My eyes traced the ball’s path toward the goal. I heard and saw everything at once. A seagull cried. Its shadow floated along the field. The smell of fertilizer from the orchards prickled my nose. I smacked the ball hard, focused on the goalie who dashed to the outer left anticipating the ball’s path. Instead I faked and hooked right, one leg crossed in front of the other, and sent the ball soaring. I fell to the ground. The ball spun over the goalie and swung into the net. My breath came in short bursts. I pulled myself to standing and shielded my eyes. I’d made the goal. Cheers from all sides, a wave of uniforms sped toward me. My teammates gave me high fives and celebratory yanks on my ponytail. The Rockets were victorious. We’d won the quarter finals. Everyone hugged and emptied water bottles over each other’s head.
Great game,” Liana.” Dad wasn’t usually able to watch my games, but this time he could. I was thrilled. Mom was there too.
The team celebrated with slices at Pizza Hut. “Great shot,” Carol said. She was my best friend and played midfield.
“We haven’t won yet,” Coach Bryan said, which was definitely a coach thing to say.
“We will,” I said, and asked him to pass the parmesan.
I looked forward to the evening. Now we had two things to celebrate: Dad’s being at home for several weeks and my scoring the winning goal.
Dad promised to treat me to dinner at my favorite restaurant in Sacramento, about an hour’s drive from where we lived on the Delta, a watery part of northern California. The restaurant served spaghetti with marinara, pesto, and mushroom, sauce with a fat meatball balanced on top. There was ice cream for dessert, something called spumoni.
“Great game,” Dad said. “You played a smart game.” Everyone said I looked like him, but my eyes were green like Mom’s. My teeth were my own, and overlapped in front like a broken keyboard. After seventh grade, Mom said she’d take me to the dentist for braces.
The host greeted us at the front desk in a black pants and a red vest. We passed beneath several chandeliers with pink lights filtering a soft halo as we walked into the main dining room. Waiters tried not to bump into us as they zipped around the tables with full trays.
The host sat us at a booth painted green, white and red. “Someone will be right with you.”
“Know what you want?” Mom asked.
I scanned the menu. My mouth watered at the smell of food.
“Let me guess,” Dad said. “Pesto?”
I loved that tangy, garlicky sauce, but Mom never fixed it. She wasn’t the greatest cook, fixed the basics, mostly like meatloaf and roast chicken. “Do you think I can get a double order of sauce?”
Mom laughed. “Why not?”
“The bread’s still warm,” Dad said, and smeared on the butter. We passed the bread around the table. I loved coming to this place.
“So good to have you back home.” Mom took Dad’s hand and we smiled one big smile together. But that was before everything happened.