Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

crashed through it. She made other legitimately fine, consistent
players look like they didn’t belong on the field.
“Pass, Vreeland!” Molly bellowed at her. At a higher level
of play, Bridget wouldn’t be taking crap like this. When your
player is in the zone, you let her play. You give her the ball.
Bridget passed. The ball came back quickly. Her teammates
acknowledged her power right now, even if her coach
wouldn’t. She scored again. Was it the third or the fourth?
Molly looked mad. She signaled to the ref, who blew her
whistle. “Sub!” Molly shouted. “Come on out, Vreeland.”
Bridget was mad right back. She strode to the sidelines
and sat down on the grass, her chin in her hands.
She wasn’t even winded yet.
Molly came over. “Bridget, this is a scrimmage. Everybody
needs to play. The point is for me to see what we
have here. You’re a superhero. I see that, and so does
everybody else, all right? Save it for the championship.”
Bridget put her head down. She suddenly felt all that
intensity crashing in on her. She felt like crying.
She now knew she should have toned it down. Why
was it so hard for her to make herself stop?
Dear Tibby,
Grilled shrimp canapes, salmon gravlax (what the
hell is that?), crisped spinach, and roast pork loin. The
flower arrangements involve tuberose (huh?) and magnolia
blossoms (her favorite!). I could go on for another
forty-five pages, Tib, but I’ll spare you. It is ALL
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