Beyond Lucky (15 page)

In math, we have a pop quiz. I know I got at least two questions wrong.

The news is everywhere. In the hall. In class. People whisper as I walk by:

Ari Fish had a Wayne Timcoe card. Mac MacDonald stole it. Parker Llewellyn walked up to Mac this morning and told him he was a thief, and Ari Fish took her side.

There is black duct tape all over my locker. I have to peel it off, just to open the door. It leaves a sticky residue. They didn't stop there. Inside, all my books are crammed onto one shelf. Today's homework is crumpled up in a ball. My sandwich is squished. I throw it away.

I want to cry. I want to punch someone. Eddie leaves me one note: “Just tell him you didn't mean it. Before it's too late.” I want to call my mother and tell her I really am sick.

The bell rings.

My luck is gone.

It's time for lunch.

—Thomas Jefferson

 

 

 

Parker intercepts me at the cashier. I'm counting out pennies, apologizing to everyone behind me. “I'm sorry, really sorry,” I say to the lunch lady, who will not stop tapping her foot. Counting coins slows everything down. I say, “I thought I had money in my canteen.”

“Well, you don't.”

I am up to seven
really
's and four
sorry
's when Parker reaches into her pocket. “Here. I have a dollar. Does that get you off the hook?”

It gets me off the hook with the lunch lady, but I'm not sure I want Parker Llewellyn helping me quite so much. I definitely don't think we should sit together by ourselves in the cafeteria.

She obviously thinks otherwise. “Ari, I have to tell you everyone is talking about you and Mac. They can't believe he took your card. They think you totally did the right thing. Here—let's go sit at my table.”

I shake my head. This is not a game, and Mac and I have never had a serious argument. When we disagree, it's always about little stuff. If I let this drag on, it is only going to get worse.

I tell Parker, “I don't think that's a good idea.” My regular table is almost full. Mac is there, and so are Soup and David and Mischelotti, who under normal circumstances, sits with the lacrosse team. “It's not that I don't appreciate the offer, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Parker, what you did this morning was gutsy, but it wasn't exactly . . .”

“What? What are you saying? Are you mad because—”

“No. I'm not mad.” Girls! “But you have to trust me on this. Right now, I have to sit at my table.” I thought I had already explained this. “If I don't, it would be like saying that I don't care about the team. Don't take this the wrong way, but this is about more than Wayne Timcoe. We don't want to wreck the team.”

“What is that supposed to mean—don't take this the wrong way?” She stands extremely close, and everyone from my table stares. “The team is already wrecked. Your so-called team walked out on you. It fell apart when your friend stole your card.” She crosses her arms across her chest and a couple of the guys laugh. “You're going to blame this on me, aren't you?”

“No, I'm not.”

“Then don't let him get away with it. Sit with me.”

“No. I can't.”

“Yes you can.”

This is ridiculous. “No, I can't.” She walks away, most likely in disgust. I stand in front of my regular table. I envision a ball coming toward the net. When Mac pauses in the middle of an old story, I say, “Hey guys, how's it going?”

If everything was okay, they would say hello. Or rib me. They would make fun of Parker or my tray full of cafeteria food or the fact that I had no money.

They would tell me to shut up—Mac is telling a story.

Today, they do not say anything. Mac continues to tell his story, as if I were a fly or another household pest. My friends' faces stay glued to Mac's, and they all look interested, even though the story is an old one.

I know it.

They know it.

There is one empty seat. It is at the far end of the table, across from Eddie, and if Soup will just push his chair in one inch, I can get there without interrupting again.

All I need is one inch. “Can you give me some space?” I ask.

Eddie looks like he is about to throw up. Soup looks smaller than usual.

I want that empty seat. This time I talk louder. “Excuse me.”

Soup scrunches forward, but otherwise, no one else moves. It's tight. Especially when I try to shuffle behind Mischelotti. He scoots his chair back, so I can't sit. I can't move. “So Pickled Herring, how are you doing?”

“I'm fine. Can you give me some space?” Mischelotti scoots his chair forward, so I can get by. Before I sit, I look around. It wouldn't be the first time Mac told someone to put a thumbtack or something disgusting on someone's chair. It wouldn't be the first time he sacrificed a friend to a prank.

Eddie looks at me for a split second, a sorry-it's-your-turn gaze. Unlike everyone else at the table, he knows what this feels like.

“The guy is a liability,” Mac said after last year's first loss. “If it weren't for Biggs, we would have won. If he calls me one more time, I'm going to scream.”

This wasn't true. It was the offense that lost us the game. Eddie was the best we had.

But I didn't say that.

Instead, when Mac told me to fill Eddie's locker with golf balls, I thought, why not? What was the harm? It was just a prank. Mac said it would help Eddie toughen up. I convinced myself that he would think it was hilarious. This is what teammates did. For fun.

Now I know how much fun it must have been.

My hot lunch smells burnt. The gravy is the consistency of glue. I swirl it into the gray potato mush and vow to make sure my sandwich is, first and foremost, unsquishable.

Eddie looks at my tray and very quietly says, “Sorry.”

Mac does not acknowledge me. Instead, he launches into the Mia-Hamm-in-the-elevator story. We have each heard this tale at least a hundred times. It's a stupid story, with three separate endings, but no one says, “That's an old one, Mac. You've told us that one before, Mac. Are you sure that really happened, Mac?”

My appetite is gone. I don't want to hear this story. I don't want to watch my friends pretend that this story is new. I definitely don't want to act like nothing's wrong.

I stand up. “See you later, guys,” I say, even though Mac will not stop talking, even though no one else says good-bye.

And for a second, I think I can do it. I can walk away. I don't have to listen or watch or feel sorry for myself. I hold my tray and walk back toward the aisle and hope that Soup does not scoot his chair back.

Then the foot comes out. Or maybe it's a crutch. It doesn't really matter. Mac loves to score. If he wanted to make a fool out of me, this is the easiest shot there is.

There is no defense. You can't stop your flying tray or your knees or your hands from hitting the ground. You can't stop your food from splattering in all directions.

It's momentum.

There is only so much you can do.

I brush myself off.

I pick up the tray.

I walk away. No applause.

When Mac finishes the story, everyone laughs.

For four days straight, I walk to school alone. I don't talk to Mac. I eat lunch in the library by myself and fold planes, but they all hit the ground, nose first. In social studies, we have statewide testing. I fill in circle after circle with my number two pencil and write essays about passages I don't completely understand. It's hard to concentrate. I go to class, but I don't raise my hand.

For four days straight, I go to practice, but only Coach and Parker speak directly to me. We win a midweek game, two to nothing, but Parker says the victory feels shallow, under the circumstances. I wait for her to invite me to practice with her and her friend, but she never does.

This gives me plenty of time to learn my Hebrew. By the middle of the week, I've got the entire passage memorized.

The rabbi thinks this is absolutely fabulous. “Let's talk about your speech.” In case I am not sure if my mother has told him what is going on, he says, “You know, Ari, throughout your life, you will accept many jobs. Some of them will be fun. Some won't.”

He waits. I know he is waiting for me to ask a question. He's a rabbi. He tells all the students, “I live for questions.”

Mine is sort of lame. “Can I be honest? I wish I were reading a story. Like Adam and Eve. Or Joseph and his coat. This whole census is sort of boring.”

Of course, the rabbi is honest too. “Ari, there are no coincidences when it comes to the Torah. Trust me. When you least expect it, you will understand why Naso is a perfect portion for you.” He tells me to think about the reading and think about my own responsibilities. “You know, in the Torah, God gives responsibilities to the people who can handle them.”

“Just don't call them blessings in disguise,” I say. When he laughs, I figure that was exactly what he was going to say. “Because they seem more like burdens to me.”

“Burdens?” The rabbi acts like I just said the magic word. “What about burdens, Ari? Do you think the Hebrews thought carrying the Tabernacle was a burden? What does it feel like when someone gives you a responsibility that is too big? Can you relate that to something like that in your own life? Maybe soccer? Your mom says that you and your friend—”

“Soccer's not a burden.” I love playing keeper. Even if my friends never speak to me again, I require no convincing. I can play on a team of rivals.

“Just think about it,” the rabbi says. “You certainly have been given some special responsibilities on the field—and off. Are they blessings? Or burdens? What about your brother? Is what he does both a blessing and a burden too?”

My mother needs to tell him a whole lot less. This is way more personal than I want to get. Sam chose his job. I'm dealing with the team. But when it comes to talking to the rabbi, it's best to be polite. “Thanks, Rabbi,” I say, “I will think about it.”

He tries to look parental. “Good. You know, sometimes, Ari, what you think is a burden can become an opportunity.” This is rabbi-speak for “chin up.”

That may be true for the Torah, but after four straight days, there are no new opportunities waiting for me. Nothing has changed. Eddie is the only one brave enough to say anything to me, and the only thing he says is “Hi,” or “Good game,” and that's only if no one is around. He doesn't dare save me a seat. Or walk with me in the hall. Or even signal to me during practice, which means we are too sloppy for Coach. Mischelotti gives Mac a ride to school and the field. This week, I have e-mailed Sam seventeen times. “Help! I need to talk to you!” But he does not call.

On the way to the field, Parker asks what I'm going to do next, if I have a plan, a strategy, a line of attack that will blow Mac MacDonald out of the water. I say, “Parker. Stop. I don't know. How am I supposed to prove that he has it?”

And that makes
her
mad.

I wonder what I would do if I could go back in time, before Ben Elliot's, the green pack of cards, the good horoscope. If I knew then what I know now, what would I do? Would I still want that card? What if I had never held that card?

If that isn't a burden, it's a very good question.

—Ulysses S. Grant

 

 

 

Saturday morning, there is finally an e-mail from Sam.

“Scroll down, Dad, there are pictures too.” In one, the smokejumpers stand shoulder to shoulder. In another, they sit in a helicopter, suited up, ready to go.

Sam is third from the right. His shoulders are back. His smile is so big his eyes are closed. His hair is short.

I ask, “When did he do that?”

Dad stares at the pictures and says, “I don't know.” He walks to the counter. There is a bag full of apples in the sink. He starts coring. It has been almost two weeks since Sam called, even longer since he wrote a real letter.

He never sends pictures.