Out of Nowhere Read Free Page A

but hit Cherisse instead.
    “Ouch! Thanks a lot, Lila,” Cherisse said, but you could tell she wasn’t really hurt. She whispered quietly to me, “What favorite word?”
    I pressed my lips against her ear.
    “Frigid,” I breathed.
    She gasped, then tried to stifle her giggles in the front of my shirt.
    Meanwhile, Devon got up. She yanked her blanket from the pile and searched for her shoes.
    “I have just one thing to say to you people,” she said. “Fuck. You.”
    Jake whooped, then applauded.
    “And
you
two,” she hissed, turning to me and Cherisse. “Why don’t you
fucking
get a room?” She marched off, trailing her blanket.
    “Hey. That was
two
things,” I called after her. Everyone laughed. Poor Devon.
    Not too long after that the beer was gone, Cherisse was making noises about clearing out, and we heard hollering from the parking lot. We didn’t know whether it was cops or kids, so we grabbed our stuff and ran behind the bleachers. From there we could see the lot.
    It was Donnie. He was standing straight up through Morin’s sunroof, whooping like a madman as the car spun donuts. Whenit turned sharply, Donnie’s whole body swung and it looked like he was going to be flung up and onto the pavement. Somehow he held on, and after a victory lap that left the smell of singed rubber, the two of them peeled out and disappeared into the night.
    “Guess he found Pepper,” Jake said, and we all cracked up.
    A few monster chunks into it, Uncle Paul and I had a rhythm. He would heave; I’d manage the wedge; he’d position for the second bite; we’d both toss the splits. Neither of us spoke, which was fine by me. I was enjoying the thought-free zone of splitter hum and repetitive motion. Paul can be good like that. He’s happy to work alongside you without pulling conversation out of your head.
    Not that morning, however. He’d been at the soccer game.
    “I see your coach is starting some of those Somalis,” he said. The wedge slid forward. I waited for the crack before speaking.
    “Yup,” I said. We grabbed the splits. Tossed.
    “How’s that goin’?” he continued.
    “Fine.”
    Better than fine
, I managed to not say, as it probably would have pissed him off. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell him what my role had been in getting Saeed out on the field.
    That day when Saeed wore the Manchester United shirt, I’d told him that if he played soccer, he should come to a meeting with Coach after school. I don’t really know how I communicated that to him, because I’m sure as hell no Mike Turcotte when it comes to African charades (that’s what we call Turcotte’s attempts at talking to these kids), or how he managed to understand, but he showed up. And brought three other Somali guys with him.
    After Coach Gerardi gave his talk and dismissed everyone, he signaled me over. Saeed was standing with him, holding a sheaf of papers: permission slips, medical forms. All the things you need to fill out if you want to play sports in high school.
    “Tom, this young man says you invited him to the meeting today?”
    I nodded. I wondered if I was in trouble. Coach doesn’t really talk; he growls.
    “Well, he’s going to need some help filling out these forms,” he said. “Think you can do that?”
    I’m captain of the soccer team. Did I really have a choice?
    “Uh … sure,” I told him. “But doesn’t guidance have translators who help with that?”
    “They’re gone for the weekend,” Coach said. “He needs these by Monday.” He turned on his heel and walked off, leaving me standing there, stupidly, with Saeed.
    “Okay, well …” I grabbed one of the sheets from Saeed and pointed to a line. “Your mother or father needs to sign here. Their name. That gives you permission to play soccer.” I slowed down, pronouncing each word carefully, but he still looked confused.
    I tried to imagine how Turcotte would act out “permission slip.”
    “I got … no father,” Saeed finally