Suspended Page 5

  “What’s going on?” said the referee.

  “We’re taking the kickoff,” I said.

  “But you’ve only got nine players. You can’t start without a full team.”

  I looked at Ice.

  He called to the referee, “The rules say a team must have at least seven players and not more than eleven, so nine is okay.”

  “Is that all right with you?” the referee asked the Keswick Narrows coach.

  Mr. Parsons nodded. “I guess so.”

  “It doesn’t matter if it’s all right with him or not,” said Ice.

  “Tell your team to take their positions, then,” the referee told me.

  “They’re in them,” I said.

  “They can’t stand in a line across the field.”

  “Who says?”

  “It’s not regular.”

  Ice called, “As long as all players are in their own half of the field, they can stand where they like for the kick off.”

  The referee looked at Coach Parsons, shrugged, and blew the whistle to start. I tapped the ball into their end and ran back to join the line. Julie was on one side of me and Toby on the other. A few students from the home school were watching and snickering at our maneuvers. Number 5 — a tall, gangly boy with thin legs — dribbled towards Toby.

  When he was a metre away, Toby smiled and said, “How-de-doody, pal.”

  Number 5 stopped and said, “Eh?”

  As the ball trickled away from his feet, Toby punted it towards the Keswick goal. The goalkeeper grabbed it and started another advance. Number 5 tried to run between Linh-Mai and Jillian, but they closed the gap. Then he tried to dribble between Julie and me. Eventually Julie took the ball and kicked it back into the Keswick Narrows end.

  The spectators started a slow hand clap. I heard Number 5 grumble, “Play a proper game.”

  On the sideline, Ice grinned and winked.

  Keswick Narrows advanced yet again.

  “When I move forward — everybody move with me,” I whispered to Julie and Toby. “Pass it down the line.”

  Number 5 kept the ball while his team stood poised to run between us. As he swung his foot to kick the ball, I moved forward, and the line moved with me, past the home players, leaving only Brian between them and the goal.

  The referee whistled. “Offside.”

  Number 5 groaned. The slow clapping resumed, louder.

  When we left the field at halftime, I overheard the Keswick Narrows players grumble among themselves. “This is like kicking the ball against a wall.”

  During the break, Ice said, “Take your regular positions for the start of the second half, but as soon as they take the kick off, run back and form your line. That’ll keep them guessing.”

  Our opponents looked relieved that we were about to play a normal game. Number 5 kicked off with a flourish, making a show of passing behind him before spinning around to run upfield. He stopped and gaped when he saw us racing back into our line. He and another guy passed the ball casually between them, as if they were playing a game of monkey in the middle with me. I watched a few passes go back and forth, then leaped forward and intercepted the ball. When I looped the ball high over the Keswick players, it landed in front of Julie, who collected it just before she crossed the halfway line.

  “Go, darling!” Ice shouted.

  Julie ran around the goalkeeper and tapped the ball into the net. She turned, arms high, grinning.

  The Keswick Narrows coach shouted, “No goal. Offside.”

  The referee hesitated, blew his whistle, and echoed, “Offside!”

  “I think not,” called Ice. He strode onto the pitch, his open trench coat flapping behind him. He plucked a tattered book from his pocket. “Take a look at the rules. A player can’t be offside in his or her own side of the field,” he said, planting his finger on the page.

  The referee read and announced, “You’re right. Goal — I guess.”

  For the next ten minutes, Keswick Narrows attacked our line ferociously, but we held firm. Then, they seemed to grow dispirited. It was a boring way to play, I’ll admit. Their attacks were half-hearted, so we held onto our lead until the game ended.

  The Wanderers had won their first league encounter.

  We had to be careful the following week at school to keep the Wanderers a secret, despite our excitement at winning.

  Toby ran into the classroom on Monday morning. “Great win!” he said breathlessly.

  When I looked at him sharply he added quickly, “I mean the hockey game on TV last night.”

  As we left French class, Julie asked anxiously, “Do you think we can use that tactic again?”

  Ms. Watkins overheard. “What tactic would that be?” she asked.

  I made up some story that Julie had discovered a good chess move the night before.

  Outside, in a whisper, I answered Julie’s question. “We won’t get away with a stunt like that again. We need goals in soccer or we’re going to get badly beaten.”

  10

  Winners

  Magic and Brandon always did their work — well. They were serious, A students.

  Brandon was more than quiet. He was totally silent. He hadn’t spoken since kindergarten. No one knew why as far as I know. He never answered questions or took part in class discussions; he never got in trouble for talking, or using bad language, or being loud. His mission in life seemed to be to make himself invisible. In addition to never speaking, he never looked at you. His hair was dull yellow, as if the sun had bleached out all the colour, and his complexion was so pale you expected to see the face bones underneath. Despite his slight build, he was a star striker, with a mighty shot.

  Magic, with his round eyes and round nose, looked a bit like a monkey. We called him ‘Magic’ because of the way he ghosted into scoring positions in soccer, and got straight A’s in school without seeming to study. Whenever someone asked him how he got them, he’d shrug and say something like, “I was just lucky.”

  At recess a few days after the game with Keswick Narrows, Magic and Brandon sat beside the dumpster, as usual, hidden from the playground. Both had headphones in their ears and were writing in exercise books balanced on their knees. Every now and then one would lean over and point to the other’s work. After recess, while we waited in social studies class for Mr. Justason, I realised Magic and Brandon hadn’t returned to class.

  I whispered to Julie, “I’ll bet they couldn’t hear the bell because of their headphones. I’ll get them.”

  Just as I stood, Mr. Justason swept into the room. Magic and Brandon hurried in behind him.

  “Sorry we’re late,” said Magic. “We didn’t hear the bell.”

  “You each get a demerit for being late,” said Mr. Justason.

  “But we’ve never been late before.”

  “And I don’t expect you ever to be late again. What about you, Brandon. Would you like to apologize, too?”

  Of course Brandon said nothing.

  “I repeat — would you like to apologize?”

  Either he’d forgotten that Brandon never spoke, or he hadn’t learned that yet in the few weeks he’d been at our school.

  “Very well,” Mr. Justason said. “You receive two demerits — one for being late and one for refusing to apologize.”

  “Brandon doesn’t speak,” Magic explained.

  “He should have told me,” Mr. Justason snapped.

  Julie, Toby and I burst out laughing. Then we realized he hadn’t meant it as a joke.

  “That’s stupid,” said Magic.

  He put his hands in his pockets and stared at Mr. Justason. At that instant I understood he was like me. He didn’t like to break the rules — but once he started, he couldn’t stop.

  “That gets you another demerit,” Mr. Justason roared.

 
Magic scowled and he and Brandon sauntered to their seats.

  Between classes, I said to Magic, “Too bad about soccer. Do you want to play with the Wanderers?”

  “The Wanderers?”

  I told them about playing secretly at the Cemetery Road.

  “I’m in,” said Magic.

  And Brandon nodded too.

  Ice got off the bus from the high school as we were walking past the Main Street Convenience on the way home.

  “The Westfield Ridge coach called this morning in French class,” he said.

  “You answered your cellphone during French?” I said incredulously.

  “Sure,” said Ice. “I told Mme. LaPointe, ‘Je doit repond, s’il vous plait, Madame.’ And she said, ‘Bien, Ice.’ Please take your call outside.’ Anyway, the game’s next week. I suppose you’d like me to arrange transport again.”

  “Yes, please. We’ll have a full team,” I said. “Magic and Brandon are playing.”

  “That means I won’t have to think of any fancy tactics. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  * * *

  We met on the Cemetery Road, and later found Ice and Grease listening to the van idle. Ice wore a soccer shirt under his trench coat.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I found it in my closet. I thought I might as well look the part.”

  Then I noticed that the van had Cemetery Road Wanderers painted on both sides.

  “How much do we owe for having our name painted on the van?” I worried.

  Grease grunted and shook his head.

  Ice said, “It’s all part of the service.”

  Most of the people from Westfield Ridge work in the city, so it was quiet as we drove along. The town looked nice enough — lots of malls, subdivisions and golf clubs where you have to wear the right clothes. Grease found a parking spot, then stood with Ice to watch the game.

  Ice was right. It was an easy game. Fifteen minutes after the start we scored our first goal. Julie robbed one of the Westfield Ridge forwards of the ball and slipped it to me. I kept it while I surveyed the field. A few seconds earlier Magic had been helping defend. Now, from the corner of my eye, I saw him drifting unhurriedly through the Westfield Ridge midfield and defence into a space on the left touchline. I swept the ball out to the wing, where Magic was already moving toward the goal. The defenders rushed to cut him off. He waited until they were close to him before pushing the ball to Brandon, whose shot was in the net before the goalkeeper could move.

  We scored again when Toby cleared the ball out to the wing, where Jillian raced the length of the pitch with it before cutting the ball back to Brandon, who weaved around two defenders, then twisted and turned as the other backs swarmed frantically around him. Suddenly he straightened out and raced towards the side of the penalty area. The defenders went with him — but the ball didn’t. Brandon had left it behind him for Magic, who’d been standing to one side watching Brandon’s dribbling antics. Magic calmly walked the ball past the goalkeeper and into the net.

  We scored twice more in the second half — one each from Brandon and Magic — and won 4–0.

  Ice was scribbling on a scrap of paper as we left the field. He greeted us, “I’m figuring out points in the league table. You’re gaining.”

  We’d started at the bottom, of course, because we hadn’t played any games, while the other teams had played at least four. It was lucky for us that there had been lots of ties, with teams earning only one point instead of the three points they would have earned for a win; otherwise, we’d have been hopelessly behind.

  “I got the positions from the Westfield Ridge coach,” Ice went on. “You’re in the middle. If you win the next game, you could be second from the top.”

  “Who’s top?” I asked.

  Ice shrugged. “St. Croix Middle School.”

  I groaned.

  * * *

  We were doing a newspaper project in Language Arts a few days later when Betsy, who sits behind Toby, said, “This doesn’t look good on Brunswick Valley.”

  We had to discover how many times the community was mentioned in the different newspapers we’d brought from home, and how it was presented through the media.

  “What have you found?” our language arts teacher, Mr. Swanson, asked.

  “The headline is ‘Brunswick Valley School Gives Up.’”

  “What does it say?” Mr. Swanson asked.

  Betsy read, “Student suspensions have forced Brunswick Valley School to drop out of the Fundy Schools Soccer League. The team has been replaced by the Cemetery Road Wanderers, from Cemetery Road School. The Wanderers have made an impressive start, winning their first two games.”

  “I’ve never heard of Cemetery Road School,” commented James.

  “My cousin in Westfield Ridge played against them,” said Josh. “He thought some of the players were from Brunswick Valley.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked nervously.

  “He’s seen them around.”

  “Well, whoever they are — they’ve got a good soccer team,” said Michelle. “My cousin was in that game, too, and he says they were awesome.”

  I glanced at Julie. She caught my eye and smiled slowly.

  “That’s enough,” said Mr. Swanson. “Time to log off your computers.”

  At the end of class, Brian asked Michelle, “Did your cousin say anything about the goalkeeper?”

  “Why?”

  “Brian,” I said. “I think Julie wants you.”

  Julie was talking to Linh-Mai on the other side of the room.

  “Just curious,” Brian told Michelle.

  “Brian,” I said more loudly. “Julie wants you.”

  Michelle was deep in thought. “He did say something about the goalkeeper.”

  “Julie,” I called. “Didn’t you want Brian to help you with … with your language arts homework?”

  Julie looked up and frowned. “You think I want help from Brian?”

  I nodded frantically, pointing surreptitiously to Brian and Michelle.

  “I remember,” said Michelle. “He said the goalkeeper was brilliant.”

  “Oh — yes,” said Julie. She called, “Brian …”

  “Are you sure he said brilliant?” said Brian.

  “BRIAN,” Julie yelled.

  Brian jumped. “What?”

  “Come here.”

  “Why?”

  “I want help with my language arts homework.”

  “You’re asking me for help? You must be joking.”

  “Come here or I’ll pound you.”

  Brian obeyed, while I sighed with relief.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning, I was delivering flowers for Grandad, when Ice appeared at the end of Main Street Parallel. He’d received a call from the St. Croix coach asking when his team could play the Wanderers.

  I knew we’d be recognized by St. Croix, then word would get back and it would all be over.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said we were writing exams so the game would have to wait until next week.”

  “Shouldn’t we play Bethel Station first? At least we can get that game in before we’re discovered.”

  “Done,” said Ice. “You’re playing them on Monday.”

  Grease drove us fifty kilometres north of Brunswick Valley into a desolate area interspersed with scrubby fields. Bethel Station Regional was on an empty stretch of road with no nearby communities.

  I thought we’d be safe playing so far away from home, but the first person I saw was Floyd Wheeler, who used to go to St. Croix.

  “What’s he doing here?” I muttered to Julie.

  “His parents split up,” she explained. “His mom lives here, but his dad’s still in St. Croix.”


  I groaned. “He’ll tell all his friends in St. Croix about us.”

  “Grease will keep him quiet,” Ice offered. “He’s good at that. Just say the word.”

  “No, thank you,” I said quickly. “We’ll take our chances. Let’s call the St. Croix coach back and arrange the game sooner — before word gets around.”

  As soon as we took the field, Floyd Wheeler trotted over, a smirk on his face.

  “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?” he said sarcastically.

  No answer.

  “I thought you guys played for Brunswick Valley,” Floyd persisted.

  I still didn’t answer.

  He looked around at the rest of our team. “You are Brunswick Valley. You dropped out of the league. What’s going on?”

  “Same team, different name,” I said. “So what?”

  “So does the league know you’re the same team?” Floyd threatened. “You haven’t played my old school yet, have you? I’ll be in St. Croix this weekend. They’ll be interested to hear that ‘Cemetery Road’ is actually Brunswick Valley.”

  We knew Floyd from past games. He was a rough, tough defender who liked to intimidate his opponents. He was bigger than any of us — older, too. He had repeated a grade along the way and was old enough to be in high school. Brandon in particular had been on the receiving end of Floyd’s attentions in earlier games, and was already eyeing him nervously as we took our positions to start.

  Floyd pointed at Magic and instructed two of his defenders, “Stay with him all the time. Even when he’s nowhere near the ball, stay on him.” He looked at Brandon. “I’ll take care of my little friend here.”

  Ten minutes into the game Floyd crashed into Brandon from behind, sending him sprawling on his face.

  He leaned over as if to pull Brandon to his feet. I could see Floyd’s fingers turn white with the force of his grip on Brandon’s arm.

  Ice made his way onto the pitch. He motioned for Grease, too. Grease was wearing his usual camouflage pants and boots and yellow muscle shirt, and he’d just had his strip of hair coloured purple instead of green.

  The Bethel Station coach called, “Wait. What … Who’s this?”