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  Text copyright © 2013 by Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

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  The images in this book are used with the permission of:

  Front cover: © Chris Crisman/CORBIS. iStockphoto.com/

  Ermin Gutenberger, (stadium lights).

  Main body text set in Janson Text 12/17.5.

  Typeface provided by Adobe Systems

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publications Data

  Higgins, M.G.

  Offside / by M.G. Higgins.

  p. cm. — (Counterattack)

  ISBN: 978–1–4677–0305–5 (lib. bdg. : alk. paper)

  [1. Soccer—Fiction. 2. East Indian Americans—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H5349554Of 2013

  [Fic]—dc23

  2012025235

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – BP – 12/31/12

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-0960-6 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3125-6 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-4677-3124-9 (mobi)

  . . .

  FOR BK AND LK.

  F

  aith turned up the volume on her iPod. But it still couldn’t block out the sound of her little brothers screaming in the next bedroom. Between the noise coming through the apartment walls and her old computer software crashing at the worst possible moment, she’d have to stay up all night if she wanted to finish the health report that was due the next day.

  Yanking out her earbuds, she yelled, “Will you please. Shut! Up!”

  Like always, Faith instantly felt guilty for shouting. But at least they seemed to quiet down.

  She had typed one sentence when Antim screamed, “Give it back!”

  “No!” Vijay cried.

  “Faith! Vijay isn’t being fair!” Antim whined through the wall.

  Faith sighed. Sending a silent prayer to the word-processing gods, she clicked Save and strode into her brothers’ bedroom. Six-year-old Antim’s cheeks were streaked with tears. Vijay, eight, glowered at his younger brother. Faith could see the head of a Lego person in his tight fist. Lego pieces were scattered across the floor.

  “Both of you, play fair. And clean up.”

  “But—”

  “No buts! Work it out between yourselves. Just do it quietly.” Faith glanced at the boys’ purple dinosaur clock. It was after ten. “Where’s your sister?”

  “In the bathroom,” Vijay said. He stuck the Lego man onto a Lego truck and sent it rolling toward Antim.

  Faith marched down the hall. The bathroom door was closed. She knocked. “Hamsa?”

  No answer.

  “Are you trying on Mom’s makeup again?”

  Faith turned the knob. Locked. “You will never look like Taylor Swift, so stop trying. Wash your face.”

  “Whatever,” came a muffled reply.

  Faith shook her head and trudged back to her room. She wanted to send everyone to bed, but she knew it was best to let them wind down on their own.

  Five minutes later, Hamsa plopped onto her bed on the other side of their room. Her cheeks were freshly scrubbed, but Faith could still see traces of eyeliner. She smiled to herself, remembering her own fifth-grade makeup phase. She’d hardly worn more than lip gloss since.

  Hamsa grabbed her cell phone and started texting.

  “Don’t you have homework?” Faith asked.

  “Finished it.”

  Faith took a deep breath, ready to lecture her sister on the costs of sending so many text messages. But she returned to her computer. She wasn’t Mom. She shouldn’t have to do absolutely everything.

  . . .

  Faith gave herself two minutes to stretch around in bed and to wish she were still asleep. Then she threw off her covers and locked herself in the bathroom. Having these moments to herself was worth the five-thirty wake-up time. She turned the shower on as hot as she could stand it.

  After dressing in her usual school outfit—soccer sweats—she walked into the kitchen. Late-March sunshine just peeked through the curtains. Her mom sat at the table, reading the paper and sipping a cup of coffee. She was still wearing her hospital scrubs.

  “Hi, Mom.” Faith opened the cupboard and grabbed a box of cereal.

  “Good morning, Astha.”

  Faith cringed at the sound of her Hindu name. In third grade, Jessie Nichols started calling her “Asthma.” It stuck. So in fourth grade, she began using the English translation of Astha—faith. Now she preferred it. Her mom preferred tradition.

  Without looking up from the paper, her mom said, “Get your health report done?”

  “The boys were fighting until quarter after ten. At ten thirty, Hamsa admitted she had a math test today. I was up until midnight helping her study.”

  “Did you get your report done?” her mom repeated.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Faith grabbed milk from the fridge and slammed the door. “When would I have had the chance?”

  Her mom looked Faith in the eyes. “Hamsa can do her own work. How will you get into college without good grades?”

  Faith shook her head. She refused to have the college argument again. They didn’t have the money. She didn’t have the grades. She wasn’t even one of the Copperheads’ starting defenders—her soccer skills were only good enough to keep her on the bench. No scholarship. No college. End of story.

  After a few bites of cereal, Faith’s stomach clenched and she pushed the bowl away. She really should have finished that report, she thought. Even if she didn’t go to college, she at least wanted to graduate high school. Then she’d get a job and her own apartment.

  Her mom cleared her throat and said, “I have to cover for Emily this afternoon. So you need to stay home after school.”

  “What? No! I have a game!” She half-listened as her mom explained how Emily’s sick son had an afternoon doctor’s appointment. And how Emily had done the same thing for her a few months ago. Blah, blah, blah.

  Faith shoved her chair back, carried her bowl to the sink, and dumped out her uneaten cereal. How could her mom go back on their agreement again? For the past three years, Mom made sure everyone had breakfast and got to school okay. Then she slept until school let out. In return, Faith babysat in the afternoon or evening, giving Mom a couple more hours of sleep. At nine thirty that evening, when Mom left for work, Faith was in charge. In return, Faith got to play soccer. That was all Faith ever asked for.

  Faith washed her bowl and set it on the drying rack.

  “Astha,” her mom said, “your needs can’t always come first.”

  “I’ll be home before three,” Faith said flatly.

  As she was leaving the kitchen, Antim wandered in, dragging a stuffed dinosaur behind him. He grabbed Faith around her legs and mumbled, “Morning.”

  She patted his head. “You need to get ready for kindergarten, Ant Man.”

  “Okay.” He crawled into his mom’s lap.

  . . .

  Faith grabbed the soccer ball wedged underneath her bed. If she left for school now, she’d be an hour early. That was okay. She’d rather be there than stuck at the apartment for the Patel family morning chaos show. As an afterthought, she grabbed the flash drive with her partially written nutrition report. Maybe she’d have time to finish it in the comput
er lab.

  As she passed the hallway’s picture gallery, Faith stopped in front of the family photo that included her dad. He was a handsome guy. Smart too. An electrical engineer. Taken in front of their old house, the picture always reminded Faith of her pink bedroom and the nice Fraser suburb. She adjusted her backpack on her shoulder. “Thanks for getting cancer, Dad.”

  Part of her regretted her sarcasm. A bigger part didn’t. She trotted out the door and ran down the apartment steps.

  F

  aith’s mom purposely chose an apartment building located between Fraser High and the elementary and middle schools. So what if the building was a total dump in Fraser’s worst neighborhood? It was convenient. And inexpensive.

  As with every walk to and from school, Faith turned on her iPod. It was an ancient model, but it worked. Faith also plastered on her “don’t mess with me” face. But at six thirty A.M., the only people up and about were trash collectors. A garbage truck rumbled by. The guy hanging off the back whistled at her. Faith hunched her shoulders and sped up.

  After three blocks, the streets became more residential. Faith slowed her pace. Her jaw slackened. Not only did she feel safer on these blocks, she also liked to admire the lawns and flowers and well-kept houses. Four blocks more and the two-story high school came into view. The doors unlocked at a quarter past seven. That would give her a little time to get her paper done. Otherwise, she was in no hurry for school to start. Following the sidewalk around the main building, then beyond the arts studio, the auto shop, and the gym, she came to the field complex.

  The field gate was never locked. Fraser High left it open as a community service or something. Next to the soccer fields was the football stadium and the track. Faith was at the field often enough that she recognized the two adults jogging around the track. While she would have liked the place all to herself, she knew they’d mind their own business.

  After setting her backpack and ball on the bleachers, she stretched her quads and started jogging. Her goal was to work off her anger at her mom but not get so sweaty that Andrew Rizzo would hold his nose and fake gag in chem lab.

  After four laps, she was pumping some good oxygen into her brain. She’d planned on stopping after a mile to practice dribbling. But it was a perfect morning for running—crisp and dry. She decided one more lap wouldn’t make her any smellier than she already was.

  Up ahead, at the end of the bleachers, a movement caught her eye. Coach Berg, who led her soccer team, was standing in front of the sports equipment shed.

  Faith stopped when she rounded the track close to the shed. In addition to coaching soccer, Berg taught her fifth-period health class. That was when she’d planned on telling him about missing the coming match. But he was gruff to begin with, and he became really grumpy when players missed games. She figured she might as well get her bad news over with now.

  “Hi,” she said, slowing as she got close to him.

  He twisted around. His dark hair was cut short. He was about six feet tall, probably in his late thirties, and always looked fit. She’d heard someone say he had played on a minor league team for a while.

  “Hey, Patel.” He inserted a key into a padlock and slid the lock off the clasp. “Good morning for a run.”

  Faith stepped out of the way as he swung the door open. Then she stood in the doorway as he strode inside. The wooden shed was about the size of Faith’s living room, maybe twelve square feet. One side was packed with track equipment and the other with soccer gear. Coach Berg held a clipboard and stared at the soccer side, his forehead wrinkled.

  “Coach?” Faith asked.

  He looked at her. “Inventory,” he said, as though she’d asked what he was doing. “I’ve been putting it off.” He turned back to the mountain of equipment and sighed, shoulders drooping. “I hate paperwork.”

  Faith had never seen her coach look so overwhelmed.

  “Um… do you need help?”

  “Nah.” He stared at his clipboard. “Although it would be simpler with two people.” He glanced at Faith. “Would I be keeping you from anything?”

  She thought about her paper for his class. She wasn’t going to finish it in time, anyway. “No.”

  He handed her the clipboard. “Great. This shouldn’t take long. Just write down what I tell you.”

  She pulled out the pencil that was shoved under the clip.

  Faith stayed in the doorway as Coach rummaged through the bags of soccer balls. He mumbled, counting to himself. Then he said, “Okay. Good soccer balls, 38.” He pulled up another bag and counted. “Questionable, 4. Completely dead, 5.”

  The form only included one ball category: soccer balls. “Um, Coach?” Faith said softly. “I’m not sure where those go.”

  He strode over and lifted the clipboard closer to his nose. “Oh. If it’s not on the list, just write it in the margin. Okay?”

  She nodded, and he let the clipboard go before stepping in front of a box of field cones. “Orange disc cones, 60…”

  By the time Coach Berg said, “Okay, I think that’s it,” Faith knew the 8:15 bell would be ringing soon. He stepped next to her and took the clipboard. “Sorry that took so long.”

  “That’s okay.” It really hadn’t been a problem. They hadn’t chitchatted or anything, but she couldn’t remember him ever saying more than three words to her. It was nice not feeling invisible. Too bad she had to ruin it with her news.

  They walked out of the shed, and he closed the door.

  Faith took a deep breath. “I can’t play in the game tonight, against Pinecrest.”

  “Oh?” His eyes met hers.

  “I have to babysit.”

  “Uhhhh-huh. Well… okay,” he said. “Just don’t make it a habit. I count on you for depth.” Latching the padlock, he said, “Thanks again.” Then he marched in the direction of the gym.

  Faith let out a breath of relief. He’d sounded disappointed but not grumpy. As she walked to the bleachers to gather her things, she thought maybe Coach Berg wasn’t as gruff as she’d always believed.

  A

  t the start of Thursday’s practice, all anyone wanted to talk about was the Copperheads’ win against Pinecrest the night before.

  “Could you believe that striker?” Olivia Cooper said to Caitlyn Novak. The two of them always stood next to each other during drills. Faith was playing across from Caitlyn, paired with her for passing games. Faith wished Coach would let them wear headphones during practice. Instead, she had to imagine music drowning out the chatter from her teammates.

  “I know. All she does is talk trash,” Olivia said and pushed a pass toward Faith. “I played with her in U11. She’s always been like that.”

  Even when Faith did go to games, she didn’t always understand the conversations around her. Most of the Copperheads also played on traveling clubs and went to tournaments and showcases together. They were tight. Since her dad died, Faith’s family hadn’t been able to afford anything like club fees.

  “Cooper! Novak!” Coach yelled. “Focus!” He stormed down the field toward them with his arms crossed. “Okay, chip drills, everyone! I want good backspin and accuracy. We could have used more of each yesterday.”

  Faith had the ball, so she started first, rolling it under her foot and then jabbing it low across the ground with a sharp, downward motion. The ball rose quickly and flew straight. Caitlyn was able to trap it on her knee without moving more than an inch sideways.

  “Nice, Patel,” Coach Berg said behind her.

  Faith watched him amble down the sideline, his hands clasped thoughtfully behind his back. Should she say thanks? He rarely handed out praise, especially to her.

  Whack.

  The ball struck Faith right in her face.

  Caitlyn snorted. “Wake up, dude!”

  Olivia laughed too.

  Faith pressed her hand to her nose. She felt like hammering the ball back at Caitlyn. But it was her fault. She quickly steadied herself when she saw Coach Berg heading in the
ir direction again. Her next chip went a little wide, but Caitlyn got her head under it. Coach passed by without saying anything.

  After practice ended, Caitlyn punched Faith’s arm as they walked off the field. “Is your nose okay?”

  Faith touched it again. It was tender, but not broken or anything. “I think so.”

  “Sorry. I couldn’t help it if you weren’t watching. You’ve gotta admit, it was a little funny, though.” Her grin practically broke her face.

  Olivia jumped up behind Caitlyn, grabbing her in a headlock and rubbing her head with her knuckles.

  “Hey!” Caitlyn laughed. “Get off!”

  Olivia let go. “Good practice, Cait.”

  “Want to get some coffee?” Caitlyn asked.

  “Nah, can’t today,” Olivia said.

  Since she wasn’t usually included in these outings, Faith kept walking.

  “Faith?”

  Faith stopped and turned.

  “Coffee? A chai, perhaps?” Caitlyn raised an eyebrow, smiling. “My treat. To make up for the bonk on your nose.”

  Faith was taken aback. Was Caitlyn joking? Would her mom mind? She started to open her mouth but had no idea what to say.

  Caitlyn rolled her eyes. “Fine. Be rude,” she snapped, brushing Faith’s shoulder as she walked by.

  Faith hung back, balling her hands into fists. She was so sick of feeling like she was on the fringe of things. She belonged on the team, but she wasn’t a starter. She didn’t hang out with her teammates because she couldn’t speak the club-soccer language. Come to think of it, she didn’t have anything in common with anyone at Fraser High. Or at home. Or in the whole city of Fraser.

  As Caitlyn and Olivia took off for the locker room, Faith began running around the track, slowly at first, then building to a sprint. After a while, she lost count of the laps, imagining herself somewhere far away. Her lungs burning, her legs turning to mush, she finally slowed to a jog. I should head home, she thought. Mom’ll need to nap before she leaves for work. But Faith couldn’t face the noisy, cramped apartment right. The she grabbed a soccer ball and started juggling it from knee to toe and back again. Ten more minutes. Then she’d start walking back.