I look ahead to see Whitney being scooped up by her fifth-grade friends.
But Roma.
She’s standing in the parking lot by herself. She smiles widely, showing her missing front teeth. Her hair is kind of a mess. I wonder if I should learn to, like, brush Roma’s hair? What am I saying? Why isn’t Mom doing this? Why do I even have to think about it when I’m already the one helping Dad so much?
“Say hi to Lucy,” Jaimes loudly singsongs out the window, before honking the horn and peeling out. I hope she gets busted. I turn toward school, and Roma reaches for my hand.
“This was Daddy’s job and now it’s yours!”
“It’s still Dad’s job,” I say. “He’s just late to school.”
“No. Now it’s yours.”
I decide not to argue with an irrational six-year-old.
Holding my hand with a python grip, Roma leads me past the yellow middle school buses loaded with my classmates, through the front doors, and all the way down the hallway.
But apparently I don’t have to worry about my reputation.
I swear, every single girl who witnesses the two of us skipping down the halls starts smiling, hands to heart. For real. Roma is either really cute, or Jaimes was right about the collared shirt thing.
Roma’s classroom walls have giant dinosaurs painted on them. For a brief moment I forget how awesome eighth grade is going to be. I want to be back in first grade, when worries were reading chapter books and getting a turn petting the class hedgehog.
“Now,” Roma says. “Say what Daddy says.”
“Um, bye, Squirrel.”
“No! Say ‘Have a good day, darlin’ girl. Be kind, be brave, and remember who loves you!’ ”
“No.” The mortification never ends.
“YES!”
Roma’s face reminds me of Mom’s on the soccer field. She’s not letting this one go.
“Fine. Have a good day, darlin’ girl,” I say in my bored voice. “Be kind, be brave, and don’t forget how stinky you are.”
Roma puts her hands on her hips.
“Remember who loves you,” I whisper.
“You do!” she yells. “Boy with blue teeth!”
When I turn around, Sunny and Sam are standing in the hallway, living heart-eye emojis.
“Soooooo cute!” Sunny says.
I close my eyes and groan. Of course my teammates were there.
But on the plus side, when I open my eyes, I finally see her: Lucy Littlehouse.
After a whole summer without her, she looks both exactly the same and totally different. The morning sunlight hits her blond braids, making them shine. She’s wearing a longish blue jumper thing that makes her eyes even more blue, green sneakers, tinkling bracelets on her arm, and a huge smile on her face.
My whole entire body, including my brain, freezes.
What if we don’t have anything to say to each other anymore?
What if she’s forgotten that I’m her best friend? What if…?
I’m completely immobile.
Be Messi cool! Speak! Move!
I wonder if this is how Dad feels. Your brain tells your muscles to work and they simply WILL NOT. She gets closer and closer. I manage a smile but, remembering my blue teeth, clamp my lips together.
Lucy ignores my awkwardness and throws her arms around me as she whispers, “I have so much to tell you!”
“About what?” I say eagerly, relieved my vocal cords have started working again.
“The Dark Lord is rising,” she whispers before Sunny and Sam whisk her down the middle school wing.
My eyes go wide, my insides shrink. The Dark Lord.
That can’t be good.
I look after her, not even feeling the shank Mario gives me on the way to homeroom.
* * *
Mr. T is also wearing a collared shirt, but his looks like all the seams are going to burst at any minute to reveal a superhero suit. Around his neck is a multicolored scarf that only Mr. T can pull off—and get this: he crochets them himself with his six-year-old daughter! The man contains multitudes.
“Eighth graders,” he booms. “This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. The bigwigs on campus. I’m looking at each one of you to step up.”
I smile. Exactly. Mr. T gets it.
“Expectations,” Mr. T continues. “No goofing around in the hallways, no slacking off in class. Also: no physicals and permission slips this week? No soccer, cross-country, or club participation. Got it?”
When Mr. T walks by, I can’t help but hold out my hand to high-five and say, “Yo, we got this, big-time bro, my T-man!”
Mr. T stops walking and does not give me a high five.
The whole class stops talking.
I slowly lift my eyes to Mr. T’s.
Mr. T is not laughing.
Not smiling.
“Outside.”
I follow him into the hallway. Slick pretends to slit his throat, and C.J. faux-chokes himself.
“Golden,” Mr. T says. “Do you want to survive?”
“Uh… yes?”
“Am I your best buddy?”
“Uh… no?”
“Correct. I am your teacher. I am most definitely not ‘big-time bro’ or ‘T-man’ in the classroom.”
His voice is so low and foreboding I’m pretty certain I’m about to be expelled, but then he sighs.
“You’re going through some tough stuff right now.”
I absently scratch my head.
“But I’m also guessing you don’t want to be treated any differently than I’ve always treated you, which has always been pretty good. Correct?”
I nod.
“Right. So I’m going to suggest that you be respectful in the classroom.”
“Sorry, Mr. T. I didn’t mean…”
“I know.”
We walk back into the classroom, my classmates pretending they didn’t hear every single word.
I do the only thing I can: remember Rule #1. No tears. Play it cool. Pretend everything’s chill. Like I don’t care at all.
Lucy turns around and gives me a sympathetic look as I take my seat. I smile back.
“Golden,” she whispers. “Your teeth are blue.”
Perfect.
The Second-Worst News of My Life
It’s not who starts the match; it’s who finishes.
—THE ORIGINAL DRAGON-BALL G
It’s unfortunate we don’t have soccer practice, as I feel a great need to run a few miles and score a few hundred goals to get over the not-so-awesome start to the year. But this does mean I get to take the bus home with Lucy and Benny—and the legendary Mrs. Gagne, otherwise known as Gag Me.
Gag Me is our bus driver and lunch lady rolled into one terrifying curmudgeon. We’ve been scared of her since kindergarten, when she told us vacuum cleaners were invented for adults to vacuum up their misbehaving children. I’ve only recently gotten over this childhood phobia.
At four-eleven, she’s tiny, and looks older than a shriveled apricot. She has really short wispy white hair that looks more like fur, and she keeps her nose scrunched up to keep her extra-thick glasses on and her snarl in place.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Gagne!” Lucy says. She’s never had any Gag Me fear.
“Ms. Littlehouse.”
Benny and I just run to the back.
The three of us sit next to each other, all crammed into one bench like we always have. When Lucy moves, her earrings and bracelets remind me of wind chimes, and for the first time I notice she smells like lemons. Since when do I notice how Lucy smells?
“Goldie,” Lucy says. “Are you going to talk to me or what?”
I turn to Benny. “Are my teeth still blue?”
“Yep.”
Back to Lucy, I explain. “Roma poisoned me with an unknown-blue-ingredient smoothie this morning.”
“Plant fertilizer is blue,” Lucy offers far too cheerfully.
“Dude,” Benny says, elbowing me. “Is that what’s bee
n making you so weird?”
“How was Maine, really?” I ask, changing the subject. I don’t need to focus any more on how weird I am.
“Oh, it was glorious!” Lucy says, her eyes lighting up. “You should see the ocean—and the sand was so soft I could have slept on it. I already told Benny all about it this morning on the bus but I have shells for both of you and I’ll take you swimming there someday because I swear you can see every sea creature imaginable.”
I frown. It actually sounds like Lucy was happy to be away.
“But enough about that. How’s Dragon-Ball P?” Lucy asks.
“Great!” I say. “Just at an appointment today. But wait, you said you had something to tell me—about the Dark Lord!”
Lucy twists her mouth around. “Oh, I don’t want to talk about it right now. I want to talk about our swim. Did you go without me?”
“Golden said we couldn’t,” Benny says.
Lucy looks very pleased.
“And preseason!” Lucy says. “How was it?”
“Awesome.”
“Hard,” Benny moans, looking at me like I’m unhinged. “Coach is killer.”
“Tomorrow’s the captain’s vote,” I say, rubbing my hands together. My heart pounds hard.
“Who’s going to be the boy captain?” Lucy asks.
Benny and I both pause before we each say the other’s name.
“Competition!” Lucy says.
I flex my arm. “Whose bicep is bigger?”
“Oh, that’s how it is?” Benny asks. He flexes his own arm as the bus comes to a jolting stop.
“Off!” Gag Me shouts.
“Want to… come over?” I ask before I can think too hard about it. The house is messy, but oh well.
“Duh.” Benny smiles as we jump off the bus, and we do our handshake.
“I’ve been waiting all summer!” Lucy says, skipping ahead.
At the top of the hill, we’re greeted by meowing.
“Oh, my sweet Curtis Meowfield!” Lucy says, scooping him up. Curtis stares at me, his paws protectively around Lucy’s shoulder. “Thank you for feeding him when I was gone,” she says. “Curtis tells me he enjoyed his time with you.”
I pretend I want to pet him, but Curtis isn’t falling for it and hisses at me. I jerk my hand back.
That’s when a car passes us, honks, and turns into the driveway.
Lucy suddenly stops and frowns. “Oh.”
“The Dark Lord has arrived,” I joke. “During the daytime!”
Benny elbows me, but he’s trying not to laugh. The Dark Lord is what we call Lucy’s mom’s boyfriend because the only time we ever see him is when he comes over after work, in the dark.
Usually Lucy thinks the nickname is funny, but today she mumbles, “I’ll be right back,” before hurrying down the driveway and into the house.
At home I manage to find some not-too-old baby carrots and crackers for Benny and me before we practice goals in my net outside. When Lucy still hasn’t come out a half hour later, I jump quietly onto her front porch, tiptoeing to the window.
“What are you doing?” Benny whispers.
“The Dark Lord is never here at this time of day,” I whisper back. “Something’s up.”
I peer in as Benny joins me. The three of them, Lucy, her mom, and the Dark Lord, are gathered around a computer.
“They’re looking at… houses,” I whisper. Though I can’t see why, unless Lucy has developed some random new interest in real estate. Not that that would really surprise me when it comes to Lucy.
They scroll through images, and the adults talk in excited voices. I press my ear against the windowpane. I can hardly hear a word, until I finally make out “You’ll love it.”
Whatever Lucy says back, her voice sounds flat. Like she doesn’t agree at all.
Then the Dark Lord says something that ends with “the Realtor.”
I back away, confused.
“A Realtor sells houses,” I say. “Lucy loves this house.”
Benny keeps peering into the window. “The pictures of houses are in Maine,” he says.
An entirely different state. Like, over a hundred miles away. Where that glorious ocean water and sand are.
It suddenly dawns on me that I might be an idiot.
“What?” Benny says, seeing my face.
“I don’t think Lucy was on vacation this summer.”
“Huh?”
“I think she might be… moving.”
“What!” Benny says. “There’s no way.”
I run down the driveway as fast as I can, finding the sign that Lucy threw down this morning. It’s not a campaign sign at all.
It’s a FOR SALE sign.
I feel so sucker-punched that my eyes water. I swallow it down and march along the driveway, holding the sign up for Benny.
“Look!”
Benny’s mouth drops open.
I chuck it as hard and as far as I can, into the woods.
I avoid Benny’s eyes while I get mine under control and kick the soccer ball hard against the house.
Lucy moving is not actually a possibility. Like, at all.
She just got back! I barely survived without her.
The ball bounces off the house and hits me in the chest.
I fall to the ground, and this time I can’t hide the tears that spring to my eyes.
I let Benny think it’s the soccer hit that’s hurt me so much.
Ten Thousand Touches
Ten thousand hours is the magic number of greatness.
—MALCOLM GLADWELL
That night, I’m lying awake and thinking of last winter, when Benny, Lucy, and I set up this elaborate soccer game in Benny’s house, rigging up some sweet goals out of white plastic laundry baskets. Grandma Ho sat in her big chair, drinking her tea, and refereed. She’s totally biased, but on that day, she correctly predicted that Lucy would win the last three games we played.
Our soccer field was a really fancy flowery living room rug. Benny’s mom likes flowers and nice things and keeping her living room super clean. Shockingly, she doesn’t like soccer balls in the house hitting her nice things, but Grandma Ho is more chill.
Mom used to be more like Benny’s mom. Now she’d hardly notice if we broke half the living room. I shouldn’t mind, but I do.
Anyway, for our indoor soccer game, we only had a few rules: The ball had to stay on the ground. It could hit the couch as a bounce-back pass, but no walls, television, or windows. I was up by one point and was just pulling my leg back to kick another goal when Mrs. Ho appeared in the doorway. She shrieked, and I fell right in front of the goal without even scoring.
Benny, Lucy, and I laughed about that for a long time. So did Grandma Ho. Lucy and I walked home together, our shoulders touching until we were racing each other up the hill.
If Lucy moves, we won’t ever race up that hill again. It’s funny how you can miss someone who’s still here. Kind of like Dad.
Stop it. Dad’s not going anywhere.
My thoughts are interrupted by the now-usual sound of Mom helping Dad to the bathroom.
I look at the clock: 5:32 a.m.
I slept terribly, dark dreams swirling, memories cycling every time I woke. My head hurts.
Lucy can’t leave.
The Dark Lord is trying to ruin our lives.
My arm is hurting from being slung over my Argentina World Cup soccer ball, now slightly wet from my drool. I wipe my mouth and sit up.
The whole house is quiet again. I look to the window, to where the sun is coming up, slowly lighting up my whole room. Minus Jaimes’s nasal snoring sounds, it’s a super-cool way to wake up. If I pause to watch them, I can see the puffy white clouds move quickly across blue sky. Lucy used to say the cloud dragons will send us secret messages if we watch carefully enough. But now the world is spinning and I can’t even focus on the clouds.
Dude, why don’t we just ask her? Benny said yesterday.
But I brushed him off. Lucy
would have told us if she was moving.
Wouldn’t she?
I turn my head toward Lucy’s window. Her shades are still drawn. The Kermit the Frog lunch box hangs on the pulley. Very carefully and quietly, I write a note and put it in Kermit, then pull the rope until the lunch box is just outside Lucy’s window. I pull hard three times so Kermit hits her window, hoping she’ll wake up and see it.
My thoughts are interrupted by heavy breathing. I look down.
Dad.
He’s standing next to an old Adirondack chair, his hand pressing down for support. At his feet is a soccer ball. He brings his right foot up, trying to tap the ball. He tries over and over, breathing deep breaths, but mostly missing. This small movement is something he taught me before kindergarten. It’s a basic ball touch. Something he mastered when he was in kindergarten. Something that’s now getting harder.
Come on, Dad.
You don’t give up on me and I don’t give up on you.
He lifts his foot once more, but it falls to the ground without even touching the ball and doesn’t come back up. My heart sinks with it.
He stops to breathe, tired.
I turn away, tripping over my soccer ball, and fall on the Sleeping Beast.
Jaimes opens one eye and aggressively bares her teeth. “Golden, STOP!”
I have this uncontrollable urge to laugh. Which of course makes Jaimes even angrier. She covers her head with her pillow and says something I can’t repeat. I ignore her and retrieve the ball, juggling with my knees to muffle the sound of Dad losing control of the thing he most loves to do.
“Golden, the sun is barely up!”
“Ten thousand touches,” I tell Jaimes. “Just wait. Soon I’m going to eclipse even you.” She opens her eyes to glare at me.
“Get wrecked,” I say.
Just as I knew she would, Jaimes flings off the covers, grabs her blue Adidas World Cup ball from under the bed, and begins juggling beside me.
We have soccer balls rolling around every room of the house. Everyone plays—even Roma’s on a team. Playing soccer is practically our family’s mission statement. And every soccer touch counts for something. It’s hard to say how many touches, seconds, minutes, or hours I’ve really logged touching the soccer ball in my life, maybe closer to ten thousand than I think.
Ten Thousand Tries Page 6
