Free Chasing Forgiveness by Neal Shusterman Page B

minutes until we can get out of this awful place and go home.

9
SECRET PLACES
September
    There is nothing but the football field now. That’s the way I like it. My uniform pads me against the tackling force of the other team; the cheering people standing on the sidelines pad me against the outside world. And now, there is nothing but the field.
    I’m almost twelve, but I feel much older in my uniform. My shoulders seem to stretch out a mile on both sides. The quarterback yells “set,” and I dig my cleats into the sod, ram my knuckles into the ground. I feel as hard and stable as a rock when I get down into position, but I feel as fast and light as a tiger when I run.
    The kid facing me on the other team is too slow, and we both know it. We both know I’ll be sailing far away from him the instant the ball is snapped. He can’t cover me. No one can.
    The center snaps the ball to the quarterback, and I leave the jumble of bodies and helmets far behind. In front of me, there’s nothing but the field. I am a rocket blasting out of orbit, and my cleats burn grass as I go. I will not turn around until I am in the end zone.
    A bigger kid from the other team comes up alongside me, like a missile trying to take me out—but he knows he can’t touch me until I have the ball. He runs just beside me, so I activate my second stage and roar on ahead, leaving him in smoke. I am in orbit, and it’s beautiful. The most perfect feeling in the world—having nothing to think about but the field. This is my quilt. Grandma has hers; this is mine.
    I am in the end zone. I am alone. And I turn. The ball is already spiraling in the air toward me. Almost toward me—it’s off to my right. Reflexively, I dig my cleats into the end zone and push off to the right. The field is gone. Now there is nothing but the ball. It seems to fly at me in slow motion, spinning closer and closer. I watch it dock smoothly and cleanly in my hands. I feel the lace and the rough imitation pigskin against the balls of my fingers. I clamp down tight, and the ball is mine.
    Now there is nothing but me.
    Holding the ball close, I dive, then roll on the hard, damp earth—not because I have to, but because I want to. I want to feel my body slamming down, hard enough to sting but not hard enough to hurt. I want to scream for joy at the top of mylungs until I have no voice. I want to enjoy this moment, and I want it to go on forever and ever.
    I am the fastest!
    I am the strongest!
    I am . . .
    Weavin’ Warren Sharp?
    With that thought, the world rushes back in on me with the tackling force of the entire NFL. Grandma and Grandpa watch from the side cheering. My teammates race to me, trying to lift me onto their shoulders.
    But all that doesn’t matter. The good feeling is gone.
    Grandpa holds a camera, taking pictures. For Dad. This is the first touchdown I’ve ever made that Dad wasn’t here to see. That Mom wasn’t here to see. And although I am the center of attention—although I’ve put our team in the lead—the play is over, and the smile on my face is only there to mask what I’m feeling inside. It’s the feeling that something is missing—like all my guts, or my brains, or my heart. Or my soul. My hands can catch footballs fine, but they can’t do what I really want them to do. I want them to reach inside my body. I want to use my fists to fill that empty space inside, wherever it is.
    â€œYeah, Preston!” scream my friends and teammates while the other team takes a walk down the field. “You’ll be MVP for sure.”
    Yes, I will be. I will push harder than I’ve pushed foranything. I will make that happen. I have to make it happen. For Mom.
    I close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and make the outside world go away again. The hold inside that my hands can’t reach is hidden once more. I push it back, until it is forgotten. I step forward