Beyond Lucky (16 page)

He has always had long hair.

I wish I could defend Sam, but right now, I feel ignored and hurt. He should have called. Or e-mailed. He should have told Mom he was finally cutting his hair. He should have wanted to talk to me about the card. And Mac. But complaining won't change anything. “Maybe he'll write again in a few days. When this fire is out. When he is back on base.” I don't know if I'm trying to convince myself or Dad. I don't think either one of us believes me.

Dad scurries around the kitchen. “Nothing better than baked apples on a crisp fall day. Any luck talking to Mac?”

Funny how he sneaks
that
in. “No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Not even a little.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.” Even if I have to eat lunch alone for the rest of the year, I'm not talking to Mac until he returns Wayne Timcoe.

Dad arranges a large tray of apples. Keys jingle in the door. It is Mom, of course, and she's wearing brand-new scrubs, which means she had to change at work, she was that bloody. She drops her purse on the floor and throws a magazine on the table. We must look absolutely morose, because she immediately freaks out. “What's wrong? Has something happened to Sam?”

She is trained to assume the worst.

“We got an e-mail,” I say as cheerfully as possible.

“A short one,” Dad says. Glum.

It should take five seconds to read, but she stares at the message for at least forty-five.

I say, “I know it's short, but the good news is, he's fine. Just busy. I bet he'll call this Monday.”

She scratches her head. “Did you see the pictures?” I ask. “He cut his hair. Just like you asked him to.”

Her frown lines deepen. “Ten days of nothing and this is what he sends? No time to write, I'm fine? Here's my picture. Fight to the end for what's important to you? What does that even mean?”

Dad rubs her neck. “I know. I'm frustrated too. I wish he wrote more.”

She slams the laptop shut. “Why doesn't he understand that all we want is for him to be—”

“A doctor?” I ask. “Mom, he doesn't want to go to med school. Why can't you get off his back?” I run upstairs to Sam's room and slam the door, so they know exactly how I feel.

The yellow walls, the blue and white bedspread, the collage of pictures all over his door. His varsity letters. His favorite photos: the team, the mountains, a close-up of a soccer ball. His high school jersey. His words.

When Sam was in high school, my parents let him write his favorite sayings all over the walls in permanent marker. Or maybe, he did it, and they were too lazy to paint over it.

It was a whole lot easier being a wuss.

I go to my room and do ten push-ups, then stop. At this point, what's the difference? My parents are mad, and I don't have my card. My brother can't bother to call me, and my oldest friend is a traitor. Maybe they're all in this together. The Wayne Timcoe of the poster looks down at me with confidence. I count to Andrew Jackson, then stop.

Counting presidents is pointless.

Sam was wrong. Fighting to the end does not feel good.

Dad knocks and comes in. I stare at my new goalkeeper's gloves, which claim to feature state-of-the-art technology that provides the ultimate in performance and protection.

“Are you okay? Mom didn't mean to snap at you. She's just really tired.” He picks up a glove and sits next to me on the bed. “We're going to go to services. You don't have to come, but since you don't have to be at the field early, I think your mom would appreciate it.”

In other words—put on a tie—you're going. Brush your hair. Apologize to your mother. We let you out of services for all your morning games. He says, “If you like, we could say the healing prayer for Sam.”

“He doesn't need healing.” I look away. I do not want to tempt fate. But I can't help it. “Does he?”

He squeezes my shoulder. “No, but it couldn't hurt. And it might make us feel like we're doing something to help him.” I escape his grasp and go to the window.

Outside, it looks like it's going to be a perfect day. There are no visible crows or spiders or even dead bugs. The truth is, I am afraid for Sam too. “What if Sam was counting on me and Wayne Timcoe to give him luck?”

“Oh, Ari.” He gets up and stands behind me, and I am grateful that he doesn't want to face me, eye to eye. “Sam's job does not depend on your card. And you are not responsible for anyone's actions but your own. If Sam knew what was going on, he would tell you it was just too bad that Mac isn't a better friend.”

We don't move or talk until Mom pops her head in the room. “Are you coming?” she asks in her absolutely nicest, calmest voice.

I want to ask, “Do I have a choice?” but I manage to say, “Sure. It's probably a good idea.”

This was obviously the right thing to say. “Thank you, Ari,” Dad says. “We'll wait downstairs. Take your time.” He gets up and starts to close the door. “Why don't you pack up your gear? We'll go to the game from the Temple. So you will be there in plenty of time.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I load my uniform and gear into a bag. I trudge down the stairs. The bag feels heavy. Very heavy.

 

When we arrive at the synagogue, the service has already started. Everyone is standing and singing and bowing their heads, as the rabbi opens the ark to take out the Torah.

Going to services, when you are studying for your bar mitzvah, is a nerve-racking experience. There are a lot of rituals. And you know you have to learn every single one.

As the rabbi sings, I stare at the words and picture myself standing where he is now. Can I sing that prayer? In Hebrew? At the front of the room? With the Torah on my shoulder? Can I walk around the sanctuary without tripping?

You hear a lot of horror stories. A boy whose voice never stopped cracking—a girl who forgot the entire blessing and started laughing and could not stop. One girl got her shoe caught on a floorboard and almost dropped the Torah, which is, by far, the worst possible most unlucky thing that can happen.

No one drops the Torah. The rabbi once told me that he has never seen one hit the floor.

That is because, if it does, everyone in the room has to fast during the day for forty days.

For the record, if this happens on my bar mitzvah, my father will collapse on the ground and cry, since his lunch will go to waste.

Today, it takes the rabbi five minutes to walk around the room to our seats. Without one bobble, he kisses Mom's cheek and shakes our hands. Impressive. “How is Sam?” he asks. “Any word?”

My mother talks to the rabbi a lot. “He's fine,” she says. “We just got a letter from him this morning.” A big smile. “We are so proud of him.”

Clearly Mom does not tell the rabbi everything.

At the front of the room, the rabbi unwraps the Torah scroll. He says, “Today we will be reading from The Book of Noah.” According to him, a hero in his own time, but perhaps not all time.

I have no idea what that means.

As he chants, I daydream about my reading. Maybe the rabbi is right. The team is a responsibility and a burden. I wish I had never asked Mac to give me back my card, and then I wonder if that was my burden, the one the rabbi thinks is supposed to be an honor. At our next meeting, I am going to tell him just how wrong he is.

When the service is over, it is almost noon. We have to go. Even after I ask Mom nicely to hurry up, she kisses every single person in the room. I wait by the door. Eat. Drink. I check the clock four times. I go into the bathroom and change into my uniform. When I open the bathroom door, the rabbi is waiting.

“Nice to see you, Ari,” he says. “Big game today?”

Mom has the biggest mouth in the universe. “Not really. Today should be easy. It's just Mooretown.”

“Just Mooretown?” The rabbi warns me to play with humility. “Remember the 1950 World Cup? What were the odds? Five hundred to one?”

I almost tell him how happy Mom really was when she got Sam's e-mail. But he'd probably pull out some Torah story about mothers and sons, and I don't have time. It's bad enough when the rabbi wants to combine religion and sports. I don't want to talk about religion, sports, and mothers.

“Yep. Five hundred to one.”

A lady walks over to shake his hand. She says, “I feel like I know a whole new side to Noah.”

The rabbi smiles. “There is a lot of evidence that he was the first to drink wine.”

The lady nods. “But he sure was stubborn. To act that way toward your own son. To disown him, because he was embarrassed? That doesn't seem heroic.”

I pretend I was paying attention and that I know what she is talking about. “In the Torah, a lot of sons get a bad deal.”

Rabbi never lets you know if he thinks your comment is a dumb one. “So what do you think the Torah is telling us—when a hero can act so carelessly? Even after everything he did, can you still look up to him? Or do our heroes have to be perfect people too?”

I am ninety-nine percent sure he's not talking about Noah anymore. I ask, “What do you think the Torah is saying, Rabbi?”

When talking to a rabbi, answering a question with a question is a great strategy.

“I think the Torah is saying that nobody is perfect, but of course, we should still try to be the best people possible. I think we need to remember that heroes are real people too. They make mistakes.”

He is definitely not talking about Noah now.

I motion to Mom. She grabs Dad, and they both shake hands with the rabbi. Mom looks guilty—she definitely said something. Dad looks like he ate too much challah. The rabbi wishes me good luck. He says, “Sometimes, what you expect the least can happen. Sometimes, Ari, the little guy wins against all odds.”

Now I really hope he's talking about me.

—Gerald Ford

MOORETOWN HIGH SCHOOL FIELD
1 P.M.

 

 

Unfortunately, there is construction on Main Street. And because construction is not enough to completely stop the flow of traffic and ruin my life, a water main is broken. Even though my father is driving, it takes fifty-two minutes to get to the field. He tells Mom that he will drop us off and come back later, after he stops by the restaurant.

When we arrive, warm-ups are over.

Parker stands in the net. In my net. My spot. She doesn't see me, because she is talking to Eddie. Probably telling him to cover the post. And charge the offense, that they are weak and slow and that this is going to be cake.

Coach is talking to the refs. I run and yell as loud as I can. “Coach! Here I am! I made it.”

He meets me at the bench. “Fish! Where have you been? We were about to start without you. It's not like we're in danger of losing to Mooretown, but out of respect, we have to make it look like we're at least a little bit nervous.”

“I was at services,” I say, putting on the head gear and the mouth guard and counting in my head.
Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe.
Coach runs toward the goal to tell Parker she's back to warming the bench.

Parker does not look happy. “No hard feelings?” I ask.

She says, “No hard feelings,” but her voice is quiet. She does not smile.

I say, “You'll be on the field in no time.” I would be disappointed too. Every time Mischelotti took his place in the goal, I thought I would never have my chance.

Her father is mad. He screams at Coach. “Why are you taking my daughter out? Fish was late. She was here. She deserves the opportunity to start in the net. She's done everything you asked her to do. She's twice as good as half the clowns out there.”

As I take the field, no one waves hello. Except for Mac, they are all staring at Parker's dad, who is basically freaking out on the sidelines. “It's unfair. It's not right. You don't treat her as an equal. I'm not going to take this lying down. I'm going to report you to the commissioner.”

Mac stands at midfield and stretches.

I wonder if everything will ever be normal again, if we'll ever be able to play together . . . or if the season is shot . . . if we're still even friends. If we'll ever be friends.

I have to do something. If I don't, no one else will.

“Hey Biggs—send it back to me if you need help. Okay? Can we call a truce?” For a second, I'm not sure he heard me.

But then he turns around. “Okay, Ari. Will do.” The rest of the defense jogs to the net to shake my hand.

It's a start.

They say, “I'm really glad you made it.” And “I thought Mac was going to explode when Coach put Parker in the net.” And “He actually complained to Coach.”

I want to hear the whole story, but there isn't time. The whistle blows. The game begins. Mooretown takes the ball, but they can't dribble for beans. The lanes shut down. Mooretown is weak and slow, and it doesn't take a genius or even a moderately good athlete to stop them in their tracks. Eddie boots the rock out of our end.

Mac, of course, is everywhere. He weaves around two Mooretown players, traps the ball, and passes it to Soup. It's a perfect pass, and Soup kicks it past the goalkeeper without stumbling or even breaking a sweat.