Free Jack & Louisa: Act 1 by Andrew Keenan-bolger, Kate Wetherhead Page A

said. “I’ll see you at five thirty.”
    “Break a leg, Jack Sprat!” my dad called as I jogged toward the field.
    The closer I got, the bigger and scarier the guys seemed to appear. They were stretching and lacing up their cleats with grunts and growls of effortless masculinity.
Break a leg
, I repeated in my head. That expression never seemed like a threat until now.
    We began with a set of drills. One by one, Coach Wilson had us dribble a ball to an orange cone, circle it, and run back. I watched as other boys completed the drill with varying degrees of skill. My first attempt was a little clunky. I accidentally kicked the ball too hard and had to chase after it before turning around and bringing it back.
    Coach Wilson then split us into two groups: half took turns shooting, the other half acted as goalies, trying to block. I delivered a solid kick, but it sailed right into the arms of Garett, a kid from my homeroom.
    Next came my turn as goalie. I uttered a sigh of relief as a kid approached the ball. He was the smallest guy on the field. I recognized him as the boy on the receiving end of Tanner’s Jell-O bomb. I spread my feet and put my hands in front of my chest like I’d seen the other boys do. Like a flash, his ball whipped straight past me and into the upper right-hand corner of the net. Judging by the faces of the others, they were just as surprised as I was.
    “All right, let’s do sprints now,” Coach Wilson announced. “I want you to run as fast as you can from one end of the field to the other. I’ll be timing you.”
    Come on, Jack, you got this
, I said to myself, shaking out my legs. I knew if I kept sucking, my chance at a normal middle-school life was back to zero. We stood single file, waiting for Coach Wilson’s call.
    “Yer mark. Get set.
Go!
”
    “Yer mark. Get set.
Go!
”
    “Yer mark. Get set.
Go!
”
    Before I knew it, I was next. Coach Wilson gave me the final
Go!
and I launched into a dash for my life. I flew down the field taking long, controlled strides (guess my ballet training was paying off). I charged with a force I didn’t even know I had. With every heaving breath, the doubts I’d been swallowing seemed to release themselves into the crisp September air. I neared the chalk line, confident I’d done all I could do. Two more steps and “
OOoffff!
”
    My knees clipped the grass as my body was thrown off balance and tumbled to the ground. I felt my face smash against the cold earth. I blinked open my eyes. A crowd of boys stood frozen, hands like visors over their brows, staring at me.
    “You okay, son?” Coach Wilson called, jogging my way.
    “Yeah, yeah,” I said, clumsily getting back on my feet. I looked down at my shirt, a giant grass stain across my chest. I was totally embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled to him. If my sucky performance in the drills hadn’t sealed the deal, this was certainly the final nail in the coffin.
    “What are you sorry about?” he said, smiling. “Do you know how many times you’re gonna get knocked down in this game?” He brushed a clod of dirt from my shoulder.
“It’s the getting up that’s important
.
”
    I hesitated for a moment, considering what he’d just said, then jogged back with him to the group. “Even with your fall,” he said, looking back at me, “that was the fastest time today.
    “All right.” Coach Wilson clapped as he neared the bleachers. “The last thing we’re doing is a scrimmage. Bowen through Jasperson, red team. Johnson through Trumble, you guys are blue. Grab a pinnie,” he said, pointing to an overflowing laundry bag. I joined the huddle of boys reaching into the heap and pulling out a blue or red mesh jersey, Coach’s words still ringing in my head.
    “Mr. Wilson?” I asked, glancing over at our green minivan. “Can I run to my car? I think I left my water bottle in there.”

–LOUISA–
    There it was—that twisted-mop feeling in my gut. I had never felt it quite as strongly