Free The Underdogs by Sara Hammel Page B

brew.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” Goran shoved his Volcano at Celia and approached Patrick, who rose from his seat. “You never had a chance with her, man. You killed her. You killed her,” Goran cried, his voice cracking.
    Patrick’s face twisted in rage. “You— you —” he shouted at his friend, drops of spit flying from his mouth. “You knew about me and Annabel and you went after her anyway. For all we know, you’re the killer.”
    Patrick lunged at Goran, pushing on his chest with both hands, and then shouts and screams of “Hey! Hey! Save it for the tennis court!” rang out in the lobby as a scuffle ensued. Will stepped in and held Goran back while Celia tried to soothe Patrick. Evie and I stayed low on the sofa, and as I peeked over the cushion, I saw one person off to the side doing something extraordinary: Gene had come upon the drama and was watching with concern, but showed no sign of intervening. Patrick and Goran were staring each other down while being kept apart.
    My mom left the desk and came running. She saw Gene and ordered, “Eugene Hanrahan, get a grip on your people! They’re out of control. Do something!”
    Gene, though, was as calm as I’d ever seen him. He had one hand on his chin, and looked thoughtful. “Finally,” he said.
    â€œ Finally what?” my mom shrieked.
    â€œIt’s what should’ve happened days ago,” he said to my mom. To the rest of the lobby, Gene boomed with authority, “Everyone—and I mean everyone—be at the pool at five fifteen today.” A bunch of them swiveled in his direction, surprised to hear his voice from out of nowhere. “Five fifteen on the dot. Spread the word.”
    â€œFor what?” Patrick dared to ask, wiping sweat from his brow with his free arm.
    â€œYou know for what,” Gene said to the ragtag pack of emotionally overwrought people. “And don’t look at me like that. This is happening. Deal with it.”
    *   *   *
    At precisely five fifteen that evening, people began silently filtering through the pool’s revolving door, converging from all over the club. Swimmers emerged dripping from the pool, wrapping themselves in towels. Members were invited, too. The club regulars knew what to do and showed the way to those who didn’t. Amid a dusky haze, we formed a tight circle, standing shoulder to shoulder on the lawn. Harmony flipped the music on, handed out tissues to everyone, and fell in between Serene and Celia.
    â€œWelcome,” Gene said, “to the Love Circle.”
    Nope, he wasn’t kidding. He’d invented the Love Circle two years ago, after he fired the club’s twenty-year-veteran racket stringer for embezzling. No one could believe dear old Herman would do such a thing. The staff had started bickering nonstop, so Gene came up with a peacemaking plan. He was mocked mercilessly for his weird idea and for the New Agey music he played, but you know what? Everyone felt better afterward. The Love Circle, with all of us in it, gives us closure by literally closing the loop on our grief, he’d explained . He told us now, as flutes and harps and strings harmonized with the buzzing cicadas around us, “Funerals are for the living, not the dead. While it is not for us to judge why this poor family chose to keep Annabel’s funeral private, it is also important that we have our chance to grieve. She was a part of the club’s family, and make no mistake, she is with us now. We miss her, and and we always will. She was a ray of sunshine and we were lucky to have her for as long as we did.”
    He took a breath in through his nose and let it out loudly through his mouth. “This is a safe place to grieve. Cry, don’t cry, laugh at a special memory you have of her, smile at the thought of knowing her. Only two ground rules: respect everyone in the circle, no matter