Beyond Lucky (19 page)

I burp. Too many hot peppers. “Are you actually apologizing to me, Mac MacDonald?”

He burps too. A little one. “Yes. I'm sorry.” We each grab a bottle of soda and chug all the way until there's nothing left. It is easy to believe Mac. It's fun to be his friend. We take turns burping—each time, a little bit louder—until Mac lays a loud, long one, and I give up. Then we both start laughing and I hiccup a bunch of times, so hard it hurts. Mac says, “I never want to drive anywhere with Mischelotti again. His car stinks!” And I say, “And I never want to hear the Mia Hamm story again.”

Coach leaves the room to talk to Dad. Mac shakes my hand again. There are no jokes. No one is listening. He says, “I know I haven't always been the best friend, and I'm sorry about that. I'm really glad this is over. I hope you will be able to trust me again.”

Trust is a big deal.

It's the key ingredient of a team. You have to trust that your teammates have your back. You have to trust that everyone is playing their best.

Most of all, you have to trust that they won't lie to your face.

Parker trusted us to play, but she shouldn't have. I trusted her with the card, but then she stole it. Now Mac wants me to trust him.

I want to believe him, but something doesn't feel right. “You're my striker. We have to stick together.” I don't think that is exactly what he wanted to hear, but right now, it's the best I can do.

Coach makes us promise to be fair to Parker. “She may have done something terrible, but we're a team, and that means you're not allowed to hold it against her.” He says he is too old for this nonsense, but it is obvious he believes Mac. “It will be rough at first. There will be some bumps. But I won't lead a team that can't play together.”

We shake hands one more time. It's a deal.

After they leave, when I am alone in my room, when Mom isn't asking me if my mouth is still sore and Dad isn't worrying that the next shipment of grass-fed beef is going to be late, and I'm not worried that Sam still hasn't returned any of my desperate, urgent e-mails, I secretly can't help feeling a little bit of doubt.

The truth is Parker could have framed Mac. But Mac could have framed Parker too. If it hadn't been for him, we never would have lost that game.

But then I remember what the rabbi said right before the game. About Noah. And heroes.

Nobody's perfect.

Heroes are just people.

We all make mistakes.

 

In the early morning, the sun turns the sky from red to pink to a misty blue-gray haze. Behind some clouds, the sun is a white-yellow ball.

But something is off. The sky looks strange. It takes me a few minutes to figure it out.

Even though the sky is light enough for me to see the red leaves on the trees, I can see the moon. It looks like it is made of dust, a shadow of the big yellow sun, determined to stick around.

But there it is. The moon. During the day.

It looks a little unreal, a little off balance, like the whole world is out of whack.

Not just me.

—Lyndon B. Johnson

 

 

 

Optimism: take one.

I get out of bed and do my push-ups. I recite the presidents with the highest approval ratings. Even though my jaw, shoulder, and arm ache, I have the card. I hold Wayne Timcoe in both hands, look at the poster, and hope for good things for myself. And Sam. And Mac. And Parker too. The weekend is past. The correlation between the card and luck is still predictable: When I have the card, I play well. Girls talk to me. Everything is great.

On my way to the bathroom, I stub my toe.

Maybe the card just needs some time to warm up.

 

Optimism: take two.

I check my e-mail. There are ten messages in my inbox. One is from Sam.

He will call tonight—that's good. But he forgot to write: “Fight to the end for what's important to you.”

He never leaves that out. I'm absolutely positive that it doesn't mean anything. It's just a slogan. Maybe he is trying to come up with a new one.

I print the new message and fold it around the Wayne Timcoe card.

The next e-mail is from Coach. It is marked
urgent
with a bright red exclamation point. I don't have to open it to know what he wants.

On Monday, we're having a special mandatory practice. No whining. No excuses. No slack. He writes, “After what happened at Mooretown, you'll be lucky if you get out of here before dinner.”

The other eight messages are from Parker. Pretty much, each message is the same, except the last four are all in capital letters.

Abraham Lincoln said, “You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you cannot fool all of the people all of the time.”

I wish Lincoln had said something about doubt and overcoming it. I wish he had said something about what you're supposed to be if you don't want to be that fool. Because there is something about her messages that is extremely disturbing.

 

Optimism: take three.

The newspaper arrives on time.

But my horoscope is grim.

“It's not the best time to make big decisions, as you're swimming in too much data and need to prune some of it away first. Try to put off anything big for a while and then you'll be fine.”

No fooling.

The rest of the paper is no better. On the second page: “Helicopter Crash Kills Four in Oregon.” Four would-be firefighters are dead. Mark, Tim, Evan, and Sal. Mark was the pilot. Sal was training to be a jumper.

I show Dad, and he starts writing letters.

When he is done, he asks, “Will you sign these cards? I want to put them in the mail today.”

Usually, I just sign my name. But today, I write at the bottom of each card: “Your son will be missed. We are sorry for your loss.”

The morning continues to worsen. We are all out of my before-practice cereal. The only milk left is skim. Dad offers to make pancakes, which sounds great, but then he burns the first two batches. The smoke detector rings like a siren. He hands me a placemat. The Battle of Chickamauga. The next batch are only burnt in random places, so we eat them anyway, even the black parts. Mom reminds me that if my head aches, I should go directly to the nurse.

She says, “Make me proud.” That means “Make up with Parker.” And “Really forgive Mac.”

I can't help wondering if Mac is telling the truth.

Instead of commiserating, Dad sighs. “I don't think it matters. Because no matter what, you are going to do the right thing.”

This sounds familiar. “Did you talk to the rabbi too?”

It is obvious he did, but he will never admit it. The last pancake is deformed, a fold-over, and it looks a little like the state of Texas, the home state of Lyndon B. Johnson and Dwight Eisenhower. He answers my question with a question. “Do you think any of the presidents ever hesitated from doing what they thought was right?”

I pour more syrup on the plate. “But what if it doesn't work? What if it's too late?”

Dad kisses the top of my head. “Then at least you tried.”

When I walk out the door, my resolve is strong. Dad is right. I need to do the right thing. I can forget all about the past and who did what and bring my team together. It is not going to be that hard. Mac is already on board. All we have to do is tell everyone—including Parker—that we are all square. No more debate. Then we'll all go to practice and everything will be fine.

Halfway to school, I know exactly what I want to say. But when I arrive, everyone is so happy to see me. It doesn't feel right to make a big, difficult speech.

I convince myself that I don't have to say anything. Everything is already fine. My luck is returning. There is no burden to lift. The power of the card is going to solve all my problems, no sweat.

I ignore the funny little shots my friends take at Parker, Eddie's eye roll and Soup's dead gaze when she arrives at school. I tell myself it means nothing—that old habits die hard and nothing more. Besides, Parker doesn't say hello to us either. She stays on her side of the lawn until the bell rings, and when we walk in her direction, she runs ahead. I say to Mac, “Let's go catch up with her now.” He says we don't have to anymore—the deal is off. Parker is quitting—he heard through the grapevine. He reminds me that that proves she is guilty.

I ignore that icky feeling in my gut.

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

I plan to talk to her at lunch. Or maybe after school or on the way to practice, if Mac's rumor is false. Although I promised to be nice to her, I didn't say that I would resolve everything first thing.

I rationalize that I can actually be more effective if I wait for the card to come to full strength. I don't need to make a big stink, or rock the boat, if I stand back and let the card work its magic.

In other words, I take the easy way out.

I say and do absolutely nothing.

 

Unfortunately for me, a girl who plays on a boys' team never forgets what she has set out to do. She does not put off until tomorrow what she can do right now.

Right before lunch, she barricades my locker. “You have to talk to me sometime. Why didn't you answer my e-mails? I know you got them.”

A second ago I was hungry and happy. Now I feel sick. Guilty. Awful. Trapped again. An hour ago I knew exactly what to do. Now when my mouth opens, out comes, “I don't know what you want me to say.”

“Are you serious?” She stamps her foot. “Do you not remember that I was the one trying to help you? Who stuck up for you, when all your so-called-friends were acting like jerks?”

“I remember.”

Parker Llewellyn is upset. She stands very stiff. She makes sure everyone in the vicinity can hear. “I called you all weekend long, and your mother said you couldn't talk, which I know is a lie, but what am I supposed to do, call your mother a liar?”

I am so frustrated. At her. At Mac. At this card that seems to have lost all its power. I want to say “I believe you.” Or “I forgive you.” But she won't stop yelling.

I can yell too. “But it was in your bag.”

“He framed me.”

“He says you are quitting.”

“Well, now we know he's a liar.”

I open my locker and it smells like garlic. Everything is wet. It is my hummus sandwich. I must not have sealed the bag, because it is leaking all over everything.

I say, “Everything stinks.” I almost shout, “Wayne Timcoe, where are you? I am supposed to be lucky.”

As it is, Parker is laughing at me. “Your lunch is peeing.”

This is the worst day ever.

“It's not funny.” At some moment—any time now—the card is going to start working. My luck is going to start getting better and it's going to stay good. And then it's going to become great, and I will say the right thing, and everyone will get along. I won't have to feel stuck in the middle.

My jacket will stink all day. I pull out the lunch bag. I hope the cookies are wrapped in plastic.

They're not.

For a second, Parker looks me right in the eye, and she doesn't blink. Her voice is finally quiet. “Ari. Just listen. I would never do this, and I'm not going anywhere until you believe me.”

I want to tell her that I believe her too, but Mac is here. He and Soup and Eddie are standing behind her. They wave to me and bat their eyes.

She doesn't see them. “Just think about it,” she says. “Logically. Why would I ever do that to you?”

Mac taps her on the shoulder. “Because you wanted what he had,” he says. “That's why.”

Eddie looks embarrassed. Soup turns away. Mac looks like he is offended when she glares at him. He asks, “You coming to lunch, Fish?”

I want to go. I want to stay. I want to tell Mac he is acting like an idiot, that we promised Coach we would be nice to Parker, who, until further notice, is still our teammate. I want to do what Sam and Dad would do. Mom said, “Make me proud.” Dad said, “Do the right thing.” Sam would probably say “This is important.”