Superheroes Don't Eat Veggie Burgers by Gretchen Kelley Page A

I’ve got to go practice. Seems like there’s a lot of people counting on me.”
    He storms out of the room like his pants are on fire, leaving me to pick up all the chess pieces that are now rolling onto the floor.

 
    CHAPTER
    17
    When I get home, my dad’s working on his menu for the upcoming Cape Ann Harvest Day. Every year, his pumpkin strata and lentil stew are two of the best sellers at the festival.
    As soon as I see that he’s up to his elbows in pumpkin guts, my heart sinks.
    â€œTonight’s a big game, Dad. You’re coming, right?”
    He wipes his hands down the front of his stiff white apron. “These stratas don’t make themselves, Charlie.” He smiles and taps his spoon on my nose.
    I move my head away. “But it’s the Gloucester Hurricanes. I was hoping you’d be there.”
    His face starts to pinch up. “I know, pal, but I still have a lot of work to do. I promise I’ll be there next time. No matter what.”
    I wish I could tell him that his lentil stew tastes like dirt. Instead, I go pack my gear bag before his face can get any pinchier.
    Whenever my dad is cooking, my mom is the one who gets the job of hauling us around, which means I’m almost always guaranteed to be late. Last month, I missed a dentist appointment because there was a kid with arm tattoos and a motorcycle hanging around outside the bank when we drove by. It took him twenty minutes to convince my mom that he was the bank president’s nephew and was waiting to give his uncle a ride home. “You can never be too careful,” she’d tried to explain as we pulled away.
    Today, we make it to the field without a hitch. My mom screeches to a stop and checks her watch.
    â€œGood luck, sweetie,” she says, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel.
    â€œWhat? You’re not staying?”
    She leans over and pats my knee. “I’m sorry, Charlie, but I can’t miss this meeting with Lucy’s new soccer coach. I tried to reschedule it, but he’s so busy right now, you know?” I don’t know, but I nod anyway. She smiles at me. “I promise I’ll make it back for the second half.”
    I nod again and slide across the seat. I haul my bag out of the back as she throws the squad car into gear and starts to move, waving to me out the window.
    I wave back, a knot growing in my stomach.
    â€œBurger!” I hear, and look toward the field. Most of the team is already warming up, and Coach stands on the sidelines, glaring at me. I forget all about my mom and her meeting and break into a sprint.
    â€œWell, well. If it isn’t my star defender,” Coach says as I plop my gear bag on the ground and bend over to double knot my cleats. I wait for him to say more, but he’s already hollering at someone else.
    It’s no secret that Coach Crenshaw thinks soccer is a sissy sport. Four years ago, when he was hired at Gatehouse to teach eighth-grade math, he wanted to be one of the football team’s coaches, but all three spots were taken. Since the soccer coach had just quit after seven seasons of finishing last in the league, Crenshaw agreed to take the team, but only until a football position opened up. He might be waiting a long time, seeing how the Gatehouse Vikings’ football team has been undefeated since my parents were in middle school. My mom says someone will have to croak before one of those spots becomes available.
    So that leaves a guy who hates soccer, coaching a team that stinks. Not a great combination, if you ask me.
    I finish tying my cleats and start to head toward the field.
    â€œNot so fast.”
    I turn and look at him, trying not to appear nervous. Coach Crenshaw can smell weakness a mile away.
    He circles around, sizing me up.
    â€œYou know, Burger,” he says, “I’ve been watching you.” He stops and crosses his arms, which remind me of two greasy drumsticks.