Beyond Lucky

by Sarah Aronson

  It is a brave moment, perhaps my bravest, but even with two seconds of hindsight, I should have considered a few vital, never-changing facts:

  Throwing a punch in the middle of a regulation game is not a smart move, whether the person you are aiming for is your oldest friend or not.

  If you land a punch, there is the temporary satisfaction of having successfully pounded your enemy. But Coach’s rule: You are out of the game. If you miss, you’re done too.

  Either way, you have to wait for him to hit you or pray that for some reason, a well-meaning adult intercedes fast enough to stop what is inevitably coming.

  Mac ducks.

  I miss.

  Coach is slow. Way too slow.

  One last fact: When someone’s fist hits you square in the jaw full force, it makes a hammer sound like a thud. It vibrates. But when your head hits the post, it makes no sound whatsoever.

  When I see my mother running onto the field, I realize this has to be rock bottom. Things cannot get any worse.

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Any man worth his salt will stick up for what he

  believes right, but it takes a slightly better man to

  acknowledge instantly and without reservation

  that he is in error.”

  —Andrew Jackson

  You don’t know you’ve been unconscious until after you wake up.

  “Ari, can you hear me? How many fingers do I have up?” There are too many voices. Too many questions.

  My head is hot. My arms are hot. My legs are hot. My mother pushes everyone else back. “What is today’s date? Who was the first president? Who was the only president not to get married?”

  She dumps cold water on my face. “Say something, Ari.”

  Now I sit up. “James Buchanan was the only bachelor president.”

  Everyone cheers. Everyone, that is, except Coach. You can tell he is fuming mad, because he is pacing three steps up and three steps back. Up and back. Up and back. He makes me dizzy. “Could someone help this knucklehead off the field? Do you think we have to call an ambulance?” When it is clear that I’m going to survive, his concern disappears. “Fish, MacDonald, on the bench. Now.”

  Eddie helps me up. He lets me lean on his shoulder all the way to the bench.

  It is a very long walk.

  My mother looks like she wants to deck me too, but for now, she goes into nurse mode. “Sit,” she says, pointing to Coach’s lawn chair. That chair is normally off limits, but right now, that is the least of my problems. She grabs cherry-smelling ice and wraps it in a towel around my head. “How is your vision? Your jaw? Any numbness or tingling?” Even though I tell her that I’m fine, she calls my father to come get us immediately.

  Coach looks at Mac with disgust. “Whatever you did to set off Fish, I’m not going to tolerate it. Sit on the bench. I’ll let you know in a few minutes how generous I’m feeling.” Then he looks at me, and his expression does not change. “Fish, you’re done for the day.” He holds up his hand toward the refs, as in give me a few more minutes. “Mischelotti, make sure these clowns don’t cause any more trouble.”

  Mac starts to protest, but Coach won’t listen. “I want to see both of you tomorrow. I don’t care what you had planned.” He gathers our team together and shouts directions. “Llewellyn, go get your gear. I’m putting you in the net.”

  Mac can’t sit still and he won’t shut up. “He can’t put her in the net. What’s wrong with Biggs?”

  When Parker takes the field, her dad runs to the south end and yells directions. “Keep your eyes open. Stay alert—they’re going to challenge you.”

  It’s extremely good advice.

  Mac kicks the bench. “This is all her fault.” He whistles to our teammates and my ears feel like they are literally going to explode. When they turn around, he holds up his hand. He makes an L with his fingers.

  My brain is not completely cloudy. Plan Freeze-out. They’re going to go through with it.

  I wonder if maybe Mac broke my jaw. “It’s not worth it,” I say, but Mac won’t listen—it’s like he’s stuck in a horror movie and he doesn’t realize that if he just does the smart thing and calls the authorities, everyone will live.

  I am not a fan of horror, because it is so predictable.

  I start to stand up to talk to Coach, but my mother stops me cold. She wraps a fresh towel and ice around my head. “You are not allowed to move. Not one step until your father gets here with the car. Do you understand?”

  I understand.

  Her cell phone rings. It is extremely loud. Mac says, “Cool your jets. I have no intention of forfeiting this game. We just have to prove to Coach that he can’t put her in the net. It won’t take long. He’ll get the picture.”

  Mooretown takes the ball straight down the field toward our goal. Mischelotti won’t leave me alone. “Fish, you look like a swami. Want to tell my fortune?”

  This is a disaster.

  David trips on the sideline. Eddie misses an easy interception. Our friends may be able to play, but they cannot act. It’s totally obvious. I need to warn her. Parker Llewellyn is playing alone. She is the only person on our team who is trying.

  She grabs the ball and sends a nice kick to midfield. Normally, Soup would have this, no problem. Today, he gets in front of it. I think maybe he changed his mind, and everything will work out, but of course, this is a horror movie, so he stumbles right into the biggest Mooretown player. The ball bounces to their forwards. Mischelotti yawns. “I thought they were better than this.”

  “They are better than this.”

  We watch Mooretown approach the net. Parker shouts at Eddie to help her cover the left side, but he steps forward, too close to midfield, totally out of position.

  Mr. Llewellyn yells, “That’s not in the playbook. Get back in position. Show some hustle.”

  Parker saves another uncontested shot. Mischelotti says, “You know, MacDonald, she’s gotten pretty good. Look at the way she moves laterally. She’s really not bad.”

  “Shut up,” Mac says.

  Mischelotti does not shut up. “What do you have against her anyway?”

  “I don’t have anything against her. I just don’t want her playing on my team.”

  “Yeah right.” Mischelotti laughs. “If you cared so much about your precious team, you’d see—that girl is good. You are better with her than without her.” We watch her stop another shot on goal. “I don’t think I’d do any better.”

  I don’t think I would either.

  But no one can do it alone.

  After four more minutes, Parker comes out of the net too far. She acts too much like a field defender. Then she goes for a fake. No surprise. It’s her first game, and she can’t help making rookie mistakes.

  When Mooretown scores, Mac smirks. He stands up and waves to Coach. He prepares to enter the game.

  Coach does nothing. He does not signal to Mac. He does not call his number.

  Mooretown drives downfield again and again and again. I shout as loud as my brain will allow, “Stay in the net. Keep your eyes on the feet. Don’t trust your teammates—they are hanging you out to dry.”

  But I think she has figured that out.

  “Tell them to play,” I beg Mac. I spit blood. One of my fake teeth is loose. I feel like I am going to throw up. Even talking makes my head throb. The lead is down to two.

  But Mac won’t let it go. “She stole your card. Just ask her. I dare you.”

  Mischelotti gets up and sits between us. “You guys are such babies. This would never happen on our lacrosse team.”

  Mac says, “I don’t see any girls infiltrating your lacrosse team. And we will not lose. As soon as Coach can, he’ll put me in and everything will be fine.”

  Ten minutes later, Mooretown ties the game, and Parker’s dad runs past us screaming, “What is the matter with you? Why aren’t you helping her?”

  I don’t believe this. “Mac, please. This isn’t funny. Tell Coach now. Befo
re it’s too late.”

  Mac points to her bag. “I will if you look in her bag.”

  Mischelotti says, “Go for it, Swami. Check her backpack. No one’s looking.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  My mom finally returns. She takes the towel off my head and checks my mouth. She whispers, “Do you want me to go get Coach?”

  I nod.

  Get him.

  I hope it’s not too late.

  By the time Mom has cornered Coach, Mooretown is up by one. He walks to our side of the field. And even though he says the whole thing feels and smells fishy, he relents. “Go in, MacDonald. But if you think I’m taking her out, think again.”

  Mac doesn’t mouth off. He doesn’t demand that Coach bench Parker. He knows this is a moment made for a hero.

  As planned, the entire team responds. Soup blocks the inbound throw, and passes the ball to Mac, who needs only thirty or so seconds to score, no assist necessary. For a moment, I relax. It is over. Tie game. We’ll win in overtime. No harm done.

  But I have forgotten some of the biggest truths about soccer. Momentum can beat skill. Any team can score on any given day.

  The rabbi is right—a weak team can beat a strong one.

  Now that Mooretown feels confident, they play strong. They attack Mac, who is still not in his rhythm. Even though I know my team is finally trying to win, Mooretown weaves in and out and around us, no sweat.

  The final sequence could be called righteous soccer, and it is right out of the youth soccer handbook.

  They dribble down the lane, then pass across the field. Practically everyone on the offense touches the ball.

  It’s not like we aren’t trying.

  Mac tries to steal the ball, but good teamwork trumps one good player any day. He isn’t warmed up, and his legs look slow and stiff. Around midfield, he trips and falls. He can only watch their center take his shot.

  It’s a good kick. High and solid. A bullet to the corner.

  No luck involved.

  We lose seven goals to six.

  I couldn’t have stopped it either.

  When everyone has congratulated Mooretown, Coach speaks softly, which is how we know he is really, really mad. “You played slow and careless. Intentionally sloppy. Llewellyn was the only one playing, and don’t think I don’t know it.” He squeezes her shoulder. “I thought you understood—there is no I in team.”

  After a bad loss, there is nothing more pathetic than the I-in-team speech.

  Coach says, “I never thought I would coach a team that would intentionally go out and lose.”

  Mac raises his hand. “Coach, this is my fault,” he says. “I told them to quit, but I didn’t want to lose. I really thought in the end, we would win.”

  My head pounds. This is Mac’s fault, Mac’s plan, but it is my fault too. I should have said something. I could have helped Parker. I could have stood up with her, instead of focusing only on myself and my card.

  Soup kicks a patch of dirt. He won’t look at anyone, and David Old starts rubbing his eyes, and I don’t think he’s faking. Eddie shakes his head. “You promised us it would work.”

  Mac doesn’t disagree. “You’re right, Biggs. I feel like a jerk. This loss is on me.”

  I would not be surprised if smoke came out of Coach’s ears. He starts then stops then paces a few more steps. He sends the parents to the parking lot. “If you don’t mind, I’d like a few minutes alone with the team.” Everyone leaves except Parker’s dad, who uses the moment to tell all of us that he has played on a lot of teams, but never one as horrible as this.

  When he has nothing left to say, it is so quiet, I can hear birds. They sound anxious, but they’re probably not. They’re probably just being birds.

  Coach says, “You embarrassed me. You embarrassed yourselves. I have half a mind to forfeit the rest of the season.”

  Everyone talks at once. I hear a lot of no’s. And you can’ts. A few people are brave enough to admit, “We didn’t think it would take so long to put Mac back in.”

  When Parker stands up, everyone is quiet again. “Please don’t do it,” she says. “Not now. Not for me. I don’t think it really is about me. If we just talk this out and get Ari his card, everything will work out.”

  Girls. Even after everything that happened, she still thinks talking is the answer. Her father looks like he agrees with me. “I disagree,” he says. “They let you down. You don’t have to be nice.”

  “No. She’s right,” Mac says. “I told everyone to stop playing because she told Ari I had the card. And for some reason, he believed her.”

  Now everyone nods. They say things like “That’s right.” And “It was a spur of the moment thing. It got totally out of hand.”

  My head pounds. My ears ring. But my feet feel steady, and I know a lie when I hear one. “You made this plan weeks ago. We were all there.”

  Now it is so quiet, I can hear air.

  Parker walks toward me, and I hold up my hand—to protect my jaw. That’s how mad she looks.

  “You knew?” When she starts to cry, her dad runs back to the group. “You knew they were going to quit on me and you didn’t say anything?”

  Pain shoots from my neck, through my shoulder, to my hand. “I never thought they’d actually do it.”

  Mac seems to perk up. He steps between me and Parker. “Come on, Parker, give the guy a break. The guy took a swing at me. He got benched because I told him about your little secret.”

  Now Parker looks sick. And guilty. She stares at the grass. A bad sign. “My secret?”

  “Yeah.” Mac says. “Your secret. And now it’s time for you to confess.” Mac always smiles just before he takes a shot. “You’ve got Ari’s Wayne Timcoe card. Admit it.”

  Parker drops her stuff. She looks at Mac and shakes her head. “Ari, do you honestly believe I’d steal your card?”

  Honestly?

  Mac says, “Me and Soup saw you looking at it. You stuck it in your backpack. We could tell you didn’t want anyone to see what you were doing.”

  Soup nods to me. “It’s true. He’s not lying. She was definitely hiding something.”

  Now she looks mad and sad. “No,” she says. “I don’t have it. I swear. Coach, they don’t know what they saw.” She buries her head in her father’s chest while he kisses the top of her head. I can hear her whimper, “This is so embarrassing.”

  Mac sneers. “Because you’re a liar and a thief?”

  When she turns around, I wouldn’t want to be Mac. “If you have to know, MacDonald, I was getting . . . you know . . .” She turns red. “Girl things.”

  Oh.

  That.

  Everyone groans.

  Parker’s dad claps his hands. “Okay, then, that’s enough. You boys have acted badly enough for one day. Let’s go, Parker.”

  Coach agrees. “Go home. We’ll have a team meeting after school on Monday.”

  But Mac won’t let anyone move. He says, “No. She can’t get away with this. She framed me! She stole Ari’s card!”

  Parker picks up her bag and clutches it to her chest. Her dad asks, “Do you have it, sweetheart? Because if you do, and you still want to be part of this team, you have to give it back. Now.”

  She pulls away. “If it’s there, he planted it.”

  Mac shakes his head. “I knew she’d say that.”

  I want to believe her. I want to believe her more than I want to believe Mac. But realistically, I’m not sure. A lot of things don’t make sense. She is the only other collector here. She’s the only person I know still looking for a Timcoe. She was the only person who saw Mac go into my stuff.

  Mac is my friend. She hates Mac. She practically said so herself.

  Her father grabs the bag, and she starts to protest. “It’s the only way you’re going to earn their respect.” He unzips the front flap.

  She says, “Don’t!”

  He shakes the bag hard. Out fall a sweatshirt and a bottle of water, an ext
ra shirt, a notebook. A pink pouch. A small stuffed dog.

  And half a dozen All-Star Soccer trading cards.

  I don’t want to look. She says, “Daddy, I swear, those cards are not mine.”

  Mac says, “You got that right.”

  I look. But only to convince myself. There is no way my card is in her backpack. Mac is wrong. It’s the only thing that makes sense.

  Until I look at her face and see that she is scared. She is scared of me. And the cards. Scattered on the ground.

  One by one, I pick them up. They are all classics, all well cared for. Just like the day in front of Ben Elliot’s, I know before I see him.

  First blue. Then red. A bright green field.

  There is nothing worse than being lied to.

  Parker picks up the card, before I have to bend over to get it. She hands it to me, like it is hot enough to burn. “He put it there, Ari. You have to believe me. He planned this. You know he did. You know I would never take him away from you.”

  I don’t kiss it.

  I don’t rub it on my leg.

  I don’t let anyone else touch it.

  It is Wayne, Wayne Timcoe, my trading card, my lucky card, in a custom plastic sleeve, the kind that costs two for three dollars, the kind that only real collectors buy.

  Everyone leaves, heads down, eyes on the grass. There really isn’t much to say. Dad finally shows up and he and Mom take me by my elbows and help me to the car. “Ari, what happened?”

  I tell him everything—who hit whom and Parker having the card. He tsks. “Well, I’m surprised. She seemed like a nice girl.”

  Mom says, “Maybe too nice. You know, I never could believe that Mac was guilty.” She makes a pillow out of a sweatshirt that smells like tomato sauce. “Mac has been your friend for a long time. And I hope now you two can figure things out.” When I yawn a second time, she goes ballistic. “Are you sleepy? Can you please stay awake?” Although the motion of the car is very relaxing, her voice is not. She says three times, “I bet he has a concussion.” Every time I close my eyes, she complains about Coach and my friends and even my obsession with Wayne.