and amusement parks. But Frank had known Mel since high school, and it was tacitly understood by everyone involved that he would get custody of the Zabels after the divorce. Ruth and Arlene tried to sustain an independent friendship for a while, but it had petered out after a couple of melancholy coffee dates.
“It's a shame what they did to you,” Arlene said. “You didn't deserve to be raked over the coals like that.”
“Thanks.” Ruth appreciated the sentiment, though she would have appreciated it a whole lot more a few months ago, back when the coals were still burning.
“I don't know where all these Bible Thumpers are coming from,” Arlene said. “I mean, they didn't used to be so—uh-oh!”
Ruth looked up just in time to see one of the Comets steal the ball from Nadima and boot it upheld to the Asian girl. A roar of anticipation went up from the Bridgeton fans as their star offensive player dribbled past Hannah Friedman and broke for the net. Alone in the goal, Louisa Zabel seemed jittery, uncertain whether to hold her ground or rush forward and force a shot.
“Oh God,” Arlene said, grabbing hold of Ruth's wrist.
The Asian girl had a wide-open shot from ten feet out, but she drilled the ball straight at Louisa, who swatted it away with her gloved hands, then dove for the rebound, curling her body around the ball before the shooter could follow up.
“Way to go, Lou-Lou!” Arlene screamed. “Get it out of there!”
Louisa leapt to her feet, sprinted forward, and flung the ball almost to midfield.
“Wow,” said Ruth. “She's got quite an arm.”
“This game's gonna give me a heart attack,” Arlene said. “What was I saying?”
“The Bible Thumpers?”
“Ah, forget it.” She waved her hand in disgust. “I'm sick of talking about it. The whole world's going nuts.”
“It's the kids who are being cheated,” Ruth pointed out. “You got a small group of fanatics telling everybody else what they can and can't do, what they should and shouldn't read or talk about. Where's it gonna end?”
“I wish it were a small group of fanatics. I'm starting to think there's more of them than us. I mean, they're running the country.”
“It's only because they're louder. The people on our side aren't speaking out. It's like we're a bunch of wimps who don't believe in anything.”
The Stars had a throw-in. Nadima raised the ball high over her head and heaved it into an empty space in the center of the field, a little bit ahead of one of her teammates—a quick, dark-haired girl Ruth had never seen before—who came streaking out of nowhere to meet it. Unfortunately, one of the Comets—Number 14, with the Wagnerian braids—arrived from the opposite direction at exactly the same time. It was a sickening thing to watch: the two players crashing into each other at full speed, both going down hard.
The bigger girl got up right away—she was crying and clutching her midsection—but Maggie's teammate remained motionless on the grass. Tim Mason and John Roper came running onto the field before the ref had even blown the whistle.
“Who got hurt?” Ruth asked.
“That's Abby, Tim's daughter.” Arlene drew an anxious breath. “I hope she's okay. Last week, a girl from Willard Falls broke her collarbone. They had to take her away in an ambulance.”
The players took a knee while the coaches attended to Abby. Tim Mason crouched at his daughter's side, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. He addressed a worried comment to his assistant, who nodded grimly, and signaled to the ref. By this point, the Bridgeton coach had wandered onto the field to see if he could help.
“This is scary,” Arlene said.
At almost the same moment, though, Tim's face broke into a dazzling smile of relief as Abby pushed herself into sitting position and held out a hand. In a single smooth motion, her father hoisted her up from the ground and cradled her in his arms. He asked a question; she nodded yes. The spectators applauded as they made their way slowly across the field, like an old-fashioned bride and groom.
“He seems like a nice guy,” said Ruth.
“Who, Tim?”
“Yeah. I just met him a little while ago.”
“He's good with the girls,” Arlene said, a bit stiffly.
Ruth couldn't help herself. “I actually thought he was kinda cute. I mean, I know he's married and everything.”
“You're joking, right?”
“He's a little short,” Ruth conceded. “But he's got a good build.”
Arlene hesitated for a moment, apparently trying to decide if Ruth was pulling her leg.
“You know he's one of them, right?”
“One of who?”
“That church. Tabernacle. Whatever you call it.”
“Really? He doesn't seem the type.”
“Ask him,” Arlene said. “He'll be happy to tell you all about it.”
“Oh, shit.” Ruth laughed, remembering the way the coach had held her hand and stared into her eyes. He hadn't wanted her body. He'd wanted her soul. “I'm such an idiot.”
Arlene patted her on the shoulder.
“We gotta find you a boyfriend.”
This was no idle offer. It was Arlene who'd set Ruth up with Ray Mattingly, the divorced computer guy with whom she'd had her only serious relationship since Frank had moved out. Not that it was all that serious. They'd had a couple of bad dates, then a couple of good ones, then a lovely weekend together in the Poconos, on the way home from which he informed her that he was moving to the Research Triangle of North Carolina. He said he would've mentioned it earlier, but he hadn't wanted to spoil their trip.
“Any candidates?” Ruth asked.
“I'll give it some thought,” Arlene promised.
The ball went out of bounds off the Comets, and the Stars called for subs. Maggie was one of three girls who came sprinting onto the field.
“Thank God,” said Arlene. “Now maybe we can get some offense going. If we win today, we'll be tied for first place in Division B-3.”
RUTH DIDN'T think of herself as the kind of person who cared deeply about the outcome of a game played by fifth graders—or the standings in Division B-3, whatever that was—but even she found it impossible not to get swept up in the excitement as the clock wound down, and every play became fraught with danger and possibility. You could see the tension on the faces of the spectators—they'd abandoned their conversations and drifted en masse toward the sideline, creating an irregular human fence around the field—as well as the players, who seemed to have moved beyond fatigue into the realm of pure adrenaline. Watching them, Ruth felt a sharp pang of envy, wishing she could be out there herself—hair pulled back, shin guards tucked under her knee socks,
