Free The Abstinence Teacher by Tom Perrotta

sweeper! Get back!”
    Candace Roper, a very pretty girl whom Maggie had known since preschool, had drifted up near midfield, apparently unaware that one of her opponents—they wore shiny yellow jerseys with the word Comets emblazoned on the front—had slipped behind her and would have a clear path to the goal if her teammates could get her the ball. Candace glanced over her shoulder, clapped one hand over her mouth in guilty surprise, then scampered back into position.
    “Jesus,” he said. “We’re sleepwalking out here.”
    “Where’s Eliza?”
    Frank jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Ruth turned to see her older daughter sitting at a picnic table beneath a fiery red maple that had already lost half its leaves. She was engrossed in a magazine, most likely a back issue of O or Martha Stewart Living that Frank’s lady friend, Meredith, made a point of passing along, knowing how much she enjoyed them. Ruth waved and called out a greeting, but Eliza didn’t notice—probably too busy boning up on recipes for low-fat crème brulée or color schemes to beat those stubborn winter blahs. Ruth watched her for a moment, struggling against the combination ofexasperation and pity that Eliza so often provoked in her. She was fourteen going on forty, for God’s sake. Wasn’t it past time for a little adolescent rebellion?
    “Come on, ref!” Frank slapped his thigh. “Open your eyes! She’s throwing elbows!”
    “Easy,” Ruth warned him. Both her daughters had recently complained about their father’s obnoxious behavior at soccer games. “You’re not allowed to harass the referees.”
    “Number fourteen’s going to hurt someone!” he continued, as if Ruth hadn’t said a word. “She’s playing like a thug!”
    He yelled this loudly enough that the thug in question—a big, rosy-cheeked girl who wore her blond hair in Valkyrie-style braids—turned and gaped at him, her arms spread wide in a gesture of puzzled innocence.
    “That’s right, honey!” Frank jabbed an accusatory finger. “I’m watching you!”
    “Enough,” Ruth said. “She’s just a kid.”
    She spoke more forcefully this time, and Frank actually listened. His expression turned sheepish, and he shook his head, as if trying to clear away the cobwebs.
    “Sorry. Sometimes I get a little worked up.”
    “No kidding.”
    “It’s crazy. These Bridgeton girls are a bunch of bruisers. What’re they putting in the milk over there?”
    It was true, Ruth realized. The Comets were unusually big for their age—aside from one nimble Asian girl, they looked like a tribe of Viking warrior maidens—and they played a tough physical game, lots of pushing and shoving and body-checking. But you had to give Maggie’s team credit; what they lacked in size they made up for in quickness and skill, frequently beating their opponents to the ball and moving upfield in a rat-a-tat-tat series of pinpoint passes. If not forseveral spectacular but risky saves by the Comets’ goalie, who had no qualms about coming way out of the net to challenge the shooter, Stonewood Heights would have held a commanding lead.
    Ruth was especially impressed by her daughter’s performance. Maggie had always been a natural athlete, but in the past she’d seemed oddly tentative in the field, too polite for her own good. If a girl on the other team wanted the ball badly enough, Maggie would just stand aside and let her have it. Today, though, she was playing with a competitive fire that took Ruth by surprise, a beady-eyed intensity uncannily similar to her father’s. She was all over the field, leading the breaks on offense, helping out on defense, fighting fiercely for control of the ball. She talked a lot during the game, barking incomprehensible instructions to her teammates—she wore a mouthpiece to protect her orthodontia—who seemed to understand exactly what she wanted from them.
    “Wow,” said Ruth. “She’s come a long way.”
    Frank nodded. “She’s been like this