Guest, Kim Mai: "Coach," Tom said, but no one heard her. Everyone was too busy gearing up for the second half of the game. "Coach," Tom called a little louder. Coach Pendergrass whirled around looking at the space above Tom's head in confusion before spotting her down below. "Oh, Ingo." Tom was used to hearing the word "no," but the problem was she never knew if people were really telling her no or if they just didn't know how to say her last name, which was pronounced literally how it was spelled, like I-N-G-O without the I, Ingo. So when Coach Pendergrass said Ingo, from behind her clipboard, Tom wasn't surprised. She was a nobody, invisible. But Tom wanted to be on the field. She didn't want to go back to the bench of shame and decay, so old and worn that you had to make sure not to let your exposed skin touch it or you'd get splinters.

She wanted to feel the crunch of grass beneath her cleats, run alongside the other girls, know that she was part of something. She wished her mom was there. Mom would have made sure Tom played in the game, but ma had to work late again. "I want to play," Tom said before one of the other girls could grab coach's attention. The words squeezed out of her like the last bits of an empty toothpaste tube. "I thought you said earlier that I could play in the second half." "Oh," coach said, looking at her clipboard. "Right. Okay." She turned to Bethany Anderson, whose mouth was all tight and pursed. Bethany didn't look at Tom, though. She never looked at Tom, like she might contract some sickness just from the eye contact. "Anderson, center forward. Jones grab some water for this play. Ingo, you're on left defense."

Tom's stomach did a weird flippy thing. Left defense wasn't even a real position. Okay, it was, but it was a filler spot, the weakest angle. You barely got to play from that position. You were just there to stay low and wave your arms around, hoping the ball accidentally rolled your way. Still, it was better than sitting on the bench. Tom ran on to the field and joined the rest of the DeMill Middle School soccer team, standing in position against Monrovia Medel. Shelly Jones glared as she took Tom's place on the bench. The referee blew his whistle, and Bethany kicked the ball. Everyone ran forward. Even the other two defense players on Tom's team, even though they weren't supposed to leave the goal. Tom glanced at Coach Pendergrass, but she was too focused on the ball and on DeMill's dynamic trio, Kathy, Bethany, and Sarah, weaving across the field, like they were performing a dance routine.

Kathy June, Bethany Anderson, and Sarah Maizel were the stars of the team. They always got to play. Granted, the team was pretty small, so there was only one person on the bench at a time. That person was usually Tom. It wasn't that Tom was bad at soccer. She was actually pretty good when she had played for her last school in West City. Back then, soccer had been fun, an escape where she and her friends played and hung out and got Boba and popcorn chicken after. She was good then. She was still good now when she played by herself anyway. But because soccer isn't exactly a play by yourself kind of sport, she couldn't prove this to everyone else. The thing was, Tom couldn't kick the ball. Well, no, she could kick the ball, but she shouldn't. The last time she'd tried ended in a small disaster. She hadn't found the courage to try again since.

Suddenly, Monrovia's offense stepped it up, and the ball was rolling toward Tom. She hesitated. "Ingo," Coach Pendergrass called from the sidelines. Tom stopped. "Ingo, go for it. Ingo, send it flying." She could send it flying. She could show them all how good she really was.