Ten Thousand Tries

by Amy Makechnie

  I might not be the best ball handler, might not score the most goals, might be the team shrimp, but there is one thing I can do: RUN. When Coach calls us back, we get set to sprint to the six-yard line, the eighteen, the midline and back, and then—a full-field sprint to the end.

  We take off, and Messi’s words come to me: You’ve got to fight! You have to work hard, sacrifice.

  My Battle Packs push me forward, the universe on my side.

  Fight.

  I run harder and faster.

  I won’t give up, Dad.

  I pass Moses over and over. His cleats look about two sizes too big, forcing an awkward running gait that further slows him down. I feel bad, but I have to maintain my focus. I run until I’m in the lead, until I cross the finish line, until I see the look of pride on Dad’s face. I keel over, fighting nausea and breathing harder than I have in my life.

  From the ground I watch the rest of the team finish, the sun beating down mercilessly. As we try to recover, we watch uncomfortably as Archie, Ziggy, Moses, and Hannah slog it out to the finish line. Step after agonizing step. Slow. Painful. Coach glances at me. Her eyes go from me to my teammates and back to me again, hands on her hips.

  “Yo, we could be here forever,” Slick says under his breath.

  In the periphery my eyes catch Dad. He looks uncomfortably hot, and he has to sit in that stupid chair under that stupid umbrella until we rescue him. But all of a sudden I notice Dad is wiggling a little bit, like he’s struggling to stand up on his own.

  I sit up.

  Come on, Dad! Do it.

  I stand, staggering slightly from heat and fatigue, all my focus on him.

  Dad fights harder, scooting forward in his chair.

  I’m not sure how long it takes, but somehow Dad does it. He stands. He teeters forward, then back, before righting himself in a standing position. Sheer willpower.

  “YES!” I say. “YES!”

  I whirl back around to face the field, to face the last lone runners.

  “Come on!” I yell. “Run! You can do it. Give it everything you’ve got!”

  I keep on cheering until the last one, Archie, barrels over the white line. I stick my hand out to give him a high five and he grasps it, pulling me to the ground with his weight and falling on top of me. The wind gets knocked out of me. Can’t. Breathe. I’m like a squashed bug under a tree.

  “Thanks, Golden,” Archie says above me, his face bright reddish purple.

  I manage to squeak “No problem” from underneath him.

  I Share a Room with My Sister

  I am a member of a team, and I rely on the team, I defer to it and sacrifice for it, because the team, not the individual, is the ultimate champion.

  —SOCCER GREAT MIA HAMM

  On the ride home Dad and I scheme about the best field combinations to win games.

  Actually I scheme and he nods, eyes closed, head pressed against the headrest as he breathes in and out, deliberately filling and emptying his chest.

  “You okay, Dad?”

  “Hot.”

  “At least you weren’t cold,” I say helpfully.

  “True. But that Mom. Tough coach.”

  I use my shirtsleeve to wipe the beads of sweat rolling down his face.

  “Thanks,” he says as Mom cranks the AC.

  Is it my imagination or does his voice sound more robotic than a few hours ago?

  “Spoke with Benny,” Dad says, eyes still closed. “Invite him over. And Lucy. Friends are important. Right now especially.”

  Mom makes a tired noise, and I’m both annoyed and relieved. But maybe Dad’s right. Benny saw him and didn’t freak out. Maybe I can have him over, and Lucy, too, once she’s back.

  “I’ll help…,” Dad says. “It’s important to keep trying to… normal.”

  “I know,” Mom says shortly, and he doesn’t press it further.

  When we get home I help Dad slowly make his way to the couch.

  “Go shower, Mini-Messi,” he says. “Stink.”

  So I do, then head to my room. Correction. What used to be my room.

  Jaimes is sitting on my bed, writing in a notebook.

  She has the nerve to say, “Can’t you wear more than a towel when you walk in here?”

  “Uh, this is my room and you’re on my bed.”

  She puts in her earbuds and flops over so she can’t hear or see me.

  I loved having my own room.

  I loved the quiet place where there were no flowery bras hanging from the door handle, no long loud phone calls, no fussing over what time I wake up or go to bed.

  Dad started building Jaimes her own room in the basement two years ago, when it became obvious she wasn’t going to be able to last with the Squirrels, so it’s supposedly temporary, but here she is, acting like she’s never moving out.

  The walls are up and the ceiling and flooring are in. Dad was going to hire an electrician to do all the wiring and then put on the finishing touches like baseboards and door handles this summer. Now he can barely lift a hammer. In fact, when’s the last time I saw him carry anything heavier than a yogurt? But he’s got to finish because my survival depends upon it.

  The only good thing is that Jaimes gives me advice about girls and tells me what to wear. Which is kind of good, but also annoying. Like now.

  “Not that,” she says, unplugging her earbuds when I try on a pair of soccer shorts and a T-shirt for the first day of school. “It’s eighth grade, not gym class!”

  “It looks good!” I protest.

  Then again, maybe Jaimes knows what she’s talking about. All the girls in my class think Jaimes is super pretty and cool, though I don’t get it. We both have Dad’s wavy brown hair and brown eyes, but she rings hers in eyeliner. The very thought makes my eyes water and itch.

  “Fine,” I say. “Pick an outfit—but I get final veto power.”

  She jumps off the bed, glances out the window at Lucy’s, and gives me a smug smile. “Got to dress to impress.”

  “Stop it.”

  She rummages through my drawer, finding some khaki pants I only wear to formal stuff.

  “No.”

  “Yes. Think about what Dad would wear.”

  “A collared shirt every day?”

  Jaimes smiles. “Exactly. And all the girls love Dad. My soccer team—dying.” She tosses her hair as she leaves the room.

  1. Gross.

  2. I hate that she said “Dad” and “dying” in the same sentence.

  She returns with one of Dad’s shirts.

  “No.”

  “Just try it on.”

  When I do, she insists we go show Dad. He’s playing checkers with Whitney when I appear wearing his blue-checked-and-three-sizes-too-big-for-me shirt.

  “Dad,” I say in my bored, I-don’t-care voice. “Jaimes said I should raid your closet and wear your shirt tomorrow.”

  “He should also wear a tie,” she says unhelpfully.

  “Yeah, so I can look like a complete dork.”

  Dad looks at Whitney. “Move the checker on your right, diagonal one spot.” This is how Dad plays most games recently—he does the mental work and we do the physical moving of the game piece. Another thing we need to work on.

  He sizes me up. “It’s true. You should dress more like me—but you have a few more years until you wear that particular shirt.”

  “Told ya,” I tell Jaimes.

  “I’m just saying that if you looked more like a gentleman maybe you’d act more like one and Lucy Littlehouse would love you.” She folds her arms in her very annoying, superior way. “Oh, get wrecked, Goldie-Pants.”

  I feel my face turning red even though Jaimes is totally wrong.

  I chase her around the room until Mom comes in and pulls me into a bear hug.

  “You know,” Jaimes continues, “some people say guys and girls can’t be friends.”

  “Well, they’re stupid.”

  “Stop teasing Golden, Jaimes,” Mom says, hugging m
e tighter. “It would be a shame for you to ruin their friendship.”

  “As if she could!” I say, wriggling out of her grasp.

  “Aha!” Dad says, eyes on the checkerboard. “Crown me, Whit!” He looks triumphant. “The muscles aren’t working as well, but the mind is as sharp as ever.”

  Mom crosses the room and kisses Dad.

  “Ew,” we say.

  “What?” Mom asks. “Someday you’ll be glad your parents loved each other so much.”

  I take note of her mistaken use of the past tense and kick a couch cushion.

  “Stephen Hawking lived with ALS for like fifty years,” I say.

  Everyone stops and turns to me.

  “Uh, that was a non sequitur,” Jaimes says.

  “Stephen Hawking died,” Whitney says.

  Before I can retort, Mom smooths everything over with a “We’ll take what we can get, won’t we?”

  Take what we can get? She’s the one constantly telling us to follow your dreams! and dream big! And then when I do, I’m told to settle?

  I go to my room, take off the ridiculous shirt, and juggle the soccer ball, working out the frustration. My family needs to try harder. Like fifty years harder.

  And you know what? I get fifty-three juggles in a row! All-time high!

  See, Mom, I say in my head, making a mark on my ten thousand hours chart.

  Hard work and dreaming big give you all-time highs.

  * * *

  That night, before bed, Benny texts me.

  Lucy back from Maine yet?

  Not yet

  I peer out the window. There’s a sign stuck in the grass out by the mailboxes, but I can’t read it. I wonder if that strange woman with the deep voice who completely misjudged Curtis Meowfield’s inner qualities put it there. Maybe she’s a politician.

  As soon as she’s back then, Benny texts. Blueberry Island—don’t forget!

  How could I forget???

  ur forgetting a lot of things dude

  huh???

  He doesn’t text back. What’s he talking about? I’d never forget our back-to-school tradition. One night in August before school starts we always swim out to Blueberry Island just before the sun sets because once Lucy said the sun was setting on our summer and it was time to jump forward into fall.

  So of course we can’t go without Lucy.

  I drift off to sleep dreaming of headlights pulling in next door, the sound of roller skates—and loud meowing.

  Or maybe it isn’t a dream, because in the morning? Lucy Littlehouse’s car is in the driveway.

  Roma Tries to Poison Me on the First Day of School

  Have a good day, darlin’ girl. Be kind, be brave, and remember who loves you!

  —GOLDEN (THE MORTIFYING THINGS I NOW HAVE TO SAY TO ROMA)

  In the morning I gulp down a huge smoothie so quickly I almost don’t notice it’s a very strange blue.

  When it hits my taste buds, I shudder. Gag. My stomach roils strangely. “Ack! That’s…”

  “I made it!” Roma says proudly. “Because I’m a helper like Mom said.”

  “What’s in it?”

  Her eyes light up. “Leftovers.”

  If this is Roma’s way of helping out, I’m doomed to shrimp status forever—because I won’t be eating.

  Roma covers her mouth, giggling. “And it turned your teeth blue.”

  I look in the bathroom mirror. My eyes bug out. “Roma!”

  I put my mouth under the sink and scrub my teeth with my finger.

  “Lucy!” I hear Roma squeal. My heart beats faster and I scrub my teeth even harder.

  “Hi, Roma! Is Golden here?”

  “Yes, but his teeth are blue.”

  Lucy laughs. “An epic start to the year. Tell him I’ll see him at school?”

  “Aren’t you going to school with us?” Roma asks.

  “I’ll take the bus with Benny.”

  I run out of the bathroom just in time to see her blond hair flying behind her as she skates outside, jumps off the stairs, and skates away.

  I want to catch up to her and ride the bus, but I can’t start eighth grade with blue teeth.

  No, after years of being the minions, we are finally the Big Bad Bosses. Kings of the Castle. First graders will look at us in awe. Seventh graders will bow. We own the sole athletic field at recess. We make the morning announcements and generally know that finally, we’re the coolest.

  So I scrub my teeth, then grab my stuff quickly because I have to get to school.

  And Jaimes is driving. So yeah, nothing is for certain.

  “STOP,” she says when I give her the I’m terrified! face as we get in the car.

  “What?” I say innocently. “I said nothing!”

  “Golden,” Mom warns, stomping on her imaginary brake pedal in the passenger seat as Jaimes reverses. I could tell her: it doesn’t work.

  Roma grips my arm from the backseat until it goes numb.

  With Jaimes at the wheel, it’s probably a good thing Lucy didn’t jump into the car pool like she always has before. She took the bus to school. I would know: I watched her roller-skate down the driveway before I could even say hi. And what else? She pulled out that sign in her yard and tossed it aside on the way. That politician lady must be bad news. I knew it!

  Dad makes a weird swallowing sound.

  I turn to him, buckled beside me in the backseat. “You okay?”

  He swallows again. “Yep.”

  For the first day of school we woke extra early to pack snacks, to drink Roma’s horrid smoothie, to make sure Dad’s shirt was buttoned, tucked in, shoes tied. He doesn’t say he’s nervous, but I can tell by his eyes—he is. And it’s the first time he hasn’t driven us to the first day of school in his truck.

  Dad uses his left arm to lift his right arm onto his lap, pinching the fingers on his left hand together, as if to make sure they’re still working. I do the same. They are.

  “Are you going to be able to hold the whiteboard markers, Dad? Or pass out papers?” Jaimes asks.

  “Of course,” I answer for him. Honestly, Jaimes’s lack of confidence is super annoying.

  When Jaimes rounds Cemetery Corner, the Squirrels and I hold our breath, as is the tradition.

  There are A LOT of cemeteries all over Mudbury, but the one on Cemetery Corner, with Raymond Von Mousetrap’s headstone, is the most visible from the road. Many others are hidden. Sometimes you’ll be walking in the woods and come across a completely forgotten graveyard and have to hold your breath extra quick.

  “Breathe!” Jaimes says impatiently, looking in the rearview mirror.

  “Everyone knows what happens if you don’t hold your breath when you pass a cemetery,” Whitney says.

  Roma loudly exhales. “The ghosts want to steal our souls! Lucy said.”

  It’s true. And very Lucy.

  Suddenly the breath is knocked out of me for another reason as our van swerves into the opposite lane, the back end of the big white boat fishtailing as we now face down another car. Jaimes screams. Mom screams. Roma and Whitney scream and dramatically crash into each other.

  Then thankfully Jaimes quickly pulls us back into our lane.

  “Jaimes!” Mom says, her voice rising. “You don’t ever ever swerve into traffic like that—not for anything!”

  “There was a squirrel!”

  “I DON’T CARE! KILL THE SQUIRREL! DRIVE OVER IT! SMASH ITS GUTS ALL OVER THE ROAD, BUT YOU NEVER SWERVE! That’s how teenagers die, and I cannot have you die. Do you understand me?”

  “Rayna,” Dad says quietly. “Let’s…”

  She silences him with a death glare.

  Mom carefully composes herself by taking deep breaths and assuming what she calls her warrior pose. Chin up, shoulders back. When she speaks again her voice is lower. “You don’t swerve into traffic for squirrels. You slow down and try to go around it if you can. Never swerve.”

  Jaimes clutches the steering wheel with white-knuckled hands like she c
an’t let go.

  “We’re supposed to hit the squirrel?” Roma whispers from the back.

  “My butt is so sore,” I announce, to change the subject.

  “It’s the lunges,” Mom says, still forcing a calm voice.

  “Seriously, though,” Jaimes says. “Did I hit a squirrel?”

  “Best lower-body exercise there is,” Mom says. “Quads, hamstrings, glutes, and calves!”

  “Is the squirrel dead?” Roma asks me, her eyes big with worry.

  Whitney looks behind us. “I don’t see any guts.”

  “My butt is so sore I probably won’t be able to shoot the ball,” I say louder.

  “Dead!” Roma begins to cry. “Please don’t be dead!”

  “It’s not dead,” Dad says, breathing slowly in and out. “Roma, it’s just fine.”

  We drive so slowly the rest of the way to school, I could have run faster.

  But when we get to the school, Jaimes turns abruptly into the parking lot without signaling.

  The Squirrels scream again.

  “Jaimes!” Mom says.

  “I’m doing my best!”

  “I can’t play soccer if I’m dead!” I yell.

  My whole family glares at me.

  Finally, our big white boat of a van comes to an abrupt halt in front of the main doors, and we all sag with relief.

  “Thanks, Jaimes!” I say. “For barely letting us live another day.”

  “You’re welcome, Blue Teeth Boy.”

  I resume scrubbing as Whitney, Roma, and I get out of the death car.

  “You remember your cleats, shin guards, and clothes for practice?” Mom calls after me. I’m surprised she remembered to even ask. Of course, what she didn’t remember is that…

  “No practice today—remember? Dad’s appointment?”

  “Right!” She closes her eyes and touches her temple.

  “Which is a bad idea the day before we vote on captain,” I say.

  “What do you want me to do?” she snaps.

  “Golden?” Dad says quietly, interrupting. “Watch out for your sisters.”