the freeway home; Ryan turned right toward the Ahwatukee Golf Club and the sea of pink-tiled roofs.
And breathing became easier again. I rose a notch in my seat.
“How’d they feel about having you on the team?” Dad asked quietly.
My shoulders shrugged. “Okay, I guess. Coach Lannon didn’t give them much of a choice. How could they feel?”
Dad didn’t say anything. And neither did Sam.
Still, I could see both of their brains churning, even if they didn’t utter a single word.
Chapter 8
Ryan
ZACK FISHER WOULDN’T STOP TALKING ABOUT Fred Oday. I cranked up the car stereo another notch.
Zack sat in my passenger seat. He’d needed a ride home, but I regretted my offer to drive him.
“Man, I hate to say it, but she’s badass,” Zack yelled over the music, reaching for his seat belt as I pressed my foot against the accelerator, hard. The Jeep lurched forward.
My hands gripped the steering wheel till all my knuckles turned white. First Henry Graser, and now I had to listen to Zack Fisher all the way home. All anyone could talk about was Fred Oday.
“Did you see her sand shot?” Zack shook his head like he still couldn’t believe it.
Yeah, I saw it. My jaw clenched.
“I don’t think she missed a single putt either.” He whistled annoyingly through his teeth. “And I used to think you were the best putter on the team,” he said even louder. “Not anymore, dude. Sorry.” He chuckled darkly, slapping his hand against the door frame.
I raced to the stoplight just past the school exit. The light turned red, and my foot pressed the brake when it really wanted to stomp on the accelerator and fly down Pecos Road.
“You think with her on the team we might actually take State this year?” Zack turned to me.
My expression stayed frozen till my gaze traveled to the rearview mirror. Then I shook my head and sighed.
“What?” Zack asked.
“Nothing.” I frowned. I wasn’t about to tell bigmouthed Zack that I was starting to see Fred Oday everywhere—at restaurants, in class, even in my rearview mirror. And she was in the passenger seat of a rusted-out van—at least, it looked like her. Dark hair, coppery skin, hair pulled back, forehead lowered. Always lowered. And for some reason, that ape of a guy Sam Tracy was in the van, seated behind her. It was kind of hard to miss him. His neck was as wide as a tree trunk.
“So, what do you think?” Zack prodded again.
“About what?” I mumbled as the light turned green. My fingers drummed against the steering wheel.
“About the team? About winning?”
I exhaled loudly. “I don’t know what to think, so just shut up. I’m trying to drive. Do you want a ride or not?”
Zack’s neck pulled back, and his eyes widened. “Sure. That’s cool.” His eye roll told me he would have preferred walking home. “You wanna hang at my house for a while?”
“No, I’ve gotta get home,” I lied.
I’d promised to stop by Seth’s house after practice. I didn’t know which would be worse: avoiding Seth’s questions about golf practice or listening to Zack’s nonstop babble.
When the light finally changed, I made my turn and checked the rearview mirror. Fred was gone, and I could think clearly again.
Chapter 9
Fred
AFTER THE USUAL quickie dinner of hot dogs and canned corn, I begged Mom to drive with me back to Phoenix to shop for a new pair of shorts for school. That was the only way Dad would let me go, and, surprisingly, Mom agreed. I’d had my license for almost a year, but Dad had a thing about me driving long distances at night. And when you lived in the middle of nowhere, everything was long-distance.
Being September, it was still too warm for jeans, and my two pairs of shorts had become embarrassingly faded and frayed around the edges. My khaki pair I’d worn since the eighth grade.
I was certain my fashion faux pas hadn’t gone unnoticed at school where most of the girls, especially the popular ones, rotated fashion as often as their boyfriends. I simply had to have something new to wear, at least an updated pair of shorts, maybe even a new tank, before the first golf tournament.
The closest mall to the Rez sat next to the freeway. It was halfway between our trailer and Lone Butte High School. The mall was completely enclosed and so enormous that it should have had its own zip code. There were three floors of continuous stores wrapped around a central courtyard with a fountain. A strong scent of melted cheese and warm pretzels permeated the air. Even though it was a Monday, the stores buzzed with people and chatter like it was the last day of Christmas shopping.
I loved the mall. I could window-shop every day. Mom? Not so much.
“Just a couple of stores tonight, Freddy,” Mom said, pulling closer to me as the other shoppers jostled around us with their elbows and strollers. “Let’s not make it a marathon. The air in here always dries my eyes.” Her nose wrinkled when someone’s shopping bag brushed her arm.
“’Kay, Mom,” I said. Mom had never been a fan of crowds, especially in places outside the Rez. She always said the mall made her nervous, but I suspected it was the people, especially the ones with designer purses and overflowing department-store bags from Nordstrom and Macy’s. They probably reminded her too much of the people she had to serve at work.
Still, I always secretly wished that she was the type of mom who liked to shop and do all the fun things I imagined that normal girls did with their mothers, maybe even stop at a restaurant in the food court afterward to critique our purchases over a cheeseburger and soda. Wouldn’t that be so cool? Except we never did stuff like that.
“Where to first?” Mom said.
I nodded to a Gap store next to my favorite golf-goods store. I’d been in the golf store a few times with Dad but never to buy anything, only to look. And dream.
Mom’s eyes followed mine. She let out a long exhale. “You didn’t drag me all the way out to this godforsaken place to look at golf clubs, did you? When I could be home with my feet propped up enjoying a cold beer?”
I cringed at her loud tone. “Already got clubs,” I said softly. Nonchalantly, my eyes trailed across the display window. A silver ladder with women’s golf shoes perched on each step filled the corner, and my eyes beaded on a white leather pair with soft pink piping around the laces. I sucked back a breath through my lips. Those shoes matched my golf glove. I just had to take a closer look.
“Freddy...” Mom’s voice ratcheted up another notch. “A pair of shorts is why we’re here, remember?”
“Yep, I know. But I just need to look at something for a second. Please?
