school newspaper on top of parade floats and at dances that I wouldn’t dream of attending. Usually. Anyway, they always sat together all cozylike at lunch. Ryan let Blonde Girl thread her thin, pale fingers through his hair like she owned him.

They deserved each other.

But I’d been in Ryan Berenger’s classes since freshman year, and he picked today to finally acknowledge my existence.

I’d seen him tons of times at the Ahwatukee Golf Club over the summer, too. He and his short, stocky blond friend were always speeding by the driving range in a golf cart. Lucky them, they didn’t have to wait till after five o’clock for the chance to play for free like I did. Ryan could play whenever he wanted.

And now we were teammates. As Trevor would say, that was irony.

That would also explain why he’d glared at me in English class and gripped my book like he wanted to shred it to pieces. What else would make him so angry? Apparently he’d gotten the news that I was on the team, too—or he was still pissed that I’d ruined his pants with a piece of mushy birthday cake.

“Don’t fear the journey,” I murmured as the day’s last bell rang. At my locker, I closed my eyes and tried desperately to picture the falcon with the gold-and-brown feathers perched at the top of our mesquite tree at home. For a moment, my shoulders lightened, and I was able to drown out the negative thoughts invading my head. After a few calming breaths, my eyes opened slowly. My vision cleared. “Don’t fear the journey,” I exhaled one final time.

A girl with red spiky hair and a silver nose stud standing at the locker next to mine slammed her army-green locker shut.

I jumped when it closed and then turned to her.

The girl rolled her eyes like I was crazy.

She might be right.

* * *

“Okay, men—” Coach Lannon said but then stopped himself. He turned sideways, his thick arms folded across his chest. He cast an apologetic smile at me. “And lady,” he added, as if he was doing me the world’s biggest favor.

I groaned inwardly.

It’d be more comfortable standing beneath a spotlight surrounded by a marching band.

Leaning against my golf bag like it was a lifeboat, I stood with my seven teammates on the largest of the four grassy fields that surrounded Lone Butte High School. The open field was as large as a football field. My teammates stood beside me but not too close, each straddling their own golf bags that looked newer than mine by at least three decades. Coach Lannon stood across from us in the middle of our half-moon lineup, eager to start barking out orders by the way he kept fingering his whistle.

After spending several excruciatingly long seconds introducing me to the team, he mercifully reverted into his coach persona, the one I’d gotten to know at the country club, long enough for me to resume breathing again. Small miracle: at least he introduced me as Fred Oday and not Fredricka. That would have been beyond humiliating.

No one said hello, not that I expected or needed pleasantries. I simply wanted to play golf and lots of it. I hadn’t joined the team to make friends. And their sideways glances when they thought I wasn’t paying attention suggested that building friendships wouldn’t be an option.

“We got a best-ball tournament with Hamilton High on Thursday, so we got our work cut out for us this week. I hope you boys have been practicing over the summer?” Coach Lannon’s eyes scanned the boys standing to my right. A few fidgeted in place, especially the one with the brown curls named Zack. He bounced around like he had an army of red ants crawling up his leg. Coach Lannon didn’t bother staring me down. He knew exactly where I’d spent most of the summer, and my eyes begged for his silence. Mentioning it would only elevate my status to something below Teacher’s Pet.

“Bus will leave here at two o’clock,” he continued, tapping his clipboard.

My chest caved forward, grateful. The coach must have sensed my unease.

“You’re all excused from your last class,” he continued. “I’ve already cleared it with your teachers. Bus will be back here by seven.”

A few happy gasps filled the air at the thought of missing a couple hours of school.

“But be on the bus no later than two. Understood?” Coach Lannon’s eyes widened, daring disobedience. “Any questions so far?” He said it in a way that indicated he didn’t expect any. But someone got his brave on.

“What about Fred, Coach? Does she get to tee off from the women’s tees at the tournament?”

A few of the guys snickered as the hairs prickled on the back of my neck.

Women’s tees?

Carefully, I turned sideways till my eyes landed on Ryan Berenger. His eyes shifted back to the coach when I glared at him.

“Well, Ryan,” Coach Lannon said, scratching the side of his head, as if he hadn’t fully thought about it, and my jaw dropped. Certainly he’d spent at least one minute of his time pondering this. There was only one answer.

“No!” I blurted.

All seven of the boys, including Coach Lannon, turned to gape at me. Clearly no one had ever answered for the coach before. “I won’t hit from the women’s tees. I can hit from the men’s tees. I do it all the time.” My teeth ground together as my hands shook.

One of Coach Lannon’s blond eyebrows rose with something resembling admiration as he slowly scanned the boys’ faces, reading their reactions. Collectively, their lips pressed together. A few fidgeted with their bag tags, but no one uttered another word.

Then the coach smiled. “Well, I guess you heard her, men. And don’t underestimate her,” he added. “I’ll wager she’s got a straighter shot than anyone else on this team.”

I groaned inwardly. Again. The coach wasn’t making my life any easier.

The boys began to whisper among themselves, and I returned to studying my feet, coaxing myself not to hyperventilate.

“Well, okay, then,” murmured the boy next to me. “Let’s see her hit.” He said it like a challenge.

“Yeah,” piped in another low voice.

“Show us,” taunted a third boy.

My throat had turned drier than dust. I clutched the drivers and irons that poked above the top of my bag. I reached the edges for support. It was probably the first time I’d ever been grateful that my bag was almost as tall as I was. My stomach churned, and I felt a little dizzy. The relentless afternoon sun and the cloudless sky didn’t help.

“Okay.” Coach Lannon exhaled loudly, the verbal equivalent of wiping his hands together. “Grab some balls and spread out!” he barked.

Each player slung his bag over his shoulder and walked to a ridge at the edge of the field that faced the rear of the school. I quickly claimed a spot on the end where the grass was matted and spotted from divots. I removed my driver and a couple of stubby white tees from the side pocket of my bag. I’d found the stubs on the Ahwatukee Golf Club driving range where other golfers had left them for trash. They were as good as new. I laid my golf bag on the ground because my bag didn’t have one of those fancy built-in stands like the newer ones.

As I readied myself for my first swing, I felt every pair of eyes on me like a dozen clammy fingers. I knew that they were silently critiquing everything—the way I reached into my bag, my rusty clubs, the obvious lack of proper golf shoes. I walked over to one of the ball buckets, my chin high but my eyes lowered, and scooped out a handful as my forehead began to throb.

Returning to my corner spot, I teed up the first ball on a patch of matted-down grass and then stood behind it. Balancing my club against my hip, I removed my new golf glove from the back pocket of my khaki shorts where I’d kept it all day like some kind of lucky rabbit’s foot, pulling it out every so often just to touch the soft leather. I carefully slipped it over my hand, snapping the mother-of-pearl button at my wrist. Then I clenched my hand a couple of times, mostly to stop my fingers from trembling. No one said a single word, not even the coach. Only the distant school bell rang on the half hour.

I began to concentrate on my breathing. Gaze still lowered, I took another deep breath and spread my legs shoulder-width apart a few feet from the ball. I took a practice swing, then another, letting the club swing backward and forward around my body till my arms and shoulders lost some of their tension. Then, very methodically, I approached the ball perched on its tee and swallowed back more dryness in my throat. I aimed the face of my club at the ball, pulled it back around my body and swung.

And muffed it.

Crap!

The ball dribbled off the tee and rolled pathetically no more than six feet, not even to the edge of the ridge.

Totally embarrassing.

Someone chuckled.

“Nice shot,” another chided from somewhere up the line. It sounded like Zack Fisher, but I didn’t look up. A few more dry laughs followed, the raspy kind that always sounded creepy.

My breathing quickened along with my heartbeat.

I bent down for another ball and placed it on the tee. I wiped a thin layer of sweat from my forehead with the back of my left hand. Then I closed my eyes, just for a second, and pictured myself striking the ball clear across the field in a perfect arc. When my eyes opened, I spotted a lone bird drifting overhead. I lifted my face to the bird, squinted into the sun and smiled, just a fraction. It could have been any type of bird—a crow, grackle, hawk, even a falcon—but I nodded at it anyway, once.

And then I gripped my club with both hands, right over left, approached the golf ball, bent my knees, lowered my forehead and smacked that friggin’ white ball high into the sky and clear across the field. It pierced deep into the sky like a gunshot.

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about!” Coach Lannon roared, walking toward me with quick steps, his eyes still tracking the ball. He even clapped a couple of times.

I ignored him. I ignored everybody. I didn’t need their praise. Instead, I waited for the ball to drop from the sky, still holding on to my follow-through with the club arched over my right shoulder. Picture-perfect form.

“I don’t think you’ll find that ball! That one’s a goner!” Coach Lannon grinned.

“Shit,” someone muttered. “Where’d it go?”

“Dunno,” said another disappointed voice.

I didn’t turn to Coach Lannon and wait for any more of his compliments. Truth is, I hated compliments. I didn’t boast either or flash my teammates an I-told-you-so smirk. Instead, I reached down for another ball with a trembling hand and teed up my next shot. Then another.

And another.

It was like my arms were on fire.

“The rest of you goofballs, quit your gawking and start swinging! Let me see what you got! We got a tournament in three days!”

I swung at another ball. Harder. The next one sailed farther than the last.

Chapter 6

Ryan

DECENT.

That’s what I thought when I watched Fred’s swing. Although she’d completely muffed her first tee shot, her form was tight: knees bent, chin lowered, hands gripping the club on the sweet spot. Her club swept back and then crushed against the ball as if swinging a club was the easiest thing in the world. Some golfers had it and others didn’t. Fred Oday definitely had it.

I’d be lying if I said that I hoped she was good, because I wanted Fred to fail. I wanted an epic fail right in front of the coach, in front of everybody. And I wanted it bad.

“Jeez, the Fred freak sure can crank it,” Henry Graser said. He swung next to me and sounded as disappointed as I probably looked.

“Yeah,” I growled underneath my breath as I fiddled with a new box of tees stuffed in the front pocket of my golf bag.

“Well, we’ll see.” Henry stopped to lean against his Ping nine-iron. He wiped a thin layer of sweat from his pale forehead. “Coach always says practice is one thing, tournaments are another. Maybe she’ll choke on Thursday.” He tapped his iron against the heel of his golf shoe, releasing a clump of dirt.

Tournaments. My shoulders lightened. The coach was right. Let’s see how she does on Thursday. That ought to set everything straight again. Maybe then Coach will realize he made a big mistake. Maybe there was a chance Seth could rejoin the team....

“And just because you can crank a ball doesn’t mean you can putt. Or get yourself out of a sand trap,” Henry added, trying to convince us both that Fred’s golf skills were a fluke. He bent over to balance another ball on his tee.

Three stations away from us, Fred pulled out a seven-iron from her golf bag and took a practice swing with her eyes closed. A light wind lifted black wispy hairs around her face. She paused to twirl the loose strands behind her ears when they drifted too close to her eyes.

I pretended not to notice that Fred was more than just a little pretty.

Hold up. What am I saying?!

I lowered my head over my ball and pulled my chin into my chest. I closed my eyes and took a steadying breath. Fred was starting to psyche me out, and I could kick my own ass for even thinking it.

Sucking in a gulp of warm air, I pulled back my driver and cracked the ball clear across the field, but the ball hooked left almost immediately. It didn’t sail straight like Fred’s. Not even close. Waiting for it to land, I whacked my club against the ground.

In my periphery, I caught Fred watching me, studying me. I swore under my breath. If only she’d seen my last shot. That one had been perfect.

What was wrong with me? Why should I care, and most of all, why would I care what she thought? I tapped the side of my head with my club.

“Not bad, Berenger. Not bad!” Coach Lannon yelled from the other end of the field. “Except you hooked it.”

Gee, thanks, Coach. Tell me something I don’t know.

“And check out that bag.” Henry continued his ongoing commentary, lowering his voice. He chuckled. “Where’d she find that thing?”

I tried to ignore Henry but failed miserably. “Shut up, Graser,” I snapped. “You’re messing with my concentration.”

Henry’s neck pulled back, palms lifted. “My bad, Tiger Woods. Just having some fun.”

I shook my head and then tried to concentrate on the next practice ball.

“It must be real busted, losing the team’s top spot to a girl,” Henry added.

“Yeah, real busted,” I said, not bothering to hide my sarcasm.

It was all I could do not to wipe off Henry’s grin with the end of my club. He was lucky his father was principal of the school, or I would have seriously considered it.

Chapter 7

Fred

I SAT ON the curb next to the gym after practice, pretending to be engrossed in The Great Gatsby perched on my knees as I waited for Dad. Too bad F. Scott Fitzgerald never knew what it was like to be the lone girl on an all-boys’ golf team.

My backpack was propped against the front of my bare legs. The sun began to set over the Estrella Mountains, painting orange-yellow streaks across the sky. The campus was almost peaceful.

Almost.

All of my new teammates raced out of the school parking lot like it was the last day before summer vacation. They peeled across the pavement in SUVs, convertibles, sedans, a pickup—one even drove a Hummer—each one newer and shinier than the next.

No one offered me a ride, not that I expected one, especially when they’d behaved like I had some kind of incurable skin disease. No matter. I’d be mortified if any of them drove me all the way home. Better to let them believe I lived in a tepee with no running water or television. That was probably what they thought. That was probably what they’d all like to think.

Ryan Berenger was the last one to leave. He made a show of racing through the parking lot in a shiny silver Jeep Cherokee. His tires never stopped screeching.

Someone sat in his passenger seat, but I couldn’t see who it was. I kept my head lowered toward my book and watched Ryan through the safety of my eyelashes. The radio blared through his open windows, and yet he scowled through the windshield.

What a waste. Why would someone with his own car need to scowl? And why was he always staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking? He’d kept glancing over at me during practice. It was...unsettling.

After Ryan drove away, I exhaled and closed my book.

“Hey, Fred.”

I turned, startled. It was Sam. “What are you doing here?”

Sam walked toward me, his backpack threaded over his shoulder. “Stayed late to work in the lab on a project. Mind if I catch a ride home with you?”

I smiled at him. “’Course not.”

And that’s when Dad drove through the front entrance. I heard the familiar chug of the van’s engine a block away. Perfect timing.

I looked at him through his open window and smiled tiredly. Gratefully. It was so nice to see Dad’s face.

“How’s my daughter?” he said as he pulled the van alongside the curb.

“Fine, Dad,” I said with a tinge of forced brightness.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey, Mr. Oday.” Sam grabbed my backpack from the sidewalk. This time he didn’t ask, and I was too tired to protest.

Sam followed me as I opened the rear door. With one hand, he tossed my pack into the back of the van. I placed a purple Lone Butte High School golf shirt from Coach Lannon on top of it. It was a men’s large, but it had been the only shirt left. I was supposed to wear it to all the tournaments. I’d have to hem the sleeves a couple inches before Thursday’s tournament. Otherwise the shirt would hang past my elbows.

Dad’s brow continued to furrow as he watched me over the front seat. “Really?” he said. His tone was doubtful. “Everything’s really fine?”

I slammed the door, because that was the only way it closed. Then I climbed into the passenger seat, anxious for once to get home. Sam slipped into the seat behind mine. “Really,” I said, still a bit forced.

“How was practice?”

“Fine.”

He chortled. “That’s it? That’s all you got for me? Fine?”

I nodded and looked out the passenger window as he pressed the accelerator and proceeded to the exit.

“How’d you do?”

“I did okay.”

“Just okay?” His eyes widened. “Look, are you going to tell me how practice went or not? I’ve been worried all day.”

I dragged my tongue across my lips, then turned to him and smirked. “It was about what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

I sank lower in my seat as we approached the stoplight, hiding the bottom half of my face below the dashboard. Ryan Berenger’s silver Jeep sat at the red light only two cars ahead of us.

Dang it!

I swallowed again, not taking my gaze off the back of his vehicle. There was a gold Ahwatukee Golf Club Member sticker on his rear window.

“Well, Coach Lannon had us warm up on the school’s driving range. Then we practiced our short game and putting.” I shrugged my shoulders like practice was no big deal. “I did fine. I think.”

Sam grunted behind me like he thought I was being too modest.

I’d done better than fine, even after my embarrassing first practice shot. I’d attacked the ball at every opportunity, because I didn’t have a choice. The boys had expected me to fail—wanted me to fail. I’d sensed it. And I wasn’t about to give any of them an ounce of satisfaction.

“And what about your teammates? What are they like?”

My lips sputtered while I crossed my arms over my chest. I really didn’t want to say too much in front of Sam. It felt kind of weird. And embarrassing. “They’re just...” I paused, looking ahead for Ryan’s Jeep. “They’re just a bunch of guys. You know...” My voice trailed off.

The light changed to green, and the cars began to cross the intersection. Dad stayed in the left lane to take the freeway home; Ryan turned right toward the Ahwatukee Golf Club and the sea of pink-tiled roofs.

And breathing became easier again. I rose a notch in my seat.

“How’d they feel about having you on the team?” Dad asked quietly.

My shoulders shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Coach Lannon didn’t give them much of a choice. How could they feel?”

Dad didn’t say anything. And neither did Sam.

Still, I could see both of their brains churning, even if they didn’t utter a single word.

Chapter 8

Ryan

ZACK FISHER WOULDN’T STOP TALKING ABOUT Fred Oday. I cranked up the car stereo another notch.

Zack sat in my passenger seat. He’d needed a ride home, but I regretted my offer to drive him.

“Man, I hate to say it, but she’s badass,” Zack yelled over the music, reaching for his seat belt as I pressed my foot against the accelerator, hard. The Jeep lurched forward.

My hands gripped the steering wheel till all my knuckles turned white. First Henry Graser, and now I had to listen to Zack Fisher all the way home. All anyone could talk about was Fred Oday.

“Did you see her sand shot?” Zack shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it.

Yeah, I saw it. My jaw clenched.

“I don’t think she missed a single putt either.” He whistled annoyingly through his teeth. “And I used to think you were the best putter on the team,” he said even louder. “Not anymore, dude. Sorry.” He chuckled darkly, slapping his hand against the door frame.

I raced to the stoplight just past the school exit. The light turned red, and my foot pressed the brake when it really wanted to stomp on the accelerator and fly down Pecos Road.

“You think with her on the team we might actually take State this year?” Zack turned to me.

My expression stayed frozen till my gaze traveled to the rearview mirror. Then I shook my head and sighed.

“What?” Zack asked.

“Nothing.” I frowned. I wasn’t about to tell bigmouthed Zack that I was starting to see Fred Oday everywhere—at restaurants, in class, even in my rearview mirror. And she was in the passenger seat of a rusted-out van—at least, it looked like her. Dark hair, coppery skin, hair pulled back, forehead lowered. Always lowered. And for some reason, that ape of a guy Sam Tracy was in the van, seated behind her. It was kind of hard to miss him. His neck was as wide as a tree trunk.

“So, what do you think?” Zack prodded again.

“About what?” I mumbled as the light turned green. My fingers drummed against the steering wheel.

“About the team? About winning?”

I exhaled loudly. “I don’t know what to think, so just shut up. I’m trying to drive. Do you want a ride or not?”

Zack’s neck pulled back, and his eyes widened. “Sure. That’s cool.” His eye roll told me he would have preferred walking home. “You wanna hang at my house for a while?”

“No, I’ve gotta get home,” I lied.

I’d promised to stop by Seth’s house after practice. I didn’t know which would be worse: avoiding Seth’s questions about golf practice or listening to Zack’s nonstop babble.

When the light finally changed, I made my turn and checked the rearview mirror. Fred was gone, and I could think clearly again.

Chapter 9

Fred

AFTER THE USUAL quickie dinner of hot dogs and canned corn, I begged Mom to drive with me back to Phoenix to shop for a new pair of shorts for school. That was the only way Dad would let me go, and, surprisingly, Mom agreed. I’d had my license for almost a year, but Dad had a thing about me driving long distances at night. And when you lived in the middle of nowhere, everything was long-distance.

Being September, it was still too warm for jeans, and my two pairs of shorts had become embarrassingly faded and frayed around the edges. My khaki pair I’d worn since the eighth grade.

I was certain my fashion faux pas hadn’t gone unnoticed at school where most of the girls, especially the popular ones, rotated fashion as often as their boyfriends. I simply had to have something new to wear, at least an updated pair of shorts, maybe even a new tank, before the first golf tournament.

The closest mall to the Rez sat next to the freeway. It was halfway between our trailer and Lone Butte High School. The mall was completely enclosed and so enormous that it should have had its own zip code. There were three floors of continuous stores wrapped around a central courtyard with a fountain. A strong scent of melted cheese and warm pretzels permeated the air. Even though it was a Monday, the stores buzzed with people and chatter like it was the last day of Christmas shopping.

I loved the mall. I could window-shop every day. Mom? Not so much.

“Just a couple of stores tonight, Freddy,” Mom said, pulling closer to me as the other shoppers jostled around us with their elbows and strollers. “Let’s not make it a marathon. The air in here always dries my eyes.” Her nose wrinkled when someone’s shopping bag brushed her arm.

“’Kay, Mom,” I said. Mom had never been a fan of crowds, especially in places outside the Rez. She always said the mall made her nervous, but I suspected it was the people, especially the ones with designer purses and overflowing department-store bags from Nordstrom and Macy’s. They probably reminded her too much of the people she had to serve at work.

Still, I always secretly wished that she was the type of mom who liked to shop and do all the fun things I imagined that normal girls did with their mothers, maybe even stop at a restaurant in the food court afterward to critique our purchases over a cheeseburger and soda. Wouldn’t that be so cool? Except we never did stuff like that.

“Where to first?” Mom said.

I nodded to a Gap store next to my favorite golf-goods store. I’d been in the golf store a few times with Dad but never to buy anything, only to look. And dream.

Mom’s eyes followed mine. She let out a long exhale. “You didn’t drag me all the way out to this godforsaken place to look at golf clubs, did you? When I could be home with my feet propped up enjoying a cold beer?”

I cringed at her loud tone. “Already got clubs,” I said softly. Nonchalantly, my eyes trailed across the display window. A silver ladder with women’s golf shoes perched on each step filled the corner, and my eyes beaded on a white leather pair with soft pink piping around the laces. I sucked back a breath through my lips. Those shoes matched my golf glove. I just had to take a closer look.

“Freddy...” Mom’s voice ratcheted up another notch. “A pair of shorts is why we’re here, remember?”

“Yep, I know. But I just need to look at something for a second. Please? I’ll be back outside before you know it. Promise.”

Mom’s lips sputtered. “Okay, okay. But only a minute. I’ll be in here.” She nodded toward the Gap. “I’ll start looking for the clothes on sale, but if you’re not inside this store in five minutes, we’re leaving. Anyway, I think I’m getting a migraine.” Her eyebrows pulled together.

I nodded. “I’ll only be gone a minute.” I glanced again at the golf shoes, half expecting giant hands to swoop them off the display before my very eyes.

“How much money you got?”

“Probably enough for two pairs of shorts,” I said. “That’s all I need.”

“Good, because I sure as hell didn’t bring any.” Mom’s shoulders shrugged, and then she turned for the other store. “At least it’s less crowded in here,” she muttered as she walked away. “And there’s a chair!”

I spun on the balls of my feet and darted inside the golf store while Mom trotted off to nab the chair. I rushed to the shoe section to find the white pair with the pink piping. My eyes landed on the price tag: $110.

I sighed.

It might as well have said one million.

My fingers brushed the soft laces. I’d need a few more weekends at the Wild Horse Restaurant to afford them, if the chef allowed me back at all.

Chapter 10

Ryan

SETH AND I DROVE TO THE mall off the I-10 freeway. I’d picked him up at his house after golf practice, and we’d gone to mine. But chilling at the mall was way better than hanging around the house and listening to Mom nag about homework that bored me and college entrance exams that I didn’t want to take. Seth felt the same way. It was one of a million things we had in common.

I’d lied and told Mom that I already signed up for the SATs, just so that I could get out of the house. Fortunately, she’d bought it. I should feel guilty about lying to her all the time, but I didn’t. Not really anyway. Maybe because the more I lied, the easier it got.

Seth only wanted to hang because he wanted to hear all about Fred. I was going to have to lie to him, too. The truth would only crank him.

“Movie?” Seth asked me as we passed through the food court.

“Maybe.”

“What, then?” Seth stuffed his hands in his front pockets.

My shoulders shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Let’s just walk around.”

We started on the first floor and walked to the south end of the mall.

“So Zack texted me after practice and said the Indian wasn’t so bad.”

I cringed a little when he said Indian and kind of looked around to see if anyone had overheard. Seth hated Native Americans, all of them, mostly because a drunk one had killed his real dad when he was driving home from work one night on the freeway. Hit him head-on. It had happened when Seth was a baby. He knew his real dad only from pictures.

I didn’t answer him. But Seth wouldn’t let it go. “Well, what do you think?” he said. “Is she as good as Coach thinks?”

I considered it as if I really hadn’t given Fred much thought. “I don’t know,” I said finally. “She did okay, I guess.”

“Okay?” Seth stopped abruptly and faced me, toe to toe. I had no choice but to stop. “She does okay, and she gets handed my spot on the team like I don’t even matter?”

I searched his widened eyes but said nothing. I certainly wasn’t going to rub it in that he was the worst player on our team apart from Henry Graser. But Henry was Principal Graser’s son.

The problem with Seth was that he really didn’t even like golf. He played to please his stepdad. Why, I would never understand. Seth’s stepdad was the baddest guy I’d ever met.

“Coach Lannon told me to go out for wrestling,” he snarled. “Said I was built for it.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to wrestle. I hate wrestling. No one cool is on the team anyway. And I didn’t practice golf all summer long to go out for wrestling.” Hands jammed in his front pockets, Seth began walking again. “I still can’t believe it,” he muttered. “It reeks. It’s not fair. And then there’s my stepdad...” His voice trailed off.

“Was he pretty mad?” I asked carefully.

“Way mad. The usual.” Seth shrugged as though it was no big deal, but I knew better.

“What’d he say?”

Seth’s tone was flat. “He called me worthless and stupid. Said I didn’t practice hard enough. Blah, blah, blah. You know, his usual crank. And there’s no way I was going to tell him that I got kicked off because of a girl. And a fucking Indian.”

I winced. “Sorry, Seth.”

“At least he didn’t whack me,” he added. Too casually. “He hasn’t done that in a while.”

I shook my head. I really wished Seth didn’t have to live with his stepdad. But as mean as he was, his stepdad was the only father Seth had ever known. I wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

“Well, we’ve got to do something about Fred.” He spoke as if the decision had been made.

That stopped me cold, and the shoppers behind us practically slammed into our heels. “Like, what are you thinking?” I chuckled doubtfully. And what could we do? Coach Lannon’s mind was made up. Fred was all that.

Seth continued walking, and I caught up with him as we reached the golf store where we’d bought our golf bags last year. We stopped in front of the display window. “I don’t know yet.” Seth sighed. “But this isn’t over. I’ll think of something.”

“There’s really nothing you can do.” My eyes narrowed. I didn’t want him to get madder than he already was. “Coach was pretty clear. He likes her. I don’t think he’ll change his mind, not this time.”

“What if she chokes at the tournament?” Seth said. “What then?”

My head tilted, considering this. “Maybe,” I said, but not too confidently. I honestly didn’t expect Fred Oday to fail, not with her swing. Unless both of her arms were amputated by Thursday, she would probably do better than at least half the players on the team.

Seth’s nostrils flared. And just as I was going to open my mouth to try to encourage Seth to go out for wrestling again, I glanced into the golf-store display window. My teeth clamped shut. Then I mumbled, “I don’t believe this...”

Inside the store, Fred Oday picked up a white golf shoe and fingered its laces. A tiny smile brightened her face. Her smile faded into a sort of frown, a sad frown, when she turned the shoe over in her hands. Strangely, I wondered what crossed her mind. It was just a lame shoe—and a golf shoe. No big thing. But then she replaced the white shoe on the display, stood back to admire it with her hands clutched behind her back, only to pick it up a moment later like she was seeing it for the first time. Her hair fell over her bare shoulder as her head tilted sideways, covering half her face.

I gulped.

“Oh, no,” Seth moaned. He drew back a breath through his teeth. “You saw her, too?”

I blinked and then turned to Seth. I nodded but then wished I hadn’t. Now was not a good time to confront Fred Oday in the middle of the mall. She was the last person Seth needed to see.

“I didn’t think you saw her,” Seth said. “I saw them when we walked past the food court. I’m pretty sure they didn’t see us.”

My eyes narrowed. “Who are you talking about?”

“Your dad.” Seth lowered his voice along with his chin, not that it was necessary. The mall noise muffled everything. “And that girl.”

“My dad? Where?”

Seth’s head tilted sideways toward the west end of the food court.

I followed the arc of Seth’s head till my gaze landed on a round table next to the fountain. Through a fake potted fern, I watched as Dad chatted up a girl with spiky red hair. He was still wearing his shirt and purple tie from this morning except that his tie was loosened at the neck. The girl tossed her head back and laughed at something he said. She didn’t look much older than my cousin Lauren. Except the girl seated across from Dad didn’t look like she went to college. She wore a black smock with a white name tag, accentuating the paleness of her face. Her lips were bright red.

“I think that’s the lady who cuts my dad’s hair,” I muttered. “She cuts mine, too. Sometimes.”

Seth turned to me. “She’s pretty hot.”

“Shut up, Seth,” I said.

“Well, she is,” he replied, just as Dad placed his hand over hers in the middle of their tiny table.

My stomach did a somersault before my cheeks flushed hot. Dad looked as if he liked her. I found myself clenching my fists. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Sure. Where?” he said, but I’d already turned.

“Anywhere but here.”

Seth jogged after me. “You gonna tell your mom about it?”

I snorted. “Don’t have to.”

“She already knows?”

“Why do you think she’s always working?” Seth had to jog to keep up with me.

By the time we reached the parking lot, I was breathing so hard that my ribs hurt. I tried to stop thinking about Dad and his new girlfriend by thinking about Fred and her smile. But it didn’t really work. I kept seeing my angry reflection staring back at me in store windows.

Seth knew me better than to ask what was wrong. “Why don’t we head to the arcade and scare up some freshmen?”

“Nah.” I shook my head.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for the door handle to his pickup truck. “It’ll be fun.”

I climbed inside the truck, silent. I wasn’t in the mood to terrorize the newest unsuspecting freshmen at Lone Butte High School who were dumbass enough to spend time at the arcade. Last time we did, Seth had had one redheaded dude practically in tears when he kept challenging him to a game of air hockey in front of his friends. The frosh had finally relented and bombed, although not after Seth had smacked the back of his head with his hand and told him to stop being such a tool.

“It’ll be a good time,” Seth said, not letting it go. “You know you want to.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

I sighed. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.” It was better than going home. Anything was better than going home.

“Good answer,” Seth said as the tires squealed across the parking lot toward the exit.

Chapter 11

Fred

THE NEXT FEW days proceeded almost exactly as the first.

Each morning before work, Dad dropped me off in front of the high school along with my backpack and sometimes my plaid golf bag, depending on whether I decided to take it home or leave it in the coach’s office. I could leave my bag in his office every night if I wanted, but I preferred to bring my clubs home and practice my swing after I did my homework. Sometimes Sam and Pete would ride with Dad and me. On those days, I relented and let Sam drag my golf bag out of the van, if I had it. It was like Sam to be nice.

Then I tried to ignore all the stares and practically nailed my chin to my chest as I trudged through layers of high school kids to reach Coach Lannon’s office. At least I had some new clothes to wear. I’ll admit that it was better when Sam walked beside me, but it nagged me that he looked like some kind of an escort. It was stupid. And I had my suspicions that somehow my brother had put Sam up to Bodyguard Duty.

I attended all my classes and study halls but kept mostly to myself. At golf practice, I was mostly ignored, although Zack Fisher did ask me once which country club my parents belonged to. I almost choked on my answer.

After a sleepless Wednesday night, I walked straight to the No Admittance metal door in the back of the gymnasium with my golf bag over my shoulder without stopping. I passed Ryan Berenger and his circle of friends in the courtyard. As I passed, their conversation stopped. Ryan pretended not to notice me and turned to his blonde girlfriend to hide his face. I figured he was probably rolling his eyes by the grin on his girlfriend’s face. Her perfect pale cheeks filled with air like she was trying to swallow a laugh.

Nice.

I reached the rear door quickly, considering all of the weight hanging on my shoulder.

I knocked twice. Ten seconds later, Coach Lannon opened the heavy door and stood aside. “Morning, Fred,” he said, yawning as he propped the door open with his back.

“Hi, Coach,” I said as I walked through the opened door. It was familiar to me now and still barely wide enough for the both of us and my golf bag.

Coach Lannon smiled down at me as I passed. “Ready for the tournament today?”

“I think so,” I said, too late, as we walked to his office.

I didn’t have to look at his eyes to know they widened.

“I mean, yes,” I clarified.

“Good.” He was all toothy smile again. “’Cause I think we got a real chance at beating Hamilton this year.” He rubbed his hands. “Glad to see you’re wearing your golf shirt. Hope it wasn’t too big on you.”

For real? It’s as big as a hogan.1

“It’ll do,” I said.

“The boys treating you okay?”

“Fine,” I lied.

“Good,” he said. “’Cause I expect you to tell me if they don’t. Okay?”

I nodded without looking at him.

When we reached his office, I scooted around the coach and dropped my bag in its usual spot while he plopped into the seat behind his desk. I stood back and frowned at it. My bag stood out like a laser light among all the stylish navy blue, black and gray bags with their trendy logos and shiny clubs that barely looked used. I tried to stuff my bag into the corner, but there was only so much you could do to make a thirty-year-old plaid golf bag look inconspicuous.

“Listen, Fred,” Coach Lannon said as he opened a yellow folder on his desk. “There was something else I wanted to talk to you about. Privately. You want to have a seat for a minute?”

My stomach dropped.

He pointed to the chair in front of his desk. I sat down.

Had I done something wrong? Had he seen me muff the two short shots yesterday on the putting green? Was he angry already with my performance? Was he kicking me off the team?

My breathing quickened exponentially.

“I notice you wear tennis shoes instead of golf shoes.” He made a tent with his fingers.

I sat higher in my chair. I wasn’t expecting that. “Yes,” I said with an equally careful tone. It was like tiptoeing around Mom.

“Well, I just wondered if your play wouldn’t benefit from a pair of decent golf shoes—”

I interrupted him, surprising myself. “I haven’t had a chance yet to buy a pair.” I paused as my cheeks began to burn. “With school and practice and all. Maybe I’ll get to the mall this weekend.” Not a huge lie. It could happen.

Coach Lannon sat back in his chair. His eyes narrowed a fraction. “I see.”

I inhaled once, deeply, through my nose. The office walls began to shrink.

His palms lifted. “If it’s a question of money, let me help—”

“I don’t need any help with the shoes, Coach, really, I don’t. I just need time to get to the mall,” I said quickly.

The coach lowered his voice. “Okay,” he said, leaning forward again. “Didn’t mean to upset you. But if you should change your mind—”

“Maybe this weekend,” I said again, mentally calculating the tip money I’d already saved minus the money I’d just paid for two new pairs of shorts. And Mom had even promised to talk to the chef at the restaurant again. I’ll ask him when he’s desperate for extra hands, she’d promised the night before. Then he’ll have to take you back. Besides, Mom had said, you’ll need the job when you graduate. Her words had ingrained themselves in my brain like a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

Coach Lannon lowered his chin. His tone was kind, and I felt a tiny lump grow in my throat. “You know, Fred, there’s no harm in asking for help. When you need it.”

I pulled away from his desk, swallowing back the lump. Then I popped up out of my chair like there was a spring in the cushion. Dad would be mortified if I ever accepted charity. “Thank you, Coach. I appreciate it, but I don’t need any help.”

“Would it help if I talked to your parents?”

I felt my face go ashen. That would be a thousand times worse. “No. Please, don’t,” I said. “They’re busy enough as it is.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. Please, don’t. Please, don’t do anything.” I wanted to tell him to just leave me alone and let me play golf. I’d never needed golf shoes before. I could survive without them for a little while longer.

The crease in the middle of the coach’s forehead softened. I think he finally understood, but just as he was about to say something else, the first warning bell rang.

“I better get to class,” I said, eager to be anywhere but trapped with Coach Lannon and more questions.

The coach sighed and followed me reluctantly to the door. He leaned against it. “One other thing, Oday,” he said in his coach voice as I stepped into the hallway.

I was still breathing heavily through my nostrils, anxious to sprint. I turned.

“I’m pairing you with Berenger at the tournament today.”

“Ryan?”

“Yeah.” He squinted at me like he was surprised that I wouldn’t know. “You two are our best players. You’re in the top spot, and he’s in the second.”

“Oh.” My voice squeaked. “Right.” More unexpected news.

“Anyway, don’t forget the bus leaves here at two sharp.”

I nodded and then finally turned and charged down the long hallway. When I got to the end, I nearly knocked over Ryan and his stocky blond friend, another white boy at Lone Butte High School with a permanent snarl that contradicted his angelic face.

1 A traditional Navajo house.

Chapter 12

Ryan

“IS IT JUST ME, OR IS that girl whacked?” Seth muttered after Fred passed between us in the hallway, forcing us to part abruptly. She barely glanced at us.

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