One True Theory of Love

by Laura Fitzgerald

  “Absolutely, I did. Didn’t you hear me cheering?” Meg waited for Henry to acknowledge Ahmed’s presence, but he gulped and gulped from his water bottle and completely ignored him.

  “Pssst, Mr. Self-Absorbed,” she said. “Can you say hello to Ahmed, please? He just happened to be jogging by.” She gave Ahmed a friendly smirk.

  “I knew you’d come,” Henry said to him. “Did you see my goals?”

  “Hi,” Ahmed said.

  Finally chagrined, Henry smiled. “Hi.”

  “I did see your goals,” Ahmed said. “I was very impressed. I was telling your mom that your fearlessness is going to take you far in life. And you know what? If you played halfback, you could probably stop numbers five and eight from the other team. Those are the real tough guys.”

  “Coach Debbie told me to play forward,” Henry said.

  “No one else is playing his position,” Ahmed pointed out. “They’re running around all bunched up wherever the ball goes.”

  “Thank you!” Henry said. “That’s what I keep telling them: stay in your stupid positions. I don’t know why it’s so hard for them to get it right. It’s not that hard.”

  “Henry’s on a bit of a tight leash with the coach,” Meg said.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call her a coach,” Henry said.

  Ahmed laughed. Meg did, too, for while disrespectful, his sense of comic timing was impeccable. Besides, it was true. Coach Debbie wasn’t much of a coach.

  When the whistle blew, Henry ran back to his teammates. Meg finally felt composed enough to invite Ahmed to join her on the blanket.

  “Henry, you’re still in,” they overheard Coach Debbie say. “But I expect you to pass more this quarter.”

  Ahmed, who’d been casually leaning back on his arms and stretching his legs in front of him, now tilted toward Meg. “Who’s he supposed to pass to?” His lips grazed her hair as he spoke confidentially in her ear.

  Electric.

  “Be nice.” Meg leaned against him ever so slightly as she murmured back, “They’re doing the best they can.”

  “They need a better coach.” He said it seductively, so seductively in fact that what Meg heard was, I want to make love to you right here, right now.

  “Oh my God,” Meg said, blushing. “What did you just say?”

  Ahmed tilted his head at her in curiosity. “I said they need a better coach.”

  She burst out laughing. “I thought you said something else.”

  “What’d you think I said?” It was an invitation, the way he asked.

  “I’m not telling.” But she did tell him, with her eyes. And she could tell he understood what she was intimating, or something close enough, because he chuckled, pleased.

  “Pass it! Pass it!” Coach Debbie’s screeching voice interrupted them. Her scream was directed at Henry.

  Ahmed frowned. “He’s got an open path to the goal.”

  “They really do need a better coach,” Meg said.

  “Pass it!” Coach Debbie’s face was blistering red.

  “Pass to me! I’m open! To me! To me!” It was Bradley, who indeed was open, but Meg knew what Henry was thinking. If he passed to Bradley, it would be intercepted because Bradley waited for the ball to come to him, and there were plenty of kids from the other team who could easily get in the ball’s path before it did.

  Meg could see Henry’s hesitation as he went against his better instincts and passed the ball to Bradley. Sure enough, it was intercepted.

  “Bad pass,” Catherine said loudly to the other parents.

  “This is ridiculous,” Ahmed said.

  The other team scored. Henry kicked the ground. Almost immediately after the kickoff, he again got possession of the ball from midfield and Meg winced in worry. She had a feeling things would not end well.

  “All the way, Henry!” Ahmed shouted. “Take it all the way!”

  “Pass it!” yelled Coach Debbie. “Pass to Bradley!”

  Meg could see Henry’s confusion.

  “Pass to Bradley.”

  Henry passed to Bradley. Meg flinched as Bradley blocked the ball with his arms. Would this kid never learn?

  “What’s he doing?” Ahmed said. “What’s he touching the ball for?” He shook his head. “This is crazy. He’s old enough to know better.”

  Henry’s face had turned cold white. He ducked his head as he tried and failed to shake off his anger. And then the moment turned slow motion in the most horrible of ways as he charged across the field.

  Toward Bradley.

  While Meg froze in absolute horror, Ahmed jumped up and waved wildly to get Henry’s attention. “Henry, no! Stop! Henry!”

  There was a horrible thud when Henry knocked Bradley to the ground.

  Catherine reached the boys first, grabbed Henry’s arm, and hauled him off her son. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you have any self-control?”

  The referee raced to intervene, as did Coach Debbie and Meg and Ahmed. Ahmed arrived first.

  “Your kid’s out of control!” Catherine hissed and shoved Henry to him.

  Meanwhile, Meg arrived and pulled Henry close. The poor kid was shaking. Ahmed let Catherine’s incorrect assumption about his relationship to Henry stand and instead of answering her turned to Bradley, who remained sitting on the ground, flanked by a half-circle of players. Bradley was watching his mother in frightened awe.

  Ahmed offered a hand to help Bradley to his feet. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” Bradley brushed himself off. “He shouldn’t’ve done that, though.” He walked over to Henry and abruptly punched him in the arm. That set Henry off again.

  “Why do you keep messing up?” Henry yelled. “You’re not supposed to catch the ball!”

  “I didn’t mean to!” Bradley said. “I can’t help it!”

  “Yes, you can!” Henry yelled. “You need to get it right!”

  “Enough, boys! Henry, enough.” Meg turned to the referee. “What happens now?”

  “He should be kicked out of the league!” Catherine said.

  “That’s enough from you, too,” Meg snapped at her. “Try being decent for a change.” She sensed Ahmed’s discomfort, but he remained silent beside her.

  The referee ejected Henry from the game and asked that they leave the park. The three of them left the field together, with Henry in the middle and Meg hugely embarrassed. They paused to collect their things and then continued on their conspicuous walk of shame. After they were a good distance from the rest of the team, Ahmed stopped and turned Henry by the shoulders so they faced each other. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Henry’s eyes glistened as he nodded.

  “There’s this Persian saying I want to tell you,” Ahmed said. “ ‘If you want a rose, you’ve got to respect the thorns.’ Do you know what that means?”

  Henry sniffed and shook his head.

  “It means that if you want Bradley to be a good player and someone you can pass to, you should respect the fact that he needs help to get better,” Ahmed said. “I was on the sidelines getting really upset with him myself, but then when I was over by him, I felt bad for him, because it sounds like he really wants to get better but doesn’t have anyone to help him. Did you have that same sense?”

  As Henry nodded, Meg was delighted to see actual sympathy in his eyes.

  “Maybe you can be the one who helps Bradley,” Ahmed suggested.

  “Could you help him, too?” Henry’s voice came out raspy, as if he were afraid Ahmed would say no.

  Ahmed glanced at Meg before answering. “How about I give you some tips and tricks that you can then use to help him? Would that work?”

  Henry nodded and latched on gratefully to the decency in Ahmed’s eyes. Ahmed’s return look was fatherly, and seeing it, Meg was struck with a longing she thought she’d left far behind.

  On the way to Meg’s car, Ahmed caught her eye over Henry’s head and mouthed, Ice cream? Meg processed it as I scream and gave him a puzzled look. Ice
cream, he mouthed again. As he did, Henry caught the exchange. “What’d you say?”

  “I was asking your mother if we should take you for ice cream,” Ahmed said. “I know that mint chocolate chip ice cream always makes me feel better when I’ve had a rough day.”

  “Ice cream?” Meg laughed. In retrospect, it was obvious what he’d been saying. “I don’t know—that’s really a harsh punishment. I mean, it’s not like Bradley lost an eye or anything.” The beginnings of a smile crossed Henry’s eyes.

  “What were you thinking?” Ahmed said. “Hanging him upside down by his ankles?”

  Meg loved being on the same humor wavelength with a person, and she and Ahmed definitely were. “Something like that,” she joked back.

  Even as Meg was still embarrassed by and mad about what Henry had done, her heart melted when he laughed. As a mom, she constantly worried that some big trauma was going to come along and break his spirit. His laughter told her that this—getting kicked out of the soccer game—wasn’t it. His little psyche would survive.

  They reached the parking lot and stopped in front of Meg’s car. “Can you imagine what Catherine would think if she saw us having ice cream after Henry just pounded on her kid?”

  “Come on—please!” Henry said. “We’ll be done by the time the game’s over!”

  “That’s not the point,” Meg said.

  “I learned my lesson,” Henry said.

  “Yeah, right.” Who did he think he was kidding? “Don’t think you’re getting off that easy.”

  “Sorry,” Ahmed said. “I didn’t mean for him to hear.”

  “I thought you were saying I scream,” she said. “I just couldn’t figure it out.”

  “I scream.” Ahmed laughed. “That’s cute.”

  Meg blushed. It was as good as if he’d called her cute.

  “I know!” Henry said. “We’ve got Popsicles at home. Can Ahmed come over and have one?”

  Whish. The idea of Ahmed in their apartment felt dangerous. Delicious, yes. But dangerous, too.

  “That still doesn’t seem like a punishment,” she said.

  “Please?” Henry said. “I won’t have any fun. I promise!”

  “I won’t, either.” Ahmed’s smile was sexier than hell. “I promise.”

  Hoo-rah.

  Meg considered. It would be letting Ahmed in, which was one thing in and of itself, but even worse were these wild impulses she kept having where he was concerned. The entire past week, she’d seen her storage closet at school or the laundry room at the apartments or even her kitchen counter, and she’d gotten lusty little thrills and thought, There’s a nice place I could shove him up against. She wasn’t sure she trusted herself where he was concerned.

  She shook her head. “That won’t work.”

  “Come on! Why not?” Henry said.

  “Because first of all, you misbehaved,” she said. “And boys who misbehave don’t get treats.”

  “Ahmed’s not a treat.” Henry stuck out his lower lip in a pout.

  Oh, yes, he is. Meg carefully avoided looking at Ahmed because he’d know exactly what she was thinking. And he’d be very, very amused.

  “My mind’s made up,” she said.

  “What’s the second reason?” Henry asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You said first of all. That means there’s a second of all.”

  “Oh, right.” Meg glanced at Ahmed before answering. “We don’t know Ahmed well enough to have him over.”

  “We do so,” Henry insisted.

  Meg shrugged an apology to Ahmed. “Sorry, but I’m protective when it comes to my son.”

  “As well you should be,” Ahmed said. “How about I’ll take my leave here. But can I call you sometime this week?”

  “You have to,” Henry said. “You have to show me your tips and tricks, remember?”

  “Oh, right. So you can help Bradley.” Ahmed’s eyes twinkled. He turned his twinkle on Meg. “What do you say?”

  I say I find you irresistible.

  “You can call us,” she agreed. “And I’m very glad you happened to so innocently jog by today.”

  Ahmed’s smile broadened. “I don’t recall saying there was anything innocent about it.”

  Henry denies it, but when he was a little kid he was crazy about Barney, enough that I was willing to put up with Baby Bop’s incredibly annoying voice. He’d go all sweetly trancelike at the end of each show when they sang the closing song: I love you. You love me. We’re a happy family.

  So precious, the purity of their love: You exist. Therefore, I love you. Kids have no history to fall back on, to trip them up. They don’t sit around and wonder, What is love, anyway? What does it really mean, to love a person? And why bother? For them, love just is. They couldn’t get it wrong if they tried.

  Of course, I’m not talking about all kids.

  Only little ones.

  Say, kids under the age of nine.

  After that, their hearts start getting complicated. Their love, just as deep, is not nearly as easy.

  For better or worse, they become more like us.

  “I think maybe I’ll quit soccer,” Henry said on Monday morning as they drove to school. Meg knew as they passed the junk-filled yards and the angry graffiti and the bullet-ridden windows of the tough South Tucson neighborhood where Foundation Elementary was located that in the overall scheme of things, Henry’s desire to quit soccer was minuscule.

  She knew this.

  But still. Henry loved soccer and he was good at it. Meg eyed him in the rearview mirror. “I think maybe you won’t,” she said.

  Henry kicked the back of Meg’s seat.

  “Knock it off,” Meg said. “You know I can’t stand that.”

  “And you know I can’t stand the coach.” Henry kicked the back of Meg’s seat once more for good measure, as he always did upon being told to knock it off. “It’s just going to happen again, the same stupid thing. Bradley’s going to keep catching the ball and I’m going to keep getting mad, and his mom is one mean person all right, and I don’t think I like soccer very much anymore, anyway.”

  “You sure looked like you loved it after you made those two goals on Saturday,” Meg said. “Remember how good that felt?”

  In the mirror, she watched him cross his arms and reject the memory.

  “The world’s full of people who are all too eager to make your life difficult,” she said. “You just can’t let them. Whatever happened to you wanting to help Bradley get better? I thought you were excited about that.”

  “Ahmed didn’t call,” Henry said. “He was supposed to call, and he didn’t.”

  The sharpness in his tone set off alarm bells in Meg’s gut. “He said he’ll call sometime this week,” she reminded him. “That means anytime up until next Saturday.”

  “But I have practice tomorrow!” Henry said. “How am I supposed to help Bradley if I don’t know how?”

  “You know how perfectly well,” Meg said. “You just kick the ball around with Bradley and help him learn how not to be afraid. Just show him how to stop the ball with his chest, or how to turn his body so the ball hits his back. Just show him what you do.”

  Henry was obstinate. “But Ahmed has tips and tricks, and I need to learn them.”

  Once she and Henry parted ways at school, Meg delved into her day. During morning circle, she and her students sang songs and then Meg read them that week’s story, “The Three Billy Goats Gruff.” On Mondays, she simply read the story. On Tuesdays, which she nicknamed Tie It Together Tuesdays, she read the same story again and they tried to connect the theme or plot to their own little lives. On Wednesdays, half the kids acted out the story while she narrated it. On Thursdays, the other half acted it out. By Friday, they owned the story. They owned it, told it, loved it, knew it, became it.

  From story time they moved on to art, otherwise known as Messy Mondays. Once they were properly smocked and poised in front of their poster paper, Meg called ou
t a word and they chose a color to associate with it, then painted as much or as little on their posters as they wanted. When Meg said happy, most chose yellows and reds. When she said outdoors, they chose greens and blues. When she said sad, Lucas refused to participate.

  “Sad is black and I don’t want black on my painting.” He looked at her in spirited defiance.

  Meg smiled, delighted by the way his mind worked. “How about just a tiny dot?”

  “No.”

  “How about brown? Is brown ever a sad color?”

  “Yes!” Antonio said. “I put brown and black on my painting for sad. And purple, too!”

  Except for Marita, Meg’s sweet and silent wallflower, everyone else shouted out what colors they’d used to show sad.

  “Look at hers,” Lucas said, pointing to Marita’s painting. “That’s crazy sad.”

  “Marita’s painting is Marita’s business. You just worry about your own self.” Meg said it even as she herself was alarmed by the blackness of her quietest student’s work. “So, Lucas, no sadness in your painting, that’s your final answer?”

  “That’s my final answer,” he said.

  “Good for you,” Meg said. “Why don’t you pick the next word for the class?”

  Lucas scrunched up his eyes and thought real hard. “I know! Dancing.” Then he took a paintbrush in each hand and, after dipping one in the orange paint and the other in the red, made jazzy swirls on his poster. Dancing, indeed. Meg watched as he leaned over to Marita’s painting and began to paint an orange smiley face on hers.

  “Lucas!” Meg scurried over. “Hands to yourself.”

  “It’s okay, Miss Meg.” Marita’s voice was so soft it was almost nonexistent.

  “Yeah.” Lucas threw his arm around Marita’s shoulders. “She likes for me to do stuff like this.” He turned to Marita. “Doncha? Doncha? Huh, huh, huh?” He poked her with the nonbrush end of his paintbrush until she giggled.

  Meg, who would have paid a million dollars to hear that giggle, bent to Lucas and tapped him on the nose. “You are a beautiful goof.”

  Alone in the teacher’s lounge on her lunch hour, Meg noted a message on her cell phone. Hi, Meg. It’s Ahmed. Can you call me, please? Thanks.