Beyond Lucky

by Sarah Aronson

  I hold the card. He is so perfect. I ask, “Do you think Mac’s telling the truth? That she framed him?”

  Dad hits a pothole. Mom tells him to be more careful.

  I say, “Parker knew the card was lucky.”

  Mom hands me a water bottle. Dad asks, “Why don’t you stop worrying about who took it, and just be grateful you have it back? Remember, everyone makes mistakes. Parker was under a lot of pressure.”

  My father, the king of the underdogs.

  “So was I. So was Mac.” Dad drives. I sulk. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. “The whole time, she was the one who thought the card was so cool. She was also the one who made me believe he had it. The whole time, she was the only person who saw him take it.”

  I examine the card for nicks or damages. Stains. The plastic cover is nice. It is obviously new. A few smudges, but otherwise, pristine. It’s obvious a collector took care of this card.

  The rest of the way, the only thing they say is, “Stay awake, Ari.” Dad doesn’t complain about leaving work. He doesn’t worry (out loud) how much my tooth will cost. Mom stops telling him how to drive. I keep my eyes open.

  “Stay awake, Ari.”

  As soon as we get to the emergency room, Mom jumps out of the car. A wheelchair and half the nurses she works with are waiting. It takes them an hour to declare me healthy and in one piece.

  Before we go, the doctor gives me a new ice pack and tells me to take something for the pain. He says to Mom, “Take tonight off. Wake him up every four hours, just to be safe. And get some sleep. I can’t believe you’re still standing.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “I feel incompetent to perform duties . . . which have

  been so unexpectedly thrown upon me.”

  —Andrew Johnson

  At home, Dad makes coffee. Mom puts up her feet. The painkillers let pain live. If I move, my entire mouth throbs.

  The newspaper sits folded on the table. Steve the Sports Guy tells Sick of Being Nagged to get off the couch and confront his girlfriend. And Frustrated About Work needs a new job. I’m surprised when he thinks the Galaxy fan who doesn’t want to read about the Lakers is overreacting to her daughter’s boyfriend. Usually, he tells people to trust their guts. But this time, he advises the guy to “Sit back. Wait and see. Maybe the kid is sincere. Maybe he isn’t. Just love your daughter. Time will tell.”

  The phone rings. Mom answers. “It’s Parker. Are you available?”

  “No.”

  I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to hear any excuses. I only get out of bed to e-mail Sam. “We lost,” I write. “Everything is falling apart.”

  She calls three more times in the first hour. Two times in the next. The last time, Mom says, “She sounds really sad.”

  “I said no.”

  I’m not talking. I’m not listening. I don’t care—I don’t feel like doing the right thing.

  Even though it doesn’t feel very good.

  The next day, right before dinner, Coach stops by with Mac. “I don’t care how things got out of hand,” he says, “but now I want you to make it go away.”

  Mac goes first. “I guess I really let Parker get to me.” He puts out his hand to shake mine. “I guess I let a lot of things get to me. It made me mad, when you blamed me for your lost card. We are friends. Teammates. I couldn’t believe you thought I could do something like that to you.”

  If I were honest, I would say:

  If you didn’t take it, why didn’t you just tell me? Why did you act so guilty?

  You’re not playing this straight. You never gave her a chance.

  How about an apology?

  But I am not honest. Coach is here. He doesn’t look like he wants to actually talk about what happened. He expects me to accept whatever it is Mac is offering and move on for the sake of the team.

  So even though nothing has been resolved, that is what I am going to do. I try to think of something to say. Something honest. Something that will get them out of my house.

  “I’m just glad I have the card again.”

  Mac says, “You know, All-Star Soccer says that Wayne Timcoe card is worth two thousand dollars. You were really lucky to get it back before Parker tried to unload it.”

  He does not understand the first thing about collecting. “Since when did you care about the value of trading cards? I thought you said the cards were worthless.”

  It is an extremely awkward moment.

  Coach clears his throat. “Ari, give your friend a break. I don’t think Mac was suggesting that you should sell the Timcoe. I don’t think he believes it is worthless.”

  Mac jumps all over that. “I don’t. I know how much that card means to you. I’m glad you got it back.” We stare at each other in silence until he blinks. “This has been the worst week of my life. I want to put this entire chapter behind us.”

  When I don’t immediately chime in, Coach frowns. He thinks I’m stalling. “Ari, Mac is reaching out to you.” In other words, say something. Do the right thing. Shake hands and make up, so we can get back to work.

  So I shake Mac’s hand. When he hugs me, I hug back. And for Coach, this means that the conflict is over. “Good. I’m glad we had this little talk.”

  They are about to leave, when Dad brings out a pot full of chili with side dishes of cheese and very soft for-a-sore-jaw tortillas. Coach looks at his watch, tells us he needs to go, but he will stay a bit longer for some comfort food this tasty.

  Mac and I eat three servings each. Coach stops at two. “Boys, if this team is going to succeed, you two are going to have to put all this behind you. You’re going to have to play together. You’re going to have to find a way to—”

  “We know.”

  Mac takes the last of the tortillas, but leaves the last scoop of cheese for me. He promises he’ll lead the team to victory. He’ll even get Mischelotti off my back. “I know I’ve been a total jerk. That whole scene in the cafeteria was not right. But trust me—I am going to make it up to you.”

  I burp. Too many hot peppers. “Are you actually apologizing to me, Mac MacDonald?”

  He burps too. A little one. “Yes. I’m sorry.” We each grab a bottle of soda and chug all the way until there’s nothing left. It is easy to believe Mac. It’s fun to be his friend. We take turns burping—each time, a little bit louder—until Mac lays a loud, long one, and I give up. Then we both start laughing and I hiccup a bunch of times, so hard it hurts. Mac says, “I never want to drive anywhere with Mischelotti again. His car stinks!” And I say, “And I never want to hear the Mia Hamm story again.”

  Coach leaves the room to talk to Dad. Mac shakes my hand again. There are no jokes. No one is listening. He says, “I know I haven’t always been the best friend, and I’m sorry about that. I’m really glad this is over. I hope you will be able to trust me again.”

  Trust is a big deal.

  It’s the key ingredient of a team. You have to trust that your teammates have your back. You have to trust that everyone is playing their best.

  Most of all, you have to trust that they won’t lie to your face.

  Parker trusted us to play, but she shouldn’t have. I trusted her with the card, but then she stole it. Now Mac wants me to trust him.

  I want to believe him, but something doesn’t feel right. “You’re my striker. We have to stick together.” I don’t think that is exactly what he wanted to hear, but right now, it’s the best I can do.

  Coach makes us promise to be fair to Parker. “She may have done something terrible, but we’re a team, and that means you’re not allowed to hold it against her.” He says he is too old for this nonsense, but it is obvious he believes Mac. “It will be rough at first. There will be some bumps. But I won’t lead a team that can’t play together.”

  We shake hands one more time. It’s a deal.

  After they leave, when I am alone in my room, when Mom isn’t asking me if my mouth is still sore and Dad isn’t worrying that the next shipment of gr
ass-fed beef is going to be late, and I’m not worried that Sam still hasn’t returned any of my desperate, urgent e-mails, I secretly can’t help feeling a little bit of doubt.

  The truth is Parker could have framed Mac. But Mac could have framed Parker too. If it hadn’t been for him, we never would have lost that game.

  But then I remember what the rabbi said right before the game. About Noah. And heroes.

  Nobody’s perfect.

  Heroes are just people.

  We all make mistakes.

  In the early morning, the sun turns the sky from red to pink to a misty blue-gray haze. Behind some clouds, the sun is a white-yellow ball.

  But something is off. The sky looks strange. It takes me a few minutes to figure it out.

  Even though the sky is light enough for me to see the red leaves on the trees, I can see the moon. It looks like it is made of dust, a shadow of the big yellow sun, determined to stick around.

  But there it is. The moon. During the day.

  It looks a little unreal, a little off balance, like the whole world is out of whack.

  Not just me.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “A president’s hardest task is not to do what is right,

  but to know what is right.”

  —Lyndon B. Johnson

  Optimism: take one.

  I get out of bed and do my push-ups. I recite the presidents with the highest approval ratings. Even though my jaw, shoulder, and arm ache, I have the card. I hold Wayne Timcoe in both hands, look at the poster, and hope for good things for myself. And Sam. And Mac. And Parker too. The weekend is past. The correlation between the card and luck is still predictable: When I have the card, I play well. Girls talk to me. Everything is great.

  On my way to the bathroom, I stub my toe.

  Maybe the card just needs some time to warm up.

  Optimism: take two.

  I check my e-mail. There are ten messages in my inbox. One is from Sam.

  Got your messages. Sorry to hear things have been tough. Let’s talk about it tonight.

  He will call tonight—that’s good. But he forgot to write: “Fight to the end for what’s important to you.”

  He never leaves that out. I’m absolutely positive that it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a slogan. Maybe he is trying to come up with a new one.

  I print the new message and fold it around the Wayne Timcoe card.

  The next e-mail is from Coach. It is marked urgent with a bright red exclamation point. I don’t have to open it to know what he wants.

  On Monday, we’re having a special mandatory practice. No whining. No excuses. No slack. He writes, “After what happened at Mooretown, you’ll be lucky if you get out of here before dinner.”

  The other eight messages are from Parker. Pretty much, each message is the same, except the last four are all in capital letters.

  BELIEVE ME. I DID NOT STEAL YOUR WAYNE TIMCOE CARD. MAC IS A LIAR. THERE IS NO WAY I WOULD STEAL SOMETHING AS IMPORTANT AS WAYNE, NOT IN A MILLION TRILLION YEARS.

  Abraham Lincoln said, “You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you cannot fool all of the people all of the time.”

  I wish Lincoln had said something about doubt and overcoming it. I wish he had said something about what you’re supposed to be if you don’t want to be that fool. Because there is something about her messages that is extremely disturbing.

  Optimism: take three.

  The newspaper arrives on time.

  But my horoscope is grim.

  “It’s not the best time to make big decisions, as you’re swimming in too much data and need to prune some of it away first. Try to put off anything big for a while and then you’ll be fine.”

  No fooling.

  The rest of the paper is no better. On the second page: “Helicopter Crash Kills Four in Oregon.” Four would-be firefighters are dead. Mark, Tim, Evan, and Sal. Mark was the pilot. Sal was training to be a jumper.

  I show Dad, and he starts writing letters.

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Morrison,

  My family would like to express our gratitude . . .

  When he is done, he asks, “Will you sign these cards? I want to put them in the mail today.”

  Usually, I just sign my name. But today, I write at the bottom of each card: “Your son will be missed. We are sorry for your loss.”

  The morning continues to worsen. We are all out of my before-practice cereal. The only milk left is skim. Dad offers to make pancakes, which sounds great, but then he burns the first two batches. The smoke detector rings like a siren. He hands me a placemat. The Battle of Chickamauga. The next batch are only burnt in random places, so we eat them anyway, even the black parts. Mom reminds me that if my head aches, I should go directly to the nurse.

  She says, “Make me proud.” That means “Make up with Parker.” And “Really forgive Mac.”

  I can’t help wondering if Mac is telling the truth.

  Instead of commiserating, Dad sighs. “I don’t think it matters. Because no matter what, you are going to do the right thing.”

  This sounds familiar. “Did you talk to the rabbi too?”

  It is obvious he did, but he will never admit it. The last pancake is deformed, a fold-over, and it looks a little like the state of Texas, the home state of Lyndon B. Johnson and Dwight Eisenhower. He answers my question with a question. “Do you think any of the presidents ever hesitated from doing what they thought was right?”

  I pour more syrup on the plate. “But what if it doesn’t work? What if it’s too late?”

  Dad kisses the top of my head. “Then at least you tried.”

  When I walk out the door, my resolve is strong. Dad is right. I need to do the right thing. I can forget all about the past and who did what and bring my team together. It is not going to be that hard. Mac is already on board. All we have to do is tell everyone—including Parker—that we are all square. No more debate. Then we’ll all go to practice and everything will be fine.

  Halfway to school, I know exactly what I want to say. But when I arrive, everyone is so happy to see me. It doesn’t feel right to make a big, difficult speech.

  I convince myself that I don’t have to say anything. Everything is already fine. My luck is returning. There is no burden to lift. The power of the card is going to solve all my problems, no sweat.

  I ignore the funny little shots my friends take at Parker, Eddie’s eye roll and Soup’s dead gaze when she arrives at school. I tell myself it means nothing—that old habits die hard and nothing more. Besides, Parker doesn’t say hello to us either. She stays on her side of the lawn until the bell rings, and when we walk in her direction, she runs ahead. I say to Mac, “Let’s go catch up with her now.” He says we don’t have to anymore—the deal is off. Parker is quitting—he heard through the grapevine. He reminds me that that proves she is guilty.

  I ignore that icky feeling in my gut.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  I plan to talk to her at lunch. Or maybe after school or on the way to practice, if Mac’s rumor is false. Although I promised to be nice to her, I didn’t say that I would resolve everything first thing.

  I rationalize that I can actually be more effective if I wait for the card to come to full strength. I don’t need to make a big stink, or rock the boat, if I stand back and let the card work its magic.

  In other words, I take the easy way out.

  I say and do absolutely nothing.

  Unfortunately for me, a girl who plays on a boys’ team never forgets what she has set out to do. She does not put off until tomorrow what she can do right now.

  Right before lunch, she barricades my locker. “You have to talk to me sometime. Why didn’t you answer my e-mails? I know you got them.”

  A second ago I was hungry and happy. Now I feel sick. Guilty. Awful. Trapped again. An hour ago I knew exactly what to do. Now when my mouth opens, out comes, “I don’t know w
hat you want me to say.”

  “Are you serious?” She stamps her foot. “Do you not remember that I was the one trying to help you? Who stuck up for you, when all your so-called-friends were acting like jerks?”

  “I remember.”

  Parker Llewellyn is upset. She stands very stiff. She makes sure everyone in the vicinity can hear. “I called you all weekend long, and your mother said you couldn’t talk, which I know is a lie, but what am I supposed to do, call your mother a liar?”

  I am so frustrated. At her. At Mac. At this card that seems to have lost all its power. I want to say “I believe you.” Or “I forgive you.” But she won’t stop yelling.

  I can yell too. “But it was in your bag.”

  “He framed me.”

  “He says you are quitting.”

  “Well, now we know he’s a liar.”

  I open my locker and it smells like garlic. Everything is wet. It is my hummus sandwich. I must not have sealed the bag, because it is leaking all over everything.

  I say, “Everything stinks.” I almost shout, “Wayne Timcoe, where are you? I am supposed to be lucky.”

  As it is, Parker is laughing at me. “Your lunch is peeing.”

  This is the worst day ever.

  “It’s not funny.” At some moment—any time now—the card is going to start working. My luck is going to start getting better and it’s going to stay good. And then it’s going to become great, and I will say the right thing, and everyone will get along. I won’t have to feel stuck in the middle.

  My jacket will stink all day. I pull out the lunch bag. I hope the cookies are wrapped in plastic.

  They’re not.

  For a second, Parker looks me right in the eye, and she doesn’t blink. Her voice is finally quiet. “Ari. Just listen. I would never do this, and I’m not going anywhere until you believe me.”