Hooked. Liz Fichera

45

       Chapter 46

       Chapter 47

       Chapter 48

       Chapter 49

       Chapter 50

       Chapter 51

       Chapter 52

       Chapter 53

       Chapter 54

       Chapter 55

       Chapter 56

       Chapter 57

       Chapter 58

       Chapter 59

       Chapter 60

       Epilogue

       Golf Girl Gab

       Acknowledgments

      When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Live your life so that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice.

      —Chief White Elk (Oto Nation)

      Chapter 1

      Fred

      I BELIEVED THAT my ancestors lived among the stars. Whenever I struck a golf ball, sometimes the ball soared so high that I thought they could touch it.

      Crazy weird, I know.

      But who else could have had a hand in this?

      Coach Larry Lannon towered over Dad and me, his shoulders shielding us from the afternoon sun. “So, what’s it gonna be?” he said, his head tilted to one side with hair so blond that clear should be a color. “Are you in?” He paused and then lowered his chin. “Or out?”

      I drew in a breath. Even though Coach Lannon had said that I could smack a ball straighter than any of his varsity players at Lone Butte High School, his confidence still rocked me off my feet sometimes. He wanted me on the team. Bad.

      “Chances like this don’t happen every day,” he added, and I ached to tell him that they never happened, not to my family. Not in generations.

      See, here’s the thing about Coach Lannon. I met him by accident at the end of the summer as I waited for Dad at the Ahwatukee Golf Club driving range. At first I thought he was some kind of golf-course stalker or something. He kept gawking at me as I hit practice balls. It was kind of creepy. I figured he’d never seen an Indian with a golf club.

Anyway, I pretended not to notice and concentrated on my swing. I smacked two buckets of golf balls beside him with my mismatched clubs as if breathing depended on it. After my last ball, Coach Lannon walked straight up into my face and declared that I had the most natural swing he’d ever seen. The compliment shocked me. And when I told him that I was going to be a junior at Lone Butte, one of only a handful from the Gila River Indian Reservation, the man practically leaped into a full-blown Grass Dance.1 He’d been stalking me at the driving range ever since.

      Now that school had started, he was making his final pitch to get me to join his team.

      “Will you at least come to practice on Monday and give the team a try? Please? If you don’t like it, you’re perfectly free to quit. No questions asked.” Coach Lannon’s lips pressed together as he waited for my answer, although the question was directed mostly at Dad.

From the knot in Dad’s forehead, I could tell he was unconvinced. And the coach didn’t bother hiding his urgency, especially after telling us that he was tired of coaching the worst 5A golf team in Maricopa County. Another losing year and Principal Graser would send him back to teaching high school history full-time, something he didn’t relish. I’d never had a teacher confide something so personal to me like that, not even at the Rez2 school.

      Dad pulled his hand over the stubble on his chin, studying Coach Lannon. Deep red-and-black dirt outlined each of his fingernails and filled the crevices across his knuckles, one of the consequences of being the golf club’s groundskeeper. “I don’t know,” Dad said in his lightly accented tones.

      Coach Lannon leaned down to hear him.

      “Is it expensive?” Dad asked.

      “Won’t cost you a thing,” the coach said quickly.

      “But how will she get to the tournaments? We only have one car.”

      “A bus takes the team. There and back. I can drive her home, if it’s a problem.”

      “Are the tournaments local?”

      “All except one, but don’t worry about that. I’ll have her back the same day.”

      Dad exhaled long enough for Coach Lannon’s eyes to widen with fresh anxiety.

      “I’d look after Fred like she was my own daughter,” the coach blurted out. “I’ve got three of my own, so I know how you feel.”

      I sucked in another breath as I waited for Dad’s answer. I knew that he wasn’t fond of me traveling off the Rez. The daily trip to the high school was far enough, and not just in miles. He’d agreed to Lone Butte only because our tribe didn’t have a local high school.

      After another excruciatingly long pause, Dad said, “I guess when it comes right down to it, the decision isn’t mine. It belongs to her.” He turned to me and placed a steadying hand on my shoulder.

      I exhaled.

      Dad’s forehead lowered, and he looked at me squarely with eyes that were almond-shaped echoes of mine. “It’s time you made up your mind, Fredricka. Is this what you want?”

      I cringed at my old-lady name, but as quickly as it took me to blink, I answered Dad with the lift of my chin. Coach Lannon had said that there’d be a chance I could get a college scholarship if I played well for the team. He said college recruiters from some of the biggest universities attended high school golf tournaments flashing full tuition rides for the best players. No one in my family had ever gone to college. No one even uttered the word. How could I refuse? I only hoped Coach Lannon understood the power of his promises. I wanted college as badly as he wanted me on his team, probably more.

      Only a few silent seconds hung between us, but it seemed another eternity. This was the moment I’d been waiting for these past few weeks—my whole life, really. I’d been hoping for something different to happen, something special.

      There was only one answer.

      “I’ll be there on Monday. I’ll join your team.”

      Coach Lannon’s shoulders caved forward, and for a moment I thought he’d collapse into Dad’s arms. He’d probably wondered whether I had