Goals

"For the team."

Ms. Foudy purses her lips and hits the rewind button for the millionth time, her narrowed eyes conveying the intensity her concentration.

Christen and I have situated ourselves on the other side of the classroom, at the same desks we sat in when we were sophomores. The two of us used to spend our time in here cracking stupid jokes and discussing the latest Champions League game title until Foudy grew tired of our incessant chatter and instructed us to pay attention. She always did so with a smirk on her face that prevented us from taking her too seriously. In addition to overlooking our extraneous conversations, she allowed us to munch on Ritz and Goldfish during her lectures, despite the No Snacking rule written on the whiteboard. The educator was especially fond of students who played soccer, as she dominated the pitch when she attended Diamond Bar High back in the nineties.

Foudy didn't openly discuss how formidable of an athlete she was when she was an adolescent. She led the team to a league championship her junior year, as well as a state championship her senior year. My friends and I would be oblivious to her achievements if my mother hadn't sat behind her in biology class over twenty years ago. According to my mother, the educator had been a stud; she had plenty of friends, impeccable grades, and undeniable athletic talent.

She managed to land at Stanford University, where she played soccer until her sophomore year, when a torn ACL sent her dreams of playing for the national team into purgatory. To this day, I don't know why she interpreted the injury as a sign that she should pursue a degree in education, but I'm glad she did.

"And who sent you this?"

Christen and I look at each other before I respond hesitantly. "We don't really know."

She sighs. "You don't know?"

We explain to her that three teenage girls with no technological knowledge whatsoever were unable to trace the message back to the sender.

Foudy groans. "Whoever invented the cell phone really opened Pandora's box. Alright, well, I'm glad you girls decided to share this with me. I'm sure it wasn't an easy decision to make."

Christen glances at me, and I say nothing.

The teacher runs her fingers through her hair, an action indicative of stress and uncertainty. I begin to wonder if Kelly was right; maybe coming here wasn't a great idea. If Foudy can't help us, then involving her in this messy situation has been completely pointless. Tobin still won't be able to play for the next three games, and we'll likely lose the league title and fail to qualify for state. Servando will never be punished for essentially screwing the team and I over, which infuriates me even more than the actual effects of his misdeed.

"We better start thinking of a backup plan."

Christen nudges me with her elbow, annoyed. "Give her a minute to think."

I spend the next several minutes studying the poems stapled onto the wall next to us. Some are from the contemporary academic year, while others display the names of individuals who are no longer enrolled in Foudy's class. I still remember how Kelly groaned when the assignment was given, reluctant to engage in an activity as sentimental as writing poetry.

None of the poems are particularly well-written. Some are pretty bad, actually, but I suppose my writing skills weren't that great when I was sophmore. One of the shorter pieces manages to spark my interest, and I rise out of my seat to take a closer look.

The Picket Fence

I can't stand it.

And that's it. A title and a statement consisting of less than ten words. The information about the writer in the corner of the paper has been covered by a thin layer of correction tape. It is the only poem on the wall with a crimson A on it.