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so hard at it.
    But soccer was always there. We were obviously both thinking about it, but what could we say? Finally, after thethird awkward silence, Lena was the one who had the guts to bring it up. Of course. Because she’s a better friend than me on top of everything else.
    â€œKeezer’s a total witch,” she said. “She was really mean in practice, yelling at everybody like they were total idiots.”
    What was I going to say? It’s too bad you made varsity as a ninth grader? All I could think to say was “Well, Ms. Beasley’s really nice. So at least there’s that.”
    Lena just looked at me. “I’m sorry. It’s so unfair.”
    â€œNo, it’s not. I mean, what’s-her-name is a senior, and they can’t carry me as a backup goalie if I can’t run. It makes total sense.”
    â€œIt’s not as fun without you. I don’t like it as much. It used to be fun, you know, and now it’s only about winning, and who cares if it’s any fun. I had three messages from her from over the weekend. Listen to this!”
    Lena whipped out her cell phone, called her voice mail, and put it on speakerphone. “It’s Saturday morning,” Keezer’s voice said out of the tinny little speaker, “and just because you can’t practice with the team doesn’t mean you can’t practice. Make sure you run every day. Two miles is an okay number for a holiday weekend. You’re fast, but you need to watch out for offsides. If you can get a three-on-three scrimmage together, you can practice offsides. Call me if you have questions.”
    I couldn’t help laughing. “Did you call?”
    â€œI was out of range, remember? Besides, she gave me detailed instructions on all these passing and shooting drills I could run too.”
    â€œDid you do any of this stuff?”
    â€œI didn’t get the messages until today. And anyway, it’s not like I was going to run soccer drills inside the house in New Hampshire in the rain. She needs to relax.”
    â€œIt sure sounds like it.”
    Lena went home after dinner. She had been really nice. So why did I feel so awful? I got the good coach, and she got the scary one.
    Still, we were supposed to be complaining to each other about the coach, like we’d done before.
    I moped around after dinner, flipping channels while Dad read, Conrad did whatever he did in his room, which is not something I want to think about, and Dominic had his nightly crying jag.
    Mom came into the living room looking exasperated. “Amanda, he’s asking for you. Will you go talk to him?”
    â€œUh, okay,” I muttered as I headed upstairs. Dominic was sitting up in his bed in his SpongeBob pajamas looking pathetic. “Hey, buddy,” I said. “What’s up?”
    â€œI don’t want to go. It’s too scary. Will you please stay home with me? Please?”
    â€œHmmm . . . how many times did I make you cry this weekend?”
    â€œI don’t know—five or six?”
    â€œSo basically twice a day. I don’t think even a horrible teacher would make you cry that much. It’s gonna be okay, you know? Conrad got through third grade, and you’re way smarter than him.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œReally. Now try to get some sleep, okay?”
    â€œOkay. Will you send Mommy back?”
    â€œYou got it.”
    I went back to the living room and told Mom she was wanted. “Your turn,” she told Dad. “Go tell him a story or something.”
    Dad’s face lit up and he headed upstairs. When I was sure he was out of earshot, I asked Mom, “What, are you trying to bore the kid into submission?”
    Mom gave me this amused look and said, “He really needs to get to sleep. I figured I’d prescribe a sleep aid.”
    I continued to flip through channels, because everything on TV was annoying me. “So,” Mom said after