Dad was looking at her like she was a brand new eight-hundred-gigabyte hard drive just out of the box.

“Gracie version ten-point-oh,” he said. “Best of breed.”

Gracie said to the other girls, “I’m the applet of his eye.” With her index finger she pushed the glasses up on her father’s face. “And he’s my favorite propellerhead in the whole W-W-W.”

Dad grinned like he was embarrassed. “Your shoe’s untied,” he said. She held her foot out like Cinderella trying on the glass slipper. He reached down for the white laces but grabbed his blue shirtsleeve instead. It was stained. He looked from his sleeve to her arms.

“Hey, you’re bleeding!”

Gracie examined her hands and arms. She was bleeding, from both elbows, where she had hit the ground when the snot tripped her-which reminded her. She looked across the field to the Raiders’ sideline and spotted the snot standing next to her father, the big butthead. Their eyes met; the snot raised her hand. Gracie thought she was going to wave, ready to put their hard-fought athletic competition behind them; instead, the snot stuck her tongue out and gave Gracie the finger. Gracie’s face flashed hot, as if she had just stuck her head in the convection oven-she wanted the snot alone, like way bad. But it wasn’t going to happen here and now. She turned back to her dad.

“No big deal,” she said. She glanced over at the parking lot. “Guess Mom’s trial didn’t end. Oh, well, maybe she’ll make the playoffs. You want to get a snow cone with us?”

Dad held the phone up. “I gotta talk to Lou.”

“Hi, Lou!” Gracie shouted at the phone.

John R. Brice watched the girls skip off and merge into the stream of colorful bodies flowing toward the distant concession stand set back against the thick woods.