Child of My Right Hand by Eric Goodman Page B

through the opposing team, take a booming shot on goal, and think smugly, Yes, that one’s mine.
    In Tipton, Genna didn’t feel she could leave all the soccer socializing to Jack. She parked her minivan beside the others and joined the gaggle of waiting women.
    â€œHi,” she said. “I’m Genna, Lizzie’s mom.”
    â€œLucille,” said a short brunette. “Katie’s mom. I’ve seen you at the games.”
    Two other women introduced themselves, both blondes, but she forgot their names as soon as she heard them.
    â€œYour Lizzie can really play,” said Lucille. “We’re so glad to have her.”
    The others murmured, and Genna thought, How awful. One child scorned, the other welcomed because she can kick a soccer ball. Genna checked her watch. Six-ten.
    â€œExcuse me,” she said. “Doesn’t practice end at six?”
    The stouter blonde grinned. “I see you ain’t been picking up. Steve never lets them go till six-fifteen, six-thirty.”
    Feeling properly rebuked, Genna turned and watched the rough and tumble scrimmage: three male coaches and the girls. This was what she hated. The women were catty as hell, and she never knew what to say.
    On the field, Lizzie dribbled towards the goal behind which the moms waited. A coach ran at her, forcing a pass, which she delivered left-footed, Genna noted, wondering if the other women had noticed. The left wing, whoever she was, received the pass and flubbed the shot.
    â€œIf the levy fails,” the small brunette was saying, Lucille, “I hear they’re canceling all varsity sports except football.”
    They can’t do that, Genna thought, Title IX. But she kept quiet. Didn’t want to seem like a smart mouth.
    â€œI don’t believe it,” said the larger of the blondes, whose ten-years-out-of-date shag grew from dark roots. “That school board’s been threatening us for years with flood and famine if we don’t keep letting them stick their hands in our pockets. Nothing ever happens.”
    â€œExcuse me,” Genna said. “I’m new in town, so maybe I’m wrong. But I thought a levy hadn’t passed in twelve years.”
    â€œWell, yeah,” said the blonde. “But you understand what I’m saying.”
    Not really.
    â€œIf the levy fails,” Lucille said, “we’re sending Katie to Bishop.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” Genna asked, feeling sick to her stomach.
    â€œA Catholic school in Hamilton.”
    Genna asked, “You think the levy has a chance?”
    Lucille, who was thin and fine-featured, another bird-woman like Marla, started to answer, but thought better of it. The big blonde said, “Lost by fifteen hundred votes just last spring.”
    â€œExcuse me,” Genna said, “what’s your name again?”
    â€œMarge.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Genna said. “I’m so bad with names.”
    â€œDon’t sweat it, hon.” Something in the way she said it, Hon, which was common usage here and meant to be friendly, Hon this, Hon that, rankled Genna. “There’s lots of us, only one of you.”
    â€œMy husband and I”–Genna knew she should probably zipper her lip, as her mother used to say, Zipper your lip, Genna–“are part of a group at the university trying to register students to help pass the levy.”
    â€œYa know,” Marge said, “I’m not against the levy, I’m really not.”
    But you’re not for it, either.
    â€œI’ve got three kids in school, I know they need money.” Marge sucked both lips into her mouth, and for a moment looked toothless, or as if she were trying to be careful of what she said. “But people in Roscoe township, where I live?” She hesitated again. “They’re tired of Tipton folk trying to raise their taxes.”
    â€œExcuse me,” Genna began, noticing that