Zoe the Fearless Read online

  Translated from the German by Helga Schier

  Editor: Michael Part

  This is a work of fiction. All names and characters are either invented or used fictitiously.

  Original title: Die Wilden Fussballkerle. Vanessa, Die Unerschrockene.

  Baumhaus Verlag in the Bastei Luebbe Gmbh & Co. KG

  © 2010 by Bastei Luebbe GmbH & Co. KG, Cologne

  “Die Wilden Fußballkerle”™ und © dreammotion GmbH

  © 2011 Wild Soccer USA, Inc.

  All English rights reserved to Wild Soccer USA, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Wild Soccer USA, Inc., P.O. Box 10445, Beverly Hills, CA 90213

  Special thanks to:

  Yonatan, Yaron, and Guy Ginsberg

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data in file.

  ISBN 978-0-9844257-47

  Published by Sole Books

  First Edition December 2011

  Printed in the United States of America

  Layout: Lynn M. Snyder

  10987654321

  Hi Wild Soccer Bunch fans!

  I’m so glad that you’re reading the third book of the Wild Soccer Bunch series. This book is especially exciting because the hero is a girl. As we know from the U.S. Women’s soccer team, which is one of the best teams in the world, girls are great at soccer!

  All of us love playing soccer because it’s fun! Although I’m a pro, which means I make a living being a soccer player, I get excited playing every single game as if it were my first. Each game is like an open book, and I always wonder what kind of story will unfold in the next 90 minutes.

  Sometimes, the result of the game can be disappointing, but don’t let losses stop you from playing the game you love. One thing you should always remember: Skill isn’t the only thing you need in order to win. You need heart. And if you and your teammates are playing with a lot of heart, you can win while having the time of your life out on the field!

  Enjoy the book, and have a great soccer season!

  Your Friend and Teammate,

  Landon Donovan

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  I’m Losing It!

  NO!

  The Creepy Castle

  Horror Birthday to You!

  Grandma Comes to Creepy Castle

  Close Encounters of a Different Kind

  Boys Are Total Losers

  Don’t Let the Bubble Burst

  Low Down and Dirty

  Tremors in Camelot

  Black Riders

  Dead Center and Right in the Heart

  A Question of Honor

  Sweet Revenge

  Revenge May Be Sweet, But It’s Lonely

  I Am Who I Am

  The Wild Soccer Bunch

  I’m Losing It!

  Hi! It’s me, Zoe, and I’m real sorry, but there’s a game going on and I can’t talk. Shoot, Amelia! Why don’t you just give the ball to the other side? Unbelievable! This girl is too much! Amelia Dessert – and believe me, her game fits her name. The girl plays like a pile of soggy whipped cream. She just sits there! Okay, that was mean, but look, I’m just trying to play a real game of soccer here and these girls are just not cutting it.

  I was playing at top speed, but that didn’t seem to help one bit. The Brookline Soccer Sirens were in possession of the ball and charging our goal. Yes, yes, I know – Soccer Sirens – cute name, but who said soccer was cute? This is the kind of thing you have to put up with if you’re stuck on a girls’ soccer team. Our team name is no better: Somerville Soccer Swallows – and as much as it hurts, it fits. Flitting around the field like a bunch of little birds, making a breeze with our wings, and definitely not getting the job done. Actually, I’m talking about the other girls, not me. I’d been sitting in the grass, pouting, since about three minutes into the game. Ms. Squeamish, our coach, took me off the field because I got angry. And that’s why Amelia was fluttering all over the field instead of me, and well, the rest is history.

  The Brookline Soccer Sirens attacked. Their three forwards charged in perfect formation. Although the gals knew what it meant to play a position – and believe me, that’s more than can be said of most of the other girl teams – there was no guarantee they’d actually pass the ball. Stubborn like a herd of cranky mares, my grandma would say, and I’m telling you, she knows what she’s talking about.

  “Come on! Attack! She’ll never pass the ball!” I yelled at our defenders, ignoring the scowl on Coach Squeamish’s face.

  As usual, my darling teammates ignored me. Like good little girls, they did what we had practiced in training, and it was straight out of the book. What they didn’t do was expect the unexpected. Instead, they covered the two other players, leaving the third alone with the ball. I’m sure they thought she’d pass it. Their jaws dropped when, as I expected, she didn’t pass and plunked the ball right into the goal instead.

  Nine zip for Brookline. That was it for me. I leaped up, balled my hands into fists, took a deep breath and … that’s as far as I got.

  “Zoe!” Coach Squeamish warned me. “One more word out of you and you’ll never get back out on that field!”

  I threw her one of my killer glances, but kept my mouth shut. I wanted to play – at any cost. Because at that moment our team bus arrived on the other end of the field. As usual, the boys’ team of our soccer club had destroyed their opponents. They were the best of the best of all the U-10 teams in three counties. They were so good they had even tied Boston and Cambridge once.

  Those boys were awesome! Don’t get the wrong idea here. I’m eight years old, you know, and at my age girls couldn’t care less about boys. Totally true. I know my grandma says different, but then again, my grandma has a thing about turning me into a beautiful young princess. Yech! Don’t worry, she says, someday you’ll change. I say, no way. That’s what you call a real fairy tale.

  Anyway, these boys were beyond awesome and as a team, they were the greatest. And all I wanted was to be one of them. Not a boy, you understand, but me, a girl, playing on their team, because I was good enough. For two whole years I dreamed about just that, and on a Saturday like this one, I thought I had a chance to make my dream come true; on a Saturday like this one I could show them how good a player I really was. And then maybe, just maybe, they’d let go of their dumb ideas about not allowing girls on a boys’ team. Maybe they’d see how great I played and ask me to join their team.

  But Coach Squeamish didn’t even think about putting me back in. Instead, the Brookline Soccer Sirens had an even bigger lead: thirteen-zero. The boys on the other end of the field roared with laughter. They made fun of us and mimicked Amelia as she huffed and puffed and wobbled after the ball. Then, at seventeen-zero, three minutes before the end of the game, Coach Squeamish finally showed me some mercy. “Okay, Zoe. Get in there. Play forward with Amelia. But I’m warning you, one bad word out of you and you are out of there!”

  “No worries, Coach Squeamish!” I shouted and jumped up. “I won’t tell her that she just sits there like a pile of whipped cream.”

  Coach Squeamish gasped, but I was long gone. I had already moved on to my next problem. The boys on the other side of the field whistled with excitement when I ran onto the field.

  “Wow! Will you look at that!” they shouted. “They’re bringing in a substitute!”

  “For the last three minutes of the game!”

  “Guess she’s going to save the game!”

  The boys laughed loud and long and I could hear them laughing over the cheering crowd, an
d I could feel my face turn as red as a Ferrari, but that wasn’t going to stop me. Those blockheads were going to get their money’s worth!

  I ran off, straight towards Amelia, who, wobbling and huffing and puffing, tried to keep up with the ball. I took the ball off her feet and stormed towards the Brookline goal. The Soccer Sirens came at me one by one, but I zigzagged through them like they were slalom poles. I left them all in the dust, and then I pulled the trigger and aimed directly into the corner. This being the first ever test for the Brookline goalie, she failed miserably and fell into the dirt. Coach Squeamish jumped up and down like a jack-in-the-box, shouting “Goal! Goal! Goal!”

  But did that make me happy? No way. I was focused. And livid. It was seventeen to one, and there was only one reason for that: I had been benched. But the game was not over yet. I had two minutes to do some damage. That’s why I jumped over the Brookline goalie, grabbed the ball and ran back to the kick-off point.

  Kick-off was the only time the Sirens ever touched the ball. As soon as the referee blew his whistle, I tore free with the ball, brushed away the center forward and charged towards the goal. Twenty seconds later it was seventeen to two. Then seventeen to three! And as soon as I got in the groove, the referee called time and just as quickly as I had appeared, the game was over. I lived the dream for only a few minutes, but it was bound to be enough to impress the boys.

  I shot a look their way, to see the amazement in their faces. I wanted to see them finally realize that I was good enough to be one of them. I couldn’t wait to see that look on all their faces. Instead, I was crushed. I felt as if I had just been thrown into a bathtub full of ice cubes. The boys were gone. They had left. Just like that. I wasn’t even important enough for them to stay and see my game. I was trembling with disappointment and anger. And while my teammates squeaked their appreciation to the Brookline Soccer Sirens despite our grim defeat, I shouldered my bag, pulled my hoodie over my long red hair, and split for the bike racks, never looking back.

  There it was waiting for me, chained to the first bike rack, my most prized possession besides my soccer gear: a real Mongoose mountain bike, black as midnight, rear tire fatter than the front, and ready for some real BMX action. I knew my spirits would be up just as soon as I felt the wind in my hair. Of course, I still wished I could play on a real soccer team, but that didn’t seem to be in the cards yet. I bent down, grabbed my lock, and turned it to the right number combination: my mom’s birthday. And that got me to thinking about her. She died exactly fifty-two and a half weeks ago. I didn’t have to think for long because that’s when someone from behind me spoke up: “That is the coolest bike in the whole club!”

  I turned around and there was Alex, the captain of the legendary youth soccer club, standing right in front of me. I tried to say something, but my mouth didn’t work and I forgot how to talk. Alex grinned, and at first I thought he was laughing at me. But actually, he was flustered too.

  “This is going to sound weird but … we were watching your moves out there. Would uh, would you want to come to one of our practices some time?”

  I was speechless, frozen in time. I couldn’t even nod.

  “I know we weren’t exactly nice to you out there, so I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk to me,” Alex said.

  I was about to explode. Finally, I found my voice. “But girls aren’t supposed to play on boys’ teams, right?” Then I thought about it. “Oh wait, I get it. You’re inviting me to watch you practice,” I said, disappointed.

  “No,” Alex said matter-of-factly. “I’m inviting you to play.”

  “But – how?” I shot back.

  “We can have anybody we want on our team,” Alex said, “Sure, all the teams are just boys’ teams and girls’ teams, but there’s no rule that says every kid on my team has to be a boy. We want the best players on our team. We want you,” Alex explained.

  I couldn’t believe what he was saying. I think I might have mouthed a word, but it didn’t come out right and Alex just grinned. He wasn’t that much older than me, but he seemed a whole lot wiser.

  “Think about it,” he said. “And if you decide you want to give it a shot, hop on this really cool bike of yours and see if it can find us.”

  He looked at me expectantly and I tell you, I wanted to hug him right then and there, I was so happy. But instead, I hopped on my bike and rode off and he shouted after me:

  “Field three! Five to six thirty! Did you hear me?” I heard him and waved back. I heard him crystal clear. He was telling me I’d made it. After two long years of torture and gruesome humiliation with the Somerville Swallows, I’d finally get to play on a boys’ team. I pounded my pedals. I was stronger than ever. This was the first step on the way to my greatest dream. I, Zoe Burns, would be the first woman ever to play on a U.S. Men’s National Soccer Team. Impossible, you say? Watch me.

  That morning I was sure my dreams would come true. I raced over the fields and crossed the dam, and I didn’t stop until I could see the ocean and I kept on going until I could hear it and taste it. I screamed my joy to the wind: what a glorious day! And tomorrow was going to be even better, because it was my ninth birthday!

  NO!

  The car door closed quietly with an expensive thud. If you guessed fancy, you’d be right, a very fancy Cadillac. If you guessed the thud was anything but a thud, you’d be wrong. This thud was the worst sound I had ever heard in my entire life. This was the thud that destroyed my life. It was as if my life was blown up with one finger.

  Then all was still. Still and quiet. But inside me, anger and desperation were having a shouting match so loud I had to cover my ears. “NO!” they screamed incessantly.

  But nobody listened.

  I sat in the passenger seat, my face resting against the cold window. I sat there, watching my own funeral. Talk about a nightmare. You’ve heard of the movie “Nightmare on Elm Street”? This was the nightmare on my street.

  The car quivered slightly when my father started the engine. Then we drove off. Silently, as if I had left my body, I floated along the street I had lived on my entire life, all 3,285 days of it. Silently, I floated out of town. I felt nothing except my father’s eyes staring at me.

  “Hey, are you okay?” he asked as we were about to head out on the highway. I blew on the window, and my breath fogged it in a cloud that kept me from seeing us leave. On any other day, I’d use my finger to draw a speech bubble and write something funny. Not today.

  “Okay,” my father said, and on any other day I would have believed him. Then he stepped on the gas pedal.

  I looked out the window but saw nothing. From now on, I’d have a new address: 7 Old Sutton Road in a suburb of Chicago, IL. Hundreds of miles away from Boston and Somerville and Alex and the best of the best Massachusetts youth soccer had to offer.

  I had forgotten all about it. Simple as that. Two years in the making and I had forgotten all about it. Two years ago my father and my mother had started building a house in Chicago. Their dream house in their dream suburb of their dream town with their dream job. And now we were off chasing this dream job and dream house. This morning’s game against the Brookline Soccer Sirens had been my farewell game. And before the bus delivered the youth soccer team and before I met Alex, that was just fine by me. Chicago couldn’t be worse than the Somerville Soccer Swallows. I could see it now. In Chicago the girls’ teams might be called Soccer Cuties or Soccer Sweethearts, and play with little pink balls, but that doesn’t make icky any worse. I wanted to barf.

  Talking to Alex changed everything. Now a girls’ soccer team was out of the question. Sure there were good girls’ teams. The Women’s U.S. Soccer Team had twice won the World Cup and three times the gold medal at the Olympics, and my father never misses a chance to remind me that the U.S. Women’s team did much better than the men’s. But for me, playing with boys was what I wanted more than anything. I suffered through everything from Amelia Dessert to Coach Squeamish. The boys laughed at me for two y
ears, but it didn’t matter, because I knew that one day I’d make it. I knew that I was as good as the next boy, probably even better. And this morning I knew that one day my dream would come true and I’d play for the U.S. National Soccer Team. Playing with the Men’s National Soccer Team was a long shot, but who knows? I might be the first girl to do that!

  But every mile on the highway took me a mile further away from my dreams. As the miles wore on, I realized that I’d have to start all over again. I’d have to play on a girls’ soccer team again. To be honest, I didn’t want to any more. I was done. Finito! I felt like somebody had tripped me just before the finish line. Why couldn’t we stay in Boston? My mother died over a year ago. What did she care about that old dream house in Chicago now? And what did my father get out of living in a dream house in a dream town if mom was gone and I was miserable? All the money from the best dream job in the world couldn’t make up for this. Even a big fat company car didn’t help. Because if there’s anything I learned in the last couple of years it’s that you can’t buy your dreams. You have to fight for them to make them come true. But now, sitting in this car, watching my whole world grow smaller and smaller in the distance, I just didn’t have the strength and the courage to start all over again. And so, before we even left, I threw my soccer gear in the trash.

  The Creepy Castle

  Dusk fell and the fog rolled in. Chicago was all headlights and horns – everything else was swallowed by a thick blanket of grayish white. Finally, in Elmwood Park the blanket misted into long tattered white shreds that whooshed like dragons through the streets of the town we would now call home. No one was on the streets; nobody was walking their dog or riding their bike, just high walls of stone on both sides of the street, rising up to the treetops. It was as if we were driving through a maze of prison corridors. Where are the kids? I wondered.