The Beast Read Free Page B

stove as Mom places a tray of garlic bread in the oven.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” I ask.
    â€œWell, hello to you too,” she says.
    â€œYou know what I mean. Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
    Mom has had two jobs ever since my father died—which is to say, for as long as I can remember. During the day, she’s a secretary at a law firm. In the evening, she’s a waitress at a sports bar. Or at least she was a waitress. “Did…you lose your job or something?”
    â€œJust the opposite,” she says. She hands me two napkins to place on the table. “I got a promotion. I was going to tell you last night, but you were already asleep.”
    I don’t want to talk about last night, so I change the subject back to her. “Did Alan finally retire?” Alan’s the restaurant manager.
    â€œNo, but he gave me a raise,” Mom says. She hands me two forks and adds, “He also gave me Wednesdays off.”
    â€œNice,” I say and take two plates from her.
    â€œIt’s better than nice, Alyssa. At last, I get to see the Fraser Copperheads’ star goalie.”
    She’s talking about me, of course, but for a split second I think she’s talking about Becca Miller. Then I realize she doesn’t even know who Becca is or, for that matter, why she’s taking my place in front of the net. When the hospital called last night and asked to speak to Mom, she was still at work. Rather than take a message, I told the nurse to hold on a second. Then I did my best impression of my mother’s voice. I did this for my mom’s sake. She can get really worked up over bad news, especially when it involves me, and I didn’t want her to worry.
    One time, when I was a little kid, I fell from a jungle gym and broke my pinkie. Mom cried the entire way to the emergency room. She has never forgiven herself for not doing a better job spotting me. My pinkie is still a little crooked. Every once in a while, I catch Mom looking at it and her eyes well up. Besides, the last thing I want to do is tell her that I’ll be warming the bench for the foreseeable future. The only reason we’re able to afford my playing soccer is because she works so much. The idea of sitting on the sidelines while she’s working two jobs makes me feel really guilty.
    â€œI checked your schedule,” Mom says. “You have a game next Wednesday. Hope there’s room for one more person in the stands.”
    She takes a noodle from the boiling pot and flings it against the wall. It sticks, which means the pasta is ready. She turns around with a huge smile, but I doubt it’s because of her spaghetti success. After all the shifts she spent waiting tables, she thinks she’s going to get to watch me play. I know I should tell her that she’s probably wrong. I just don’t want to do it tonight—not when we’re having dinner together on a weekday for the first time in forever.
    â€œSee you there, Mom,” I reply. Maybe I’ll sit next to you .

A m I better than Becca at goalie? That’s what Ruth told me to ask myself, and I spend the next day doing exactly that. I think about it instead of thinking about English or history or math or science. (Although it turns out I couldn’t focus on those subjects even if I wanted to. Whenever I watch my teachers write something on the chalkboard, waves of wooziness start lapping against my brain and stomach.) I think about it while eating Italian dunkers at lunch. I think about it while everyone else plays badminton in PE. I think about it while I sit in study hall.
    I’m still thinking about it when I go to practice. Coach Berg has sent Dayton Frey, Becca, and me to work on goalkeeping fundamentals. He wants me to give Becca pointers while Dayton shoots at her.
    It only takes a couple of Dayton’s kicks to answer the question that’s been plaguing me all day. Yes, I’m