by Maria Padian
“How many years?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I was little boy. Okay. So I got uncle in Nairobi. He say, ‘Make Saeed go to Nairobi and live with me and go to school.’ And I go. There is school in Dadaab, but it not good, you know? And Nairobi have good school. So I go there. And then UN tell my family, ‘You got to leave now.’ But I am in Nairobi! But they got to go. So … I wait. And in one year I come to Maine.”
My head buzzed with questions. If I was getting this right, Saeed was out of town the day his family left for the United States, and it took them a year to reunite with him. That couldn’t be right. It was like an African nightmare version of Home Alone, with Saeed in the Macauley Culkin role, but instead of fighting off burglars and waiting for his parents to return, he was passing in and out of war zones and trying to cross an ocean.
“Dude. That’s unreal,” I said.
He held the bag out toward me.
“Is real,” he said.
I tore off another piece.
“Samira learn English good in Atlanta,” he said. “I don’t go there.”
“Atlanta, Georgia?” I asked.
“Yeah. That a bad place. My mother don’t like it. Samira don’t like it. But we got friend. Here. My mother call him, and he say come. Maine is … good place. So they come. And then I come.” Saeed pressed the seal of his plastic bag closed and returned the candy to his pack. He acted like that pretty much explained it all, but I was even more confused. There were definite gaps in the narrative. Huge gaps. But before I could ask him any more, I heard Mike speaking to me.
“Hey, Bouchard!” he called from a few aisles back. “Did I just hear that tomorrow you and Plourde are painting the Maquoit rock?”
“You heard right,” I called back. There were groans the length of the bus.
“Hey, didn’t I see some of those guys at the game today?” I heard someone say.
“Yeah, they’re next!” another voice replied.
I wished. Wished those words were more than just post-victory attitude. Wished I didn’t have to be at Maquoit High School the next morning at 9:00 a.m. I couldn’t think of anything in my life that I’d ever looked forward to less. Even having my wisdom teeth pulled last summer trumped it.
“Sucks for you, Tom,” Mike said. “Good luck.” A few more “good lucks” echoed through the bus.
I noticed Saeed frowning.
“We go, right?” he asked me. I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“Go where?” I asked.
“Maquoit,” he said.
I shook my head.
“No. Just me. It’s not a game. It’s payback.”
His frown deepened.
“But we the team. We all go.” It wasn’t a question. It was an assumption.
“No,” I sighed. “We the team didn’t screw up. Just we the captain. So you’re all off the hook for this one.”
Saeed pivoted in his seat, got up on his knees, and faced Ibrahim, who sat behind us. They engaged in some rapid-fire Somali, Saeed in earnest. He was speaking emphatically to Ibrahim and nodding at him urgently, but Ibrahim just shook his head and looked pissed. Finally Saeed made a sound in the back of his throat like he was disgusted, too, then put two fingers in his mouth and whistled pretty loud. Coach-like. Everyone stopped talking and looked at him.
“Uh … hello,” he began.
“Hello,” some joker from the back replied. A few titters.
“You know, I am … new customer,” he continued, “but I think, you know … we the team. And all go tomorrow. With Tom. Right?” There was a pause. A surprised pause, actually, because everyone, including me, was thinking, What the hell?
“We the team go to Maquoit. Yes?” he said again.
“Did he just say he’s a new customer?” I heard someone comment.
“Yes?” Saeed repeated. Loudly that time.
“Damn right!” someone shouted from the back. “We the team!” The bus erupted in laughter, followed by foot stomping and whistles. And before you know it everyone was chanting, “We the team! We the team!”
Saeed slid back into his seat and grinned at me.
“So we all go,” he said simply.
He wasn’t able to give you a straight story about where he’d come from, but this new customer? He was all right.
Chapter Ten
As it turns out, if “we the team” hadn’t shown up, I’d have been out there alone. That’s because freakin’ Donnie never appeared.
I drove to his house to collect him Saturday morning, but there were no signs of life. His mom’s car wasn’t in the driveway, and even though I banged on the door and called his cell, there was no answer. I figured maybe he’d gone to the high school, where everyone had planned to meet, but no. Don was either lying in a ditch somewhere or had just blown me off.
All I could think was that it had better be the former, ’cause if he wasn’t already dead, I was gonna kill him.
We were five cars in all, and as we pulled into the Maquoit High parking lot we could see a group already gathered at the rock. It wasn’t the football-stadium-sized crowd I had feared would show up, but big enough. Pretty much the whole Maquoit varsity soccer team. I recognized Alex Rhodes in the group.
We go back, Alex and I.
Four years ago, the summer between middle and high school, a soccer camp sponsored by Midcoast College. It was just a three-day skills camp coached by players from the men’s varsity team. Basically a fund-raiser for them. But for a kid like me? Totally cool to work with college players.
Most of the campers were from away (aka not from Maine) and stayed in the dorms for the three days, but you could save seventy dollars if you didn’t sleep over. So every morning my mom drove me the thirty minutes to the college, and every evening she picked me up.
Alex Rhodes lives within spitting distance of the college fields, but he stayed overnight in the dorms, which were reportedly a pizza-candy-and-gaming party until lights-out every night.
He showed up on the first day of camp wearing the T-shirt from his club soccer team, United Maine. He carried a United Maine gym bag. In the mornings, when it was still a little cool, he’d wear a United Maine windbreaker. The camp gave us all free water bottles, but Alex always used the one he’d brought from home: a freakin’ United Maine Nalgene.
I didn’t know anyone at that camp, but Alex? He knew everybody. He knew guys from Cape Elizabeth and Yarmouth who played on the United Maine team with him. He knew guys from Bangor and Augusta who played on a different club team. He even knew some of the college players. That first day we all walked onto the field? Guys in Midcoast College T-shirts called out to him, slapped him five, and said, “Hey, Alex, great to see you out here!”
We were only fourteen years old, and already it felt like Alex was the most popular kid at a party the rest of us hadn’t even been invited to.
As our caravan of cars pulled up close to the rock, Mike Turcotte, riding shotgun with me, stated the obvious: “No sign of Plourde.”
I had been scanning the group behind Alex, just in case Donnie had miraculously gotten himself a ride and was waiting for me. No such luck.
“What are you going to do?” Mike asked. I eased the car into a space and turned off the ignition. I looked at him in mock surprise.
“What do you mean … Donnie?” I said to him. He looked confused for a moment. Then, when he realized what I meant, he shook his head.
“No. Fuckin’. Way.” It was the first time I’d ever heard Mike swear.
“Dude, I will owe you forever.”
“You don’t have anything I want, Tom. No way am I taking one for Donnie Plourde.”
“Mike, you don’t have to say anything. You just have to help me paint. Let them think you’re Don.”
“I don’t even look like him!”
“They don’t know what he looks like.”
“No, but they know what I look like. I’ve been playing soccer against these guys since junior high. I’m friends with some of
them on Facebook.”
“Are you kiddin’ me? You friended jackasses from Maquoit?”
“Facebook friends aren’t real friends. And I know some of them from Model UN …”
Someone rapped on the window. Everyone was waiting for us to get out of the car. Mike stared at the dashboard.
“You’re asking me to take one for Donnie Plourde,” he repeated. He didn’t bother to hide the disgust in his voice. I sighed.
“I’m asking you to take one for the team. Look, all we—”
“The team didn’t screw up, Tom. You did. Plourde did.” He was pissed, but already shrugging off his Chamberlain jacket. If he was gonna pass as Donnie, he needed to lose the varsity gear. He had a black skullcap in his jacket pocket, and he pulled it over his head, down low over his eyes. I checked the overhead compartment where Dad usually stows his sunglasses, and sure enough, they were there. I handed them to Mike.
“I will make this up to you, man.”
“Yeah, you will,” he said under his breath as he shoved the door open. The rest of the team, all decked out in their team blue, stood outside the car. As Mike and I went round to the trunk to get the paint and brushes, I heard him mutter to the guys, “Act like I’m Plourde.” Like a game of telephone, it was whispered through the group.
We all walked to the rock. Someone whistled.
“Good morning, ladies,” we heard. Laughter.
Some low-to-the-ground, heavyset guy who was standing with them and looked about my father’s age whipped his head around in the direction of the comment.
“We’ll have none of that, gentlemen,” he said.
Yeah, right.
Alex was standing up front.
At the Midcoast camp, they divided us into little teams and named us after New England schools: Trinity, Williams, Colby, like that. Alex and I both got put on Middlebury.
We beat everyone; Middlebury ruled the camp. Our coach recognized right off that both Alex and I owned the center striker spots, and if one of us didn’t score, the other would. It was sweet, and Alex was … amazing. Not only was he just naturally good, but he busted his butt. When we ran laps, he led. When two players chased the ball, he always fought just that little bit harder and won possession every time. He had more desire than I had ever seen in anyone.
And he decided he liked me.
For some reason he chose me as his running buddy for those three days. He’d throw his arm across my shoulders and pull me into his pack for lunch. We’d swim together at pool time. He’d invite me back to his dorm room for the afternoon break, when he’d dig into his duffel for obscene amounts of candy. His door was always open and there was always a steady flow of guys in and out. He was funny and easy to laugh with. He introduced me to everyone, and I imagined I saw a little jealousy in their eyes.
I decided I liked Alex Rhodes.
The low-to-the-ground guy turned out to be their principal. He held a Dunkin’ Donuts travel mug. Off to one side there was a small table set up, with a cardboard to-go pot of coffee and a couple big boxes of Munchkins. Maquoit was making a little breakfast party out of this. I glanced sideways at Mike. A bright flush had spread from his neck right up to his cheeks. Mike never gets in trouble. His whole life, and I’ve known him my whole life, the guy’s always walked the straight and narrow.
And that morning he got to be Donnie Plourde.
I walked right up to the principal and stuck out my hand.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Tom Bouchard.” He pumped my hand, then turned to Mike. Who smiled, shook, didn’t say a word. Behind the principal and all around the rock, the Maquoit soccer team was a sea of red and black. Like a clone army in their regulation warm-up pants and jackets. Which actually looked warm. Not like our shitty plastic windbreakers with the peeling letters.
I had once asked Coach why we had such crummy crap. I mean, we were all public schools, right?
“They have some pretty active soccer boosters over there,” he’d said. “Every year they raise enough money through fund-raisers to outfit the entire varsity team with new warm-ups.”
As I watched Mike’s face transition from red to maroon, watched our guys shivering in the morning cold while the Maquoit guys popped Munchkins in their mouths, it just hit me how much I couldn’t stand those guys. I felt this overwhelming need to get out of there as fast as possible.
“I have a suggestion that could save us all a lot of time and trouble,” I said to the principal, who was about to speak. He looked at me a little skeptically but nodded. I cranked open the paint can and gave it a quick stir. Mike handed me a wide brush, and I quickly slapped black over the S and U of suck. The rock now read You ck, Maquoit!
“How about when that dries in a couple minutes I add an R and an O?” I said to the principal. “Then it’ll read You rock.” He hesitated. Looked a little confused.
“Rock is a verb as well as a noun,” I explained. Someone from the Maquoit side laughed.
Alex.
At the end of that three-day camp, when some of the parents came to the final awards ceremony, Alex introduced me to his father. I remember wondering what the guy did for a living, because this was, like, two o’clock on a weekday, and all the guys’ fathers I knew were working.
“I’ve been hearing a lot about you, Tom,” Mr. Rhodes said to me. “Why haven’t we seen you at any United Maine tryouts?” He was a bigger, wider version of Alex. The same blond hair. Tall and jacked. Wore an adult-sized United Maine windbreaker. I wondered if parents got the gear, too, or if Alex’s dad coached.
“Um … I don’t know,” I said honestly. Playing with United Maine was not part of my worldview.
“You could totally make the team,” Alex said enthusiastically. “He’s way better than Hoover, Dad—”
Mr. Rhodes put up his hand. He gave Alex this reproving look.
“We don’t run down our teammates, son,” he said.
Alex stared at his father. His face had gone blank. Like he hadn’t heard the correction. Smooth, no emotion, except for his eyes. They started blinking, fast. As if Alex had something in his eye he was trying desperately to blink away.
“We haven’t posted the dates yet, but tryouts for the fall season are always in August,” Mr. Rhodes said to me. “Just go to the United Maine website. I hope we’ll see you out there.” He and Alex turned to go, but not before Alex threw an arm across my shoulders.
“It’s gonna be you and me on that front line!” No trace of the blink as he spoke then. Just the confident grin I had gotten so used to that week. As if there were no question about my trying out, making the team, and spending the next four years collecting trophies with him and his friends from Cape Elizabeth and Falmouth and as far away as Bridgton and Kittery.
As he stepped forward from the rock and spoke to the principal, Alex Rhodes resembled a bigger, wider version of the eighth grader I had met at soccer camp years ago. He had turned into a slightly blonder, not-yet-balding clone of his father.
“I think that’d work,” he said. “Especially if their team chants it while the paint dries.”
“We didn’t come here to sing, Rhodes,” I said immediately. He smirked, shrugged. I knew for damn sure he didn’t care what we did. He was just playing with us.
“I believe we can dispense with the chanting,” the principal said. “But if you’re fine with this suggestion, Alex, then we can go ahead with it.”
“Whatever,” he said.
As we waited for the black paint to dry, the principal filled the air with blather. No one was listening. Mike had his head ducked, half facing away from the Maquoit players, who, if they recognized him, didn’t say anything. Meanwhile, our guys were shifting their feet, silent. No one offered us donuts or coffee. I so wanted out of there.
Alex stepped in close to me.
“Why do I get the feeling none of this was your idea, Bouchard?” he said quietly.
The expression on his face and the tone of his voice were almost … friendly. From one
captain to another. Old camp buddies, right?
The night after that camp ended, I’d pored over the United Maine website with my parents. I remember their gasps when they clicked on the fees button. My parents are both schoolteachers, so while we’re not rich, we’re not poor, either. Still, the cost of playing for that team was a showstopper. End of conversation. Sorry, son, but we’re not that family.
Long after they’d gone to bed that night I continued scrolling through the photos on the website. I found pictures of Alex and his teammates playing in Virginia that spring. They’d won the eastern under-15s and were posed in front of the goal, their noses sunburned, hair plastered with dried sweat, and this big honkin’ trophy in front. I found John Hoover in the picture, the striker who Alex said wasn’t nearly as good as me.
I’d stayed up pretty late going over those pictures. When I shut the computer off, I’d promised myself to never visit the United Maine website again. And I never did.
Standing with him beside the rock that morning, paint slowly drying, I wondered if we would have ended up right where we were at that moment if we’d been United Maine teammates. Would I have messed with their stupid rock if we were practicing in the dome together the next day?
He looked at me curiously when I didn’t answer him.
“I don’t get you, Bouchard,” he continued. “You’re not an asshole. And this was a completely asshole thing to do.”
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think, Alex,” I said pleasantly. I went over to the paint and laid one finger gently on top. Came away black. I suppressed the urge to blow on the rock. “Mind if I have a donut?” I walked over to the Munchkins box and surveyed the flavors. Picked out a chocolate glazed and popped it in my mouth.
“Thanks,” I told him.
He shook his head in wonder.
“You just gotta hope this doesn’t screw you out of a tip for college,” he said. “I heard your coach was pretty mad.” I shrugged. I would have loved to know where Alex got his insider information about how mad Coach Gerardi might or might not have been.
I would have loved to know whether some college was recruiting him.
