Free Gracie by Suzanne Weyn

“Hi,” I said, feeling sort of funny. “I should have called, but then I realized I’ve never called you. So here I am.”
    He was surprised to see me but he smiled, waiting for me to explain why I was there. I held up my carton of eggs. “You cooking something?” he asked.
    â€œNope. Toss me one,” I said, handing him the carton. He looked really confused as he took out one of the eggs. “Go ahead,” I prodded him as I slipped out of my flip-flops. “Toss it to me.”
    He tossed it and I missed, making a big yellow mark on his driveway. “Again,” I requested.

    Peter glanced around at his parents’ nice car parked nearby. “Careful,” he said nervously. He tossed the egg and I missed. Some of it splattered onto the car.
    â€œForget the car,” Peter said, and we both laughed. He took off his sneakers and wanted to try. As I had, he missed at first, but it didn’t take him as long as it had taken me to start catching them. Soon we were tossing them back and forth with our bare feet there in his driveway.
    â€œDo you think I have a chance at the boys’ Varsity team?” I asked.
    â€œAt trying out or making the team?” he asked, catching an egg with his feet.
    â€œHow would the other guys feel?” I asked.
    â€œWorried about all of them or just one?” he countered. We both knew he was talking about Kyle. “Just be a great player,” he advised.
    â€œI’m going to be better than you,” I warned him, keeping the egg volley going.
    â€œThat won’t be too hard,” he said with a grin.
    I admired that he could joke about the fact that he never made first-string. He was on the bench most of the time. “You stay on the team—why?” I asked as gently as I could. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I was curious.
    â€œBecause my dad thinks I should quit,” he joked.
    I shot him a disbelieving look. That couldn’t possibly be the only reason.
    â€œI play because there’s always next year, and I’m an optimist,” he amended, more honestly this time.

    The egg that we’d kept going for a good five minutes shattered right between us. “Not a bad run,” he said, taking another one out of the carton.
    â€œNot bad at all,” I agreed. I was seeing him in a new light, maybe really seeing him for the first time. He was thoughtful and funny, and a rebel in his own way. No wonder he’d been Johnny’s best friend. “You’re nice,” I complimented him sincerely.
    That made him smile. “I’m always nice—to you,” he said.
    It was true; he always had been nice to me—really nice. Why had I been so thick-headed that I’d never noticed it before?
    We looked down at the sea of broken eggs around us. What a mess! I’d have to help him clean it up.
    Peter looked at me with a serious expression. “If you’re going to play with the guys, you need to train with them,” he said.
    At that moment, I got it. Dad was still not training me full out. He was probably afraid the boys would cream me, as they’d tried to do that day at the stadium. I now understood something about Dad that I hadn’t known before. He wasn’t holding back because he didn’t believe in me, not entirely. He just didn’t want me to get hurt—my feelings or my body. I didn’t blame him anymore, but it was time to stop holding back. I am a much better player now.
    I thanked Peter and headed for home. Dad was there. He had climbed a tall ladder to trim the front hedges.

    The first thing I did was check the mailbox to see if I’d gotten anything from the School Board. I was waiting for a reply to my request to try out for the team. There was no letter from them.
    The next thing I did was shoot a soccer ball right at Dad’s ladder. “Watch it!” he shouted.
    â€œDad,” I said, grinning up at him.