Beyond Lucky (18 page)

After a bad loss, there is nothing more pathetic than the
I
-in-team speech.

Coach says, “I never thought I would coach a team that would intentionally go out and lose.”

Mac raises his hand. “Coach, this is my fault,” he says. “I told them to quit, but I didn't want to lose. I really thought in the end, we would win.”

My head pounds. This is Mac's fault, Mac's plan, but it is my fault too. I should have said something. I could have helped Parker. I could have stood up with her, instead of focusing only on myself and my card.

Soup kicks a patch of dirt. He won't look at anyone, and David Old starts rubbing his eyes, and I don't think he's faking. Eddie shakes his head. “You promised us it would work.”

Mac doesn't disagree. “You're right, Biggs. I feel like a jerk. This loss is on me.”

I would not be surprised if smoke came out of Coach's ears. He starts then stops then paces a few more steps. He sends the parents to the parking lot. “If you don't mind, I'd like a few minutes alone with the team.” Everyone leaves except Parker's dad, who uses the moment to tell all of us that he has played on a lot of teams, but never one as horrible as this.

When he has nothing left to say, it is so quiet, I can hear birds. They sound anxious, but they're probably not. They're probably just being birds.

Coach says, “You embarrassed me. You embarrassed yourselves. I have half a mind to forfeit the rest of the season.”

Everyone talks at once. I hear a lot of
no
's. And
you can't
s. A few people are brave enough to admit, “We didn't think it would take so long to put Mac back in.”

When Parker stands up, everyone is quiet again. “Please don't do it,” she says. “Not now. Not for me. I don't think it really is about me. If we just talk this out and get Ari his card, everything will work out.”

Girls. Even after everything that happened, she still thinks talking is the answer. Her father looks like he agrees with me. “I disagree,” he says. “They let you down. You don't have to be nice.”

“No. She's right,” Mac says. “I told everyone to stop playing because she told Ari I had the card. And for some reason, he believed her.”

Now everyone nods. They say things like “That's right.” And “It was a spur of the moment thing. It got totally out of hand.”

My head pounds. My ears ring. But my feet feel steady, and I know a lie when I hear one. “You made this plan weeks ago. We were all there.”

Now it is so quiet, I can hear air.

Parker walks toward me, and I hold up my hand—to protect my jaw. That's how mad she looks.

“You knew?” When she starts to cry, her dad runs back to the group. “You knew they were going to quit on me and you didn't say anything?”

Pain shoots from my neck, through my shoulder, to my hand. “I never thought they'd actually do it.”

Mac seems to perk up. He steps between me and Parker. “Come on, Parker, give the guy a break. The guy took a swing at me. He got benched because I told him about your little secret.”

Now Parker looks sick. And guilty. She stares at the grass. A bad sign. “My secret?”

“Yeah.” Mac says. “Your secret. And now it's time for you to confess.” Mac always smiles just before he takes a shot. “You've got Ari's Wayne Timcoe card. Admit it.”

Parker drops her stuff. She looks at Mac and shakes her head. “Ari, do you honestly believe I'd steal your card?”

Honestly?

Mac says, “Me and Soup saw you looking at it. You stuck it in your backpack. We could tell you didn't want anyone to see what you were doing.”

Soup nods to me. “It's true. He's not lying. She was definitely hiding something.”

Now she looks mad and sad. “No,” she says. “I don't have it. I swear. Coach, they don't know what they saw.” She buries her head in her father's chest while he kisses the top of her head. I can hear her whimper, “This is so embarrassing.”

Mac sneers. “Because you're a liar and a thief?”

When she turns around, I wouldn't want to be Mac. “If you have to know, MacDonald, I was getting . . . you know . . .” She turns red. “Girl things.”

Oh.

That.

Everyone groans.

Parker's dad claps his hands. “Okay, then, that's enough. You boys have acted badly enough for one day. Let's go, Parker.”

Coach agrees. “Go home. We'll have a team meeting after school on Monday.”

But Mac won't let anyone move. He says, “No. She can't get away with this. She framed me! She stole Ari's card!”

Parker picks up her bag and clutches it to her chest. Her dad asks, “Do you have it, sweetheart? Because if you do, and you still want to be part of this team, you have to give it back. Now.”

She pulls away. “If it's there, he planted it.”

Mac shakes his head. “I knew she'd say that.”

I want to believe her. I want to believe her more than I want to believe Mac. But realistically, I'm not sure. A lot of things don't make sense. She is the only other collector here. She's the only person I know still looking for a Timcoe. She was the only person who saw Mac go into my stuff.

Mac is my friend. She hates Mac. She practically said so herself.

Her father grabs the bag, and she starts to protest. “It's the only way you're going to earn their respect.” He unzips the front flap.

She says, “Don't!”

He shakes the bag hard. Out fall a sweatshirt and a bottle of water, an extra shirt, a notebook. A pink pouch. A small stuffed dog.

And half a dozen All-Star Soccer trading cards.

I don't want to look. She says, “Daddy, I swear, those cards are not mine.”

Mac says, “You got that right.”

I look. But only to convince myself. There is no way my card is in her backpack. Mac is wrong. It's the only thing that makes sense.

Until I look at her face and see that she is scared. She is scared of me. And the cards. Scattered on the ground.

One by one, I pick them up. They are all classics, all well cared for. Just like the day in front of Ben Elliot's, I know before I see him.

First blue. Then red. A bright green field.

There is nothing worse than being lied to.

Parker picks up the card, before I have to bend over to get it. She hands it to me, like it is hot enough to burn. “He put it there, Ari. You have to believe me. He planned this. You know he did. You know I would never take him away from you.”

I don't kiss it.

I don't rub it on my leg.

I don't let anyone else touch it.

It is Wayne, Wayne Timcoe, my trading card, my lucky card, in a custom plastic sleeve, the kind that costs two for three dollars, the kind that only real collectors buy.

 

Everyone leaves, heads down, eyes on the grass. There really isn't much to say. Dad finally shows up and he and Mom take me by my elbows and help me to the car. “Ari, what happened?”

I tell him everything—who hit whom and Parker having the card. He
tsk
s. “Well, I'm surprised. She seemed like a nice girl.”

Mom says, “Maybe too nice. You know, I never could believe that Mac was guilty.” She makes a pillow out of a sweatshirt that smells like tomato sauce. “Mac has been your friend for a long time. And I hope now you two can figure things out.” When I yawn a second time, she goes ballistic. “Are you sleepy? Can you please stay awake?” Although the motion of the car is very relaxing, her voice is not. She says three times, “I bet he has a concussion.” Every time I close my eyes, she complains about Coach and my friends and even my obsession with Wayne.

I hold the card. He is so perfect. I ask, “Do you think Mac's telling the truth? That she framed him?”

Dad hits a pothole. Mom tells him to be more careful.

I say, “Parker knew the card was lucky.”

Mom hands me a water bottle. Dad asks, “Why don't you stop worrying about who took it, and just be grateful you have it back? Remember, everyone makes mistakes. Parker was under a lot of pressure.”

My father, the king of the underdogs.

“So was I. So was Mac.” Dad drives. I sulk. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. “The whole time, she was the one who thought the card was so cool. She was also the one who made me believe he had it. The whole time, she was the only person who saw him take it.”

I examine the card for nicks or damages. Stains. The plastic cover is nice. It is obviously new. A few smudges, but otherwise, pristine. It's obvious a collector took care of this card.

The rest of the way, the only thing they say is, “Stay awake, Ari.” Dad doesn't complain about leaving work. He doesn't worry (out loud) how much my tooth will cost. Mom stops telling him how to drive. I keep my eyes open.

“Stay awake, Ari.”

As soon as we get to the emergency room, Mom jumps out of the car. A wheelchair and half the nurses she works with are waiting. It takes them an hour to declare me healthy and in one piece.

Before we go, the doctor gives me a new ice pack and tells me to take something for the pain. He says to Mom, “Take tonight off. Wake him up every four hours, just to be safe. And get some sleep. I can't believe you're still standing.”

—Andrew Johnson

 

 

 

At home, Dad makes coffee. Mom puts up her feet. The painkillers let pain live. If I move, my entire mouth throbs.

The newspaper sits folded on the table. Steve the Sports Guy tells Sick of Being Nagged to get off the couch and confront his girlfriend. And Frustrated About Work needs a new job. I'm surprised when he thinks the Galaxy fan who doesn't want to read about the Lakers is overreacting to her daughter's boyfriend. Usually, he tells people to trust their guts. But this time, he advises the guy to “Sit back. Wait and see. Maybe the kid is sincere. Maybe he isn't. Just love your daughter. Time will tell.”

The phone rings. Mom answers. “It's Parker. Are you available?”

“No.”

I don't want to fight. I don't want to hear any excuses. I only get out of bed to e-mail Sam. “We lost,” I write. “Everything is falling apart.”

She calls three more times in the first hour. Two times in the next. The last time, Mom says, “She sounds really sad.”

“I said no.”

I'm not talking. I'm not listening. I don't care—I don't feel like doing the right thing.

Even though it doesn't feel very good.

 

The next day, right before dinner, Coach stops by with Mac. “I don't care how things got out of hand,” he says, “but now I want you to make it go away.”

Mac goes first. “I guess I really let Parker get to me.” He puts out his hand to shake mine. “I guess I let a lot of things get to me. It made me mad, when you blamed me for your lost card. We are friends. Teammates. I couldn't believe you thought I could do something like that to you.”

If I were honest, I would say:

If you didn't take it, why didn't you just tell me? Why did you act so guilty?

You're not playing this straight. You never gave her a chance.

How about an apology?

But I am not honest. Coach is here. He doesn't look like he wants to actually talk about what happened. He expects me to accept whatever it is Mac is offering and move on for the sake of the team.

So even though nothing has been resolved, that is what I am going to do. I try to think of something to say. Something honest. Something that will get them out of my house.

“I'm just glad I have the card again.”

Mac says, “You know, All-Star Soccer says that Wayne Timcoe card is worth two thousand dollars. You were really lucky to get it back before Parker tried to unload it.”

He does not understand the first thing about collecting. “Since when did you care about the value of trading cards? I thought you said the cards were worthless.”

It is an extremely awkward moment.

Coach clears his throat. “Ari, give your friend a break. I don't think Mac was suggesting that you should sell the Timcoe. I don't think he believes it is worthless.”

Mac jumps all over that. “I don't. I know how much that card means to you. I'm glad you got it back.” We stare at each other in silence until he blinks. “This has been the worst week of my life. I want to put this entire chapter behind us.”

When I don't immediately chime in, Coach frowns. He thinks I'm stalling. “Ari, Mac is reaching out to you.” In other words, say something. Do the right thing. Shake hands and make up, so we can get back to work.

So I shake Mac's hand. When he hugs me, I hug back. And for Coach, this means that the conflict is over. “Good. I'm glad we had this little talk.”

They are about to leave, when Dad brings out a pot full of chili with side dishes of cheese and very soft for-a-sore-jaw tortillas. Coach looks at his watch, tells us he needs to go, but he will stay a bit longer for some comfort food this tasty.

Mac and I eat three servings each. Coach stops at two. “Boys, if this team is going to succeed, you two are going to have to put all this behind you. You're going to have to play together. You're going to have to find a way to—”

“We know.”

Mac takes the last of the tortillas, but leaves the last scoop of cheese for me. He promises he'll lead the team to victory. He'll even get Mischelotti off my back. “I know I've been a total jerk. That whole scene in the cafeteria was not right. But trust me—I am going to make it up to you.”