Down the Rabbit Hole by Peter Abrahams Read Free Book Online Page A

wasn’t the same as playing to win. Playing to win was something else entirely, a whole new way of seeing the game. A revelation: Ingrid’s mind started buzzing.
    â€œIngrid,” said Coach Trimble.
    â€œYes?” said Ingrid.
    â€œEarrings.”
    Ingrid felt her earlobes: her little gold studs, still in place. She’d been playing soccer since the age of four, knew that for safety reasons no jewelry was allowed on the field, knew the ref would boot you out of the game if you were wearing any, and for the first time in all those years had screwed it up. Why now? Ingrid unfastened the earrings, spotted Dad in the stands. He was watching her, arms folded across his chest. Ingrid gave the earrings to Coach Trimble for safekeeping.
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    Her punishment lasted for five minutes, which was how long it took for them to go down one zero.
    â€œHead in the game, twenty-two?” said Coach Ringer, hands behind his back, unlit cigarette twitching between his fingers.
    Ingrid nodded.
    â€œGet in there.”
    Ingrid got in there. And then, despite the sleepless night and too-tight cleats and forgetting about the earrings, Ingrid ran out there and played the best soccer game of her life, by far. Everything was different somehow. The field was smaller, for one thing. And the ball, which had always had plans of its own, almost as though it were a member of a third team, was suddenly, if not a friend, at least predictable. Even the big red-haired sweeper, with her booming kicks and aggressive elbows, was starting to be predictable. Take that spin move of hers: The game wasn’t ten minutes old before Ingrid saw it coming and, instead of following her, took two simple steps the other way, stole the ball, and went in on the goalie all alone. Lower left corner—GOAAAAAAAAL! Ingrid always heard that Hispanic announcer in her head when she scored a goal, which was not often. But she scored another onebefore the half—GOAAAAAAAAL!—and assisted on a second. And in the second half, a third—GOAAAAAAAAL!—using that left-footed jitterbug fake to perfection. Hat trick. Echo Falls parents must have been cheering on the sidelines, but Ingrid didn’t hear, didn’t even sense Dad’s presence, another first. She was locked in.
    Ingrid stayed locked in until almost the end of the game. With a minute or two left, score Echo Falls 5, Glastonbury 2, the red-haired girl came dribbling up out of the corner and Ingrid moved in on her. It happened to be the corner of the field closest to the road, and right behind the red-haired girl, Ingrid couldn’t help but see a taxi driving up. And behind the taxi: a police car. They slowed down. The taxi driver’s window slid open, and Ingrid saw his unshaven face, toothpick dangling from his lips: Murad, with the complicated last name. He pointed at something. The field in general? Her in particular? Were they going to stop and get out? No. They seemed to be speeding up, seemed to be—
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    Ingrid opened her eyes. Coach Ringer, Assistant Coach Trimble, and the ref were crouched in a circle around her.
    â€œIngrid?” said Coach Trimble. “Are you all right?”
    â€œWhat happened?” Ingrid said.
    â€œYou got hit by the ball,” Coach Trimble said.
    â€œRight in the coconut,” said Coach Ringer.
    Ingrid had no memory of it. She shifted her head—that hurt—and saw all the players kneeling, proper procedure when a player was down; the red-haired girl knelt close by, looking worried. Dad stood on the sidelines, ready to charge out and embarrass her at any moment.
    â€œI’m fine,” Ingrid said.
    Coach Ringer held up three fingers. “How many?”
    â€œThree fingers and a ring with big yellow jewels.” She sat up. That hurt too, but not bad. What did she remember? Taxicab and police car. She looked around, maybe a bit wildly: gone.
    â€œEasy now,” said the ref.
    Red veins crisscrossed the