Beyond Lucky (20 page)

That is harder than it sounds. “Please, Parker, everyone wants you to stay on the team. Everything is forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” Her lower lip quivers. “What do you mean?”

I stand there like an idiot.

Her eyes change to slits. Her brow furrows. “No it isn't. Not even close.” She steps aside—no sign of tears. “You know what I think? That card is evil. Or cursed. I don't know. Maybe you're cursed too.”

Now I'm mad. And when I'm mad, I say stupid things. Hurtful things. “The card is not evil. It's the best card I have, and you wanted it.” I slam my locker shut. She flinches. “You're just jealous because your footwork is too slow. You're not big enough or strong enough and you're not going to get recruited by anyone until you step up your game. If you and your dad could have accepted that, maybe the team would have accepted you.”

I don't really think any of this is true. But I'm mad, and it feels good to make her feel terrible.

For a second.

Then it feels awful. Everything has snowballed out of control. I don't believe anything I've just said.

Before I can take it back, Parker walks away. My friends surround me and congratulate me for finally dealing with that lying, thieving, friend-destroying wanna-be.

Mac puts his arm around my shoulder. Even Eddie looks relaxed. Mac says, “You did the right thing, Fish. We are a great team.”

It is the biggest lie yet, but still, I don't look back.

—Franklin D. Roosevelt

 

 

 

At the special mandatory practice, Coach says, “There's only one way to get through a crisis like this, and that is hard work.”

He's not joking.

First he makes us run to the top of the field and back as fast as we can. When we're done, he says, “Do it again.”

And again.

And again.

He does not care how tired we feel, or how lousy we look. He doesn't let us stop running for a drink or a snack or to ease up on a cramp.

Or to ice a sore mouth.

“Coach,” Mac says, “this is brutal.”

“You don't like it?” He laughs. “Take an extra lap. Or don't bother coming back.” He tells us that this is how practices are going to be until we start acting like a team. We are going to do things his way for as long as it takes. “Do you understand?”

We understand.

We are all miserable.

He lines us up, and we do push-ups, planks, and sit-ups until we can't move. Then he yells, “Get up,” and we dribble around the cones.

Three times.

Parker is the only one not gasping for breath. She runs the best average time. And she doesn't knock down a single cone. She glares at me. “You think Coach will have any problem playing me now?”

Then Coach shortens the field by half. He divides us into teams, and we scrimmage six on six, which puts twice as much pressure on the defense.

No one likes playing on a short field. Not Eddie. Not Mac. Not me. I tell Eddie to just take the corner or stay in front of me, and he does not appreciate my advice. Parker is everywhere. She dribbles between defenders and passes with perfect accuracy.

It is extremely aggravating.

Soup yells at Mac. Mac insults David. Eddie starts to yell at me, but I tell him not to start. Even though this is only a scrimmage, I hate scooping out balls from the back of the net.

But it is still not enough for Coach. When we're done, he shortens the field even more. “Let's play two on two,” he says while pacing in front of us. Mac smells. So do I. We smell so bad, I want to step away.

“Up first: MacDonald and Llewellyn against Fish and Biggs.”

For a moment, Mac forgets his promises. “Come on, Coach. Can't you play someone else?” He lays on the charm. “All things considered.”

Coach isn't buying. He says, “All things considered, MacDonald, you are lucky that any of us will tolerate your presence on this field.” He paces back and forth. “Team, I want to win games. I will do anything to win games. And that means playing with the best we have. I know you don't want to believe this, MacDonald, but we need Llewellyn. She is good. I've been watching her close, and this Saturday, she's going to see real time. On offense. Do you hear me, MacDonald?”

“Yes.”

Usually, Mac can talk anyone into anything. But not today. Today of all days, Coach decides that Mac does not know what is best for our team.

He says, “So if you want to play on Saturday, get out there and play. Together.”

Parker seizes the moment and runs onto the field. “I'm ready.” She looks at me and Mac. “Are you?”

 

What happens next is not pretty.

Coach sends us to the field, two on two, offense on defense, Mac and Parker against me and Eddie.

Eddie tries to force the ball wide—to keep them from passing—but he is out of position. Too aggressive. Mac has no problem getting the ball to Parker. She dribbles tight. Her feet are super-fast. Left and right and right-left-left-right, and smash—into the corner.

I have to dive headfirst to get it.

That really hurts.

After ten minutes, she scores twice, Mac once. I try and spell it out to Eddie—that he can't just charge the ball, he's got to wait for it—he's got to watch their footwork. That the feet will tell you which way they're going to kick.

He doesn't appreciate it. He tells me he understands watching the feet. And that I should cut him some slack. “You know this drill favors the O.” When I don't immediately agree, he adds, “You are becoming a diva.”

Mischelotti stands there and shakes his head. “Haven't I taught you anything, Fish? You have to be nice to your stopper.”

Eddie doesn't know when to shut up. “At least Parker had a reason to yell. At least she doesn't act like she knows everything, and that everyone else knows squat.”

Mischelotti hands me some water. “I thought you guys were friends.”

Parker can't help chiming in. “It's because of the stupid card.” She says, “I think it's cursed.”

He scratches his head. “Maybe it is. Maybe the net is cursed too. Or maybe it's you, Fish. Maybe you're doomed. Just like Wayne Timcoe himself.”

 

I stay up late, overanalyzing everything that has gone wrong.

Sam didn't call, even though he promised he would. I'm sure it only means what it always means. There was another fire. Otherwise, he would have called.

I can't consider anything else.

The non-call has nothing to do with my horrible luck.

And my horrible luck has nothing to do with the card. Or Parker. Or Mac. It's just a coincidence. These things happen. Luck gets better. Then it gets worse. Then it gets better. It is a wave, just like Steve the Sports Guy said. In a couple of days, everything is going to turn around, if not exponentially, at least incrementally.

I believe that.

I have to believe that.

All I have to do is apologize. When I do that, my conscience will feel better. My luck will improve.

What I did was wrong.

I knew Parker loved Wayne just as much as I do, but I never once thought she'd take him. When I realized the card was gone, I did not ever consider that Parker was the thief. Parker was my friend. She is my friend. When no one else would talk to me, she did.

I picture her at the field. At my locker. I remember what she looked like when she found the card in her backpack. She looked shocked, surprised, upset. I remember how, during tryouts, I was so scared she'd be starting instead of me.

I knew it then. I know it now.

My gut is never wrong.

The door creaks open, and a sliver of brightness cuts the room in half. Dad whispers, “Ari, you're still up?”

My eyes need time to adjust to the light. “I can't sleep.”

“Me neither.” He closes the door, so the room is dark.

It's a funny thing. I went out of my way to convince myself of the truth, but only in the dark can I say what I fear most. “I wanted to believe that Parker took the card, but now I'm sure she didn't.”

He says nothing.

I say, “I was really mean to her.”

I can't see Dad's face, but I'm pretty sure he's not smiling. “I'm very sorry to hear that.”

I tell him everything.

“You need to apologize,” he says.

“But what about Mac?”

My dad lets me think for a very long time. This is his way of making me come up with my own answers. “But what if he won't admit what he did?” I ask.

Dad rubs my head. “Talk to him. Be frank. Tell him you forgive him. He'll come around. There have been plenty of times when he has had to forgive you.”

This is true. He has forgiven me a lot.

For the time I gave him a model racecar, then took it back. Same day.

For the time I told the teacher he had copied off my homework.

For the time I told him I had plans, when really, I just didn't feel like hanging out with him.

Me and Mac—we may not always do the right thing—but in the end, we always stick together.

When Dad leaves, he opens the door wide. The hall light shines across my face, like a spotlight. I close my eyes, until it disappears with a click.

Tomorrow, I'm going to do what I should have done before. I am going to talk to Parker. First thing. I'm going to ask for her forgiveness, and then, we're going to talk to Mac. For the first time, I'm going to be a leader. I'm going to do what Thomas Jefferson and Steve the Sports Guy and Sam would tell me to do: I'm going to fight until the end. I'm going to trust my gut. I'm not going to be a wuss anymore.

In the darkness, it feels easy. In the darkness, I am finally ready to do what's right.

 

At 4:42, the phone wakes me up. Dad's footsteps rush past my door. His voice echoes. Three words. “Hello? What? No.”

Downstairs, he is sitting in the dark. His face is in his hands. The phone is on its side. It beeps steadily, but Dad doesn't touch it.

“What happened?” I ask.

He looks at me with glassy, dazed eyes. “Sam is in trouble.”

It's the call we've been dreading.

—Theodore Roosevelt

 

 

 

“Turn on the news.”

Of the seven news stations broadcasting at this hour, none are reporting about the newest fire on the Nevada-California border. It is ten minutes before the hour, which apparently means it is the perfect time to discuss weather and/or entertainment.

Dad calls Sam's cell. When there is no answer, he calls Mom. “Come home.” He stares at the commercials, one after the other after the other. He does not flip the channels the way he normally would.

We must wait until exactly 5:07 in the morning for the anchorman to face the camera dead on. A banner appears: FIREFIGHTERS BATTLING MASSIVE BLAZE. MULTIPLE HOMES DESTROYED.

There is no good way to hear bad news.

The anchorman's voice stays steady and low. “In our next story, our thoughts are with a team of firefighters who have been battling another huge blaze near the California-Nevada border.”

Mom walks into the room just as the correspondent, a woman named Suzanne Myers, whose super-white hair is blowing around her face, warns parents that the following images may be too frightening for small children to see.

Houses are on fire. The grass is black. A tall tree bursts into flames.

“Paul,” she says, “a representative from Redding's Region Five Smokejumpers called in this morning to report that a small fire in this area had been successfully contained. But obviously, something went terribly wrong. Late this evening, the fire re-ignited and blazed out of control. The local fire chief suspects arson.”

None of us move.

On the TV, the air is dark. Smoke billows from house after house after house. I wonder where the people are. The firefighters. They should be hosing down these houses, but they aren't.

I don't see any firefighters anywhere.

The reporter's voice shakes. “Right now, more than a dozen men are camped on a ridge in the distance. It was supposed to be a safe zone. But when the fire unexpectedly blew up, it jumped the road and burned through their water supply. It raced up and around that hill.”

I try to see the hill. The men. But I can't.

The picture cuts back to Suzanne, who wipes her eyes. She introduces a man in a firefighter's uniform. She says, “This is Captain James Morris Franklin of the Nevada fire marshal's office.”

James Morris Franklin has millions of crisscross scars all over his face and dark circles under his eyes. His chin is covered with black and gray stubble, but not so much that you can't see his sagging jowls.

Suzanne says, “Captain Franklin, can you please explain to us what we are looking at. How did this fire get so out of control? And I hate to even ask this, but are those men safe?”

The wind picks up, and it takes a few seconds to get his equipment working. “Our men are well-trained. They know what to do. There are planes coming to drop some water.”