CHARLOTTE’S FEET WERE swollen inside her Doc Martens. She’d forgotten how the temperature settled into the eighties and low nineties in the south bay during August and September. Puddles of sweat formed between her breasts and inside her armpits. After twelve years in the fog of San Francisco, she’d forgotten a lot of things about suburbia, not just the weather. Watching those women sit on the picnic table benches, as if they had paid for them like box seats at a baseball game, yanked her thoughts back to high school – the geeks at this table, the artists on the front lawn, the popular kids setting up camp at the center of the quad.
The three women who had watched her walk toward Meadow’s classroom kept their expressions hidden behind sunglasses, but their lowered voices indicated Charlotte was the topic of conversation. There was no doubt her unconventional hair and clothes prompted the whispering. So what? She was an artist, and even though she was forced to live for a while in a community that personified conformity, she refused to change her style. In the area around their Haight-Ashbury apartment, Doc Marten boots and spiked hair had been conservative fashion choices.
Charlotte carried Meadow’s backpack and Meadow skipped ahead as they turned onto a curved half-mile stretch of Palmdale Avenue. The houses were serene behind mature trees. The streets were wide, nearly empty of traffic at three-thirty in the afternoon. Parked cars were hidden inside garages. Even the dirt in the gardens looked clean, the soil damp from automatic drip watering systems.
“I like all the trees and grass,” said Meadow. “When I woke up this morning I heard about fifty birds outside my window.”
Charlotte placed her hand on Meadow’s head, feeling the warmth of her scalp. It was easy to imagine her hand tingling with the thoughts racing along the nerves of her daughter’s brain, like electricity pulsing through the power lines buried beneath the streets. In four months Meadow would turn eleven. For how much longer would she allow her mother to put her hand on top of her head? Charlotte wove her fingers into the tangle of hair at the base of Meadow’s skull. Meadow’s entire being felt so vulnerable to damage. For a moment, she longed to tighten her grip and pull her daughter’s body back inside her own. “There are a lot more songbirds here,” she said. “Or maybe we notice them more because it’s so quiet.”
Meadow shook her head, dislodging Charlotte’s hand.
“How was your first day?” said Charlotte.
“A boy got suspended because he brought his pocketknife to school.”
“Suspended?”
“Zero Tolerance. Remember that paper we had to sign?”
Charlotte remembered the policy; it was just hard to believe it had been enforced for a boy with a pocketknife. Did parents and school officials really think they could control everything? The school policies emphasized that if a child brought an aspirin to school it would be confiscated to ensure a drug-free campus. Perhaps the drive to create a perfect world for one’s children was simply part of human nature. Wasn’t that exactly what she was trying to do for Meadow, moving back to the suburban neighborhood she’d been so anxious to escape when she was eighteen?
At Redwood Avenue they paused to wait for the traffic light that separated their new neighborhood from the houses surrounding the elementary school. The area around Charlotte’s rented house was an eclectic collection of 1950s cottages, duplexes, and small apartment buildings. If there were railroad tracks through this section of Sunnyvale, their home would definitely be on the wrong side. Still, it was a neighborhood free of crime except for the occasional theft of a bicycle or a laptop computer. On some level, she believed the wide streets and manicured yards guaranteed that Meadow would forget the violence she’d witnessed last spring. She’d grow up safe, whatever safe meant. When the light turned green, they started walking across.
“I made a friend.”
“The girl who came out of the classroom with you?”
“Her name’s Amanda. She’s a twin.”
They passed under an oak tree growing near the entrance to a group of townhouses. Acorns were scattered across the sidewalk. Meadow squatted and scooped up a handful of satiny nuts. She crept along the concrete, stuffing acorns into her pocket. “Amanda said I should join the soccer team.”
A breeze wound through the oak tree. The branches swayed above them. Hot air blew against Charlotte’s skin, but goose bumps ran down her arms. “You’ve never mentioned wanting to play soccer.”
“Almost everyone at this school plays soccer. All of Amanda’s friends. Their team is called the Emerald Tigers. Sign ups are on Saturday.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in soccer.”
“How do I know if I’m interested? I never tried it.”
“I thought you wanted to take dance lessons.”
“Can’t I do both?”
Of course she could do both, but Charlotte didn’t want Meadow turning into one of those kids with a schedule as tight as a corporate attorney’s. Children should have lots of free time to read, or simply fiddle around. She was a firm believer in daydreaming. “Let’s start with one thing and see how it goes.”
“Then I want the one thing to be soccer.”
If Meadow learned to dance, she would acquire a skill that would give her pleasure throughout her life. She had a narrow body that seemed designed for dance, with supple limbs and an ethereal quality that made her appear to float when she walked. Kicking a soccer ball was such an aggressive act. “Those girls have probably played soccer for years. You might not be able to join the same team as Amanda.”
“The teams are by age. Everyone gets to play – it’s a rule,” said Meadow.
“Let’s wait and think about it.” She wanted Meadow to make friends, but not like this, not by blindly participating in the same activity as everyone else.
“Why do we have to think about it?”
“Because this is the first time you’ve ever mentioned it.”
“I thought I got to pick what I’m interested in.”
“You do.”
“I want to play soccer with my new friend.”
Charlotte was determined to let Meadow make as many decisions as possible. A few nights a week Meadow planned the dinner menu, even when it meant unusual combinations, like flour tortillas stuffed with fruit. Meadow had been selecting her own clothes since she was eight. But Charlotte had assumed her daughter would choose only among the offerings she was exposed to by her mother, at least for a few more years.
They turned the corner onto Crestview Way. The two-bedroom cottage where they’d lived for less than a week had a small front yard of pale grass that struggled for life because the sun was blocked by a large magnolia tree. The white paint on the trim was flaking in some spots and there were no drapes for the living room window. She couldn’t afford to replace them. More truthfully, she didn’t want to spend her limited cash on a problem that could be taken care of by tacking an enormous woven blanket inside the window frame.
She unlocked the front door. The thud of her boots sounded solid on the living room’s hardwood floor. The wood was scuffed, but so much more pleasing than a carpet that hid the dead skin and sweat of previous tenants. The house, more of a cottage, actually, was eleven hundred square feet and exuded a slight odor of mildew. She kept the windows open night and day.
Meadow dropped her backpack and paperback books on the floor. She inched toward the kitchen and disappeared around the corner. Charlotte sat on the couch and unlaced her boots. Meadow returned clutching a spoon and a plastic container of raspberry yogurt. Meadow’s eyelids trembled with the desire for her mother to reflect a sudden enthusiasm for soccer. Was Charlotte making a mistake, allowing her daughter to grow up in a world she had found constricting? She had even played soccer for a few months. Should she tell Meadow about her experience? It hadn’t gone well.
When she was ten years old, everyone said she ran like a leopard. Her long legs carried her around the track with a fluid motion. She loved stretching her muscles and tendons with graceful strides, but on the soccer field it wasn’t about beautiful running. Hidden lumps under the grass waited to twist her ankle. The chalked lines made her feel confined. The other girls pressed so close, pushing in front of her to get at the ball. All the while, the coach shouted at them, play your positions, girls! They weren’t individuals to her, just chess pieces. Charlotte was a fullback, rarely allowed to even attempt a score.
Then there was that perfect day – Charlotte had gotten control of the ball. For once, it stayed where it belonged, bobbing back and forth between her feet as she trotted down the field. She felt good, she knew what she was doing, putting distance between herself and the others so that she didn’t feel the heat of their skin, the puffing of their breath on her neck. She ran, increasing her speed with each step. The ball rolled and bounced in front of her. That scratching voice faded behind her. Play your position. Pass the ball. Pass!
She didn’t want to pass the ball. For once, she was having fun; she might even have a chance to score. She ran all the way to the end of the field and gave the ball a solid whack. The ball flew into the net. She turned, grinning.
“God, Charlotte. Are you stupid?”
The grin slid off her face.
“You were supposed to pass.”
“But I scored.”
“It’s not your job to score.”
The girls turned and walked back to their starting positions. Not once, for the remainder of the game, did the ball come within five feet of Charlotte. Instead, she danced back and forth, running slightly with nowhere to go. Did they have any fun at all, or did they just echo the voices of their parents about how important it was to do it right? Follow the rules, play your position. Why? So they could win a trophy of a fake-gold-plated girl kicking a ball? So they could shout, we won! After she quit soccer and decided sports weren’t for her, the soccer players no longer seemed interested in being friends with a girl like Charlotte. She wasn’t on their team. They were athletes, competitors, they had an identity – we’re soccer players. It still hurt more than she wanted to admit.
She smiled, hoping her face hid the memories racing inside her head. Maybe it would be different for Meadow. Maybe not. She’d moved to suburbia to give Meadow a safer world, but had managed to forget about the pain that could be inflicted on Meadow’s psyche if she didn’t conform. “You’re right, you won’t know if you like soccer unless you try.” Her words sounded hollow, echoing against the walls of the half empty room.
Meadow grinned, unaware that a droplet of pink yogurt clung to her lower lip.
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Copyright © 2011 by Cathryn Grant
