Darkness Creeping Read Online Free Page B

the morning.
    I stride out onto the field to check it for safety issues—soak spots, sprinkler heads, and dangerous divots. The field is okay, except for the fact that toward one goal, the grass is turning yellow. True, it’s the fall, but around here grass stays green year-round. Next I introduce myself to the coaches. I recognize one of them. His name is Mr. Apfeldt. He was my second-grade teacher. I haven’t seen him for years. He’s a pretty well-liked teacher—never too hard on kids. Everyone always said the hardest thing about him was spelling his last name. I hear they even named the new elementary school gym after him.
    “Hi, Mr. A,” I say.
    “Danielle Walker!” he says, with a grin, recognizing me immediately. “Look at you!”
    I get right to business, not caring to hear all the small talk about how I’ve grown, and blossomed into a young woman, and all that garbage. I call over the other coach. He’s a guy with an impressive beer belly, if such a thing can be called impressive. He has a towel around his neck that he uses to blot his forehead. He’s sweating even though the morning is chilly.
    I pull out the official scorecard. “I’ll need to know your team names,” I say.
    The two men look at each other. “Uh . . . Our team doesn’t exactly have a name,” says Mr. A.
    “Neither does ours,” says the other coach.
    This isn’t unusual. Typically, the coaches have the kids pick their own team name, and sometimes it takes a while to get everyone to agree. True, it’s a bit late in the season to still be undecided on team names, but hey—that’s not my problem. I look at the two teams. The sweaty coach’s team has red uniforms, and Mr. Apfeldt’s team is in blue. “All right, then,” I tell them, and scribble on my scorecard. “The Reds and the Blues.”
    “Fair enough,” says Mr. A.
    “Fair is my middle name,” I say. Actually it’s Claire, but that’s close enough. I notice that there’s something funny about Mr. A. Something about the expression on his face. He’s preoccupied. It’s like the look my dad gets when some deal at work is about to go bad. It’s the look my mom gets when Cody starts to cough. Come to think of it, the other coach has a similar look about him. I shrug it off. Adults’ minds are always stuck in places we kids probably don’t want to know about.
    “Who’s the home team?” I ask. Usually the home team gets to call the coin toss.
    “Neither,” says Mr. A.
    Now I’m getting annoyed. “You mean this is neither team’s home field? Neither one of you played here on other weeks?”
    “Actually,” says Mr. A, “this is the first game for both teams.”
    Great. I get stuck with late entries to the league who don’t even know who’s supposed to be the home team. I expected better from Mr. A.
    I hadn’t taken a good look at the players until now. Right away I can sense there’s something strange about them. There’s something about their expressions that doesn’t sit right with me. See, seven-year-olds—they tend to have this vague unfocused look about them. They’re easily distracted and always involved in mildly annoying activities, like kicking up dirt clods with their cleats, or running in circles when they’re supposed to be standing still. These kids aren’t doing those things. They’re all focused on me, waiting for the game to start. There’s this intensity to them that I can almost feel. It makes me uncomfortable. I look to the sidelines. Still no parents. No one’s there but Cody, who is, like I said, kicking up dirt clods, like a normal seven-year-old.
    “What about assistant refs?” I ask the coaches. “I usually ask parents to act as linesmen.”
    “We’re fresh out of parents today,” Mr. Apfeldt says, offering me an apologetic smile. “You’re on your own.”
    Now I finally begin to put things together. Late entries to the league. Kids without parents. I bring my voice down so the kids on the field can’t hear me.