Beyond Lucky

by Sarah Aronson

  I want to tell her that I believe her too, but Mac is here. He and Soup and Eddie are standing behind her. They wave to me and bat their eyes.

  She doesn’t see them. “Just think about it,” she says. “Logically. Why would I ever do that to you?”

  Mac taps her on the shoulder. “Because you wanted what he had,” he says. “That’s why.”

  Eddie looks embarrassed. Soup turns away. Mac looks like he is offended when she glares at him. He asks, “You coming to lunch, Fish?”

  I want to go. I want to stay. I want to tell Mac he is acting like an idiot, that we promised Coach we would be nice to Parker, who, until further notice, is still our teammate. I want to do what Sam and Dad would do. Mom said, “Make me proud.” Dad said, “Do the right thing.” Sam would probably say “This is important.”

  That is harder than it sounds. “Please, Parker, everyone wants you to stay on the team. Everything is forgotten.”

  “Forgotten?” Her lower lip quivers. “What do you mean?”

  I stand there like an idiot.

  Her eyes change to slits. Her brow furrows. “No it isn’t. Not even close.” She steps aside—no sign of tears. “You know what I think? That card is evil. Or cursed. I don’t know. Maybe you’re cursed too.”

  Now I’m mad. And when I’m mad, I say stupid things. Hurtful things. “The card is not evil. It’s the best card I have, and you wanted it.” I slam my locker shut. She flinches. “You’re just jealous because your footwork is too slow. You’re not big enough or strong enough and you’re not going to get recruited by anyone until you step up your game. If you and your dad could have accepted that, maybe the team would have accepted you.”

  I don’t really think any of this is true. But I’m mad, and it feels good to make her feel terrible.

  For a second.

  Then it feels awful. Everything has snowballed out of control. I don’t believe anything I’ve just said.

  Before I can take it back, Parker walks away. My friends surround me and congratulate me for finally dealing with that lying, thieving, friend-destroying wanna-be.

  Mac puts his arm around my shoulder. Even Eddie looks relaxed. Mac says, “You did the right thing, Fish. We are a great team.”

  It is the biggest lie yet, but still, I don’t look back.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Competition has been shown to be useful up to a

  certain point and no further, but cooperation, which

  is the thing we must strive for today, begins where

  competition leaves off.”

  —Franklin D. Roosevelt

  At the special mandatory practice, Coach says, “There’s only one way to get through a crisis like this, and that is hard work.”

  He’s not joking.

  First he makes us run to the top of the field and back as fast as we can. When we’re done, he says, “Do it again.”

  And again.

  And again.

  He does not care how tired we feel, or how lousy we look. He doesn’t let us stop running for a drink or a snack or to ease up on a cramp.

  Or to ice a sore mouth.

  “Coach,” Mac says, “this is brutal.”

  “You don’t like it?” He laughs. “Take an extra lap. Or don’t bother coming back.” He tells us that this is how practices are going to be until we start acting like a team. We are going to do things his way for as long as it takes. “Do you understand?”

  We understand.

  We are all miserable.

  He lines us up, and we do push-ups, planks, and sit-ups until we can’t move. Then he yells, “Get up,” and we dribble around the cones.

  Three times.

  Parker is the only one not gasping for breath. She runs the best average time. And she doesn’t knock down a single cone. She glares at me. “You think Coach will have any problem playing me now?”

  Then Coach shortens the field by half. He divides us into teams, and we scrimmage six on six, which puts twice as much pressure on the defense.

  No one likes playing on a short field. Not Eddie. Not Mac. Not me. I tell Eddie to just take the corner or stay in front of me, and he does not appreciate my advice. Parker is everywhere. She dribbles between defenders and passes with perfect accuracy.

  It is extremely aggravating.

  Soup yells at Mac. Mac insults David. Eddie starts to yell at me, but I tell him not to start. Even though this is only a scrimmage, I hate scooping out balls from the back of the net.

  But it is still not enough for Coach. When we’re done, he shortens the field even more. “Let’s play two on two,” he says while pacing in front of us. Mac smells. So do I. We smell so bad, I want to step away.

  “Up first: MacDonald and Llewellyn against Fish and Biggs.”

  For a moment, Mac forgets his promises. “Come on, Coach. Can’t you play someone else?” He lays on the charm. “All things considered.”

  Coach isn’t buying. He says, “All things considered, MacDonald, you are lucky that any of us will tolerate your presence on this field.” He paces back and forth. “Team, I want to win games. I will do anything to win games. And that means playing with the best we have. I know you don’t want to believe this, MacDonald, but we need Llewellyn. She is good. I’ve been watching her close, and this Saturday, she’s going to see real time. On offense. Do you hear me, MacDonald?”

  “Yes.”

  Usually, Mac can talk anyone into anything. But not today. Today of all days, Coach decides that Mac does not know what is best for our team.

  He says, “So if you want to play on Saturday, get out there and play. Together.”

  Parker seizes the moment and runs onto the field. “I’m ready.” She looks at me and Mac. “Are you?”

  What happens next is not pretty.

  Coach sends us to the field, two on two, offense on defense, Mac and Parker against me and Eddie.

  Eddie tries to force the ball wide—to keep them from passing—but he is out of position. Too aggressive. Mac has no problem getting the ball to Parker. She dribbles tight. Her feet are super-fast. Left and right and right-left-left-right, and smash—into the corner.

  I have to dive headfirst to get it.

  That really hurts.

  After ten minutes, she scores twice, Mac once. I try and spell it out to Eddie—that he can’t just charge the ball, he’s got to wait for it—he’s got to watch their footwork. That the feet will tell you which way they’re going to kick.

  He doesn’t appreciate it. He tells me he understands watching the feet. And that I should cut him some slack. “You know this drill favors the O.” When I don’t immediately agree, he adds, “You are becoming a diva.”

  Mischelotti stands there and shakes his head. “Haven’t I taught you anything, Fish? You have to be nice to your stopper.”

  Eddie doesn’t know when to shut up. “At least Parker had a reason to yell. At least she doesn’t act like she knows everything, and that everyone else knows squat.”

  Mischelotti hands me some water. “I thought you guys were friends.”

  Parker can’t help chiming in. “It’s because of the stupid card.” She says, “I think it’s cursed.”

  He scratches his head. “Maybe it is. Maybe the net is cursed too. Or maybe it’s you, Fish. Maybe you’re doomed. Just like Wayne Timcoe himself.”

  I stay up late, overanalyzing everything that has gone wrong.

  Sam didn’t call, even though he promised he would. I’m sure it only means what it always means. There was another fire. Otherwise, he would have called.

  I can’t consider anything else.

  The non-call has nothing to do with my horrible luck.

  And my horrible luck has nothing to do with the card. Or Parker. Or Mac. It’s just a coincidence. These things happen. Luck gets better. Then it gets worse. Then it gets better. It is a wave, just like Steve the Sports Guy said. In a couple of days, everything is going to turn around, if not exponentially, at least incrementally.

&
nbsp; I believe that.

  I have to believe that.

  All I have to do is apologize. When I do that, my conscience will feel better. My luck will improve.

  What I did was wrong.

  I knew Parker loved Wayne just as much as I do, but I never once thought she’d take him. When I realized the card was gone, I did not ever consider that Parker was the thief. Parker was my friend. She is my friend. When no one else would talk to me, she did.

  I picture her at the field. At my locker. I remember what she looked like when she found the card in her backpack. She looked shocked, surprised, upset. I remember how, during tryouts, I was so scared she’d be starting instead of me.

  I knew it then. I know it now.

  My gut is never wrong.

  The door creaks open, and a sliver of brightness cuts the room in half. Dad whispers, “Ari, you’re still up?”

  My eyes need time to adjust to the light. “I can’t sleep.”

  “Me neither.” He closes the door, so the room is dark.

  It’s a funny thing. I went out of my way to convince myself of the truth, but only in the dark can I say what I fear most. “I wanted to believe that Parker took the card, but now I’m sure she didn’t.”

  He says nothing.

  I say, “I was really mean to her.”

  I can’t see Dad’s face, but I’m pretty sure he’s not smiling. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

  I tell him everything.

  “You need to apologize,” he says.

  “But what about Mac?”

  My dad lets me think for a very long time. This is his way of making me come up with my own answers. “But what if he won’t admit what he did?” I ask.

  Dad rubs my head. “Talk to him. Be frank. Tell him you forgive him. He’ll come around. There have been plenty of times when he has had to forgive you.”

  This is true. He has forgiven me a lot.

  For the time I gave him a model racecar, then took it back. Same day.

  For the time I told the teacher he had copied off my homework.

  For the time I told him I had plans, when really, I just didn’t feel like hanging out with him.

  Me and Mac—we may not always do the right thing—but in the end, we always stick together.

  When Dad leaves, he opens the door wide. The hall light shines across my face, like a spotlight. I close my eyes, until it disappears with a click.

  Tomorrow, I’m going to do what I should have done before. I am going to talk to Parker. First thing. I’m going to ask for her forgiveness, and then, we’re going to talk to Mac. For the first time, I’m going to be a leader. I’m going to do what Thomas Jefferson and Steve the Sports Guy and Sam would tell me to do: I’m going to fight until the end. I’m going to trust my gut. I’m not going to be a wuss anymore.

  In the darkness, it feels easy. In the darkness, I am finally ready to do what’s right.

  At 4:42, the phone wakes me up. Dad’s footsteps rush past my door. His voice echoes. Three words. “Hello? What? No.”

  Downstairs, he is sitting in the dark. His face is in his hands. The phone is on its side. It beeps steadily, but Dad doesn’t touch it.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  He looks at me with glassy, dazed eyes. “Sam is in trouble.”

  It’s the call we’ve been dreading.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the

  arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and

  blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes

  short again and again, because there is no effort

  without error and shortcoming.”

  —Theodore Roosevelt

  “Turn on the news.”

  Of the seven news stations broadcasting at this hour, none are reporting about the newest fire on the Nevada-California border. It is ten minutes before the hour, which apparently means it is the perfect time to discuss weather and/or entertainment.

  Dad calls Sam’s cell. When there is no answer, he calls Mom. “Come home.” He stares at the commercials, one after the other after the other. He does not flip the channels the way he normally would.

  We must wait until exactly 5:07 in the morning for the anchorman to face the camera dead on. A banner appears: FIREFIGHTERS BATTLING MASSIVE BLAZE. MULTIPLE HOMES DESTROYED.

  There is no good way to hear bad news.

  The anchorman’s voice stays steady and low. “In our next story, our thoughts are with a team of firefighters who have been battling another huge blaze near the California-Nevada border.”

  Mom walks into the room just as the correspondent, a woman named Suzanne Myers, whose super-white hair is blowing around her face, warns parents that the following images may be too frightening for small children to see.

  Houses are on fire. The grass is black. A tall tree bursts into flames.

  “Paul,” she says, “a representative from Redding’s Region Five Smokejumpers called in this morning to report that a small fire in this area had been successfully contained. But obviously, something went terribly wrong. Late this evening, the fire re-ignited and blazed out of control. The local fire chief suspects arson.”

  None of us move.

  On the TV, the air is dark. Smoke billows from house after house after house. I wonder where the people are. The firefighters. They should be hosing down these houses, but they aren’t.

  I don’t see any firefighters anywhere.

  The reporter’s voice shakes. “Right now, more than a dozen men are camped on a ridge in the distance. It was supposed to be a safe zone. But when the fire unexpectedly blew up, it jumped the road and burned through their water supply. It raced up and around that hill.”

  I try to see the hill. The men. But I can’t.

  The picture cuts back to Suzanne, who wipes her eyes. She introduces a man in a firefighter’s uniform. She says, “This is Captain James Morris Franklin of the Nevada fire marshal’s office.”

  James Morris Franklin has millions of crisscross scars all over his face and dark circles under his eyes. His chin is covered with black and gray stubble, but not so much that you can’t see his sagging jowls.

  Suzanne says, “Captain Franklin, can you please explain to us what we are looking at. How did this fire get so out of control? And I hate to even ask this, but are those men safe?”

  The wind picks up, and it takes a few seconds to get his equipment working. “Our men are well-trained. They know what to do. There are planes coming to drop some water.”

  Her face looks neutral—like this is just a story—but this is happening now with life on the line. She asks, “But what if the planes don’t come?” I can tell she’s scared. Even through the TV, I can see it in her eyes.

  Dad throws the clicker across the room. “Where is the backup? The helicopters? He didn’t have to be doing this. He could have stayed in school, where he would have been safe.”

  James Morris Franklin tugs at his scarred skin and looks up into the sky. He says, “I am sure they are on their way.”

  Suzanne cuts to Paul, the announcer in the studio, who says, “As soon as we know more, we will come back to California. Thanks, Suzanne, for that dramatic report. Until then, we will keep those brave firefighters in our thoughts.”

  A fire is a dangerous thing. It can explode without warning. I once read if you’re close enough, it sounds like screaming.

  The only thing we can do is wait.

  Good things happen to bad people. Bad things happen to everyone.

  But I always believed Mom was wrong, that she worried for nothing. No matter what Sam did, no matter what risks he took, he’d be fine.

  Sam never failed. He was always in control. He fought for what was important to him. He was a hero. He was Superman.

  At least, that’s what I believed.

  At 7:45, I wake up on the overstuffed recliner.

  Mom points to the couch, where Dad is curled up, eyes closed, glasses still on. �
��Come to the kitchen. Let’s let him sleep. He was up all night.”

  We tiptoe out of the room. Eat toast with butter and raspberry jelly. Mom even gives me a little bit of coffee for my milk. There is no news.

  Mom’s lips are bright jelly red. “I think that’s a good thing. If he was dead, they would have had to notify us.” There are raspberry seeds stuck between her teeth.

  One more time, we call Sam’s cell. We listen to his voice on the message, “This is Sam. You know what to do,” and we start laughing/crying, because we really don’t know what to do. Or say. Or think.

  “Call us,” Mom says. She squeezes my hand. “We love you.”

  We call the base too, but instead of a person, we get that odd ring that means the phone is disconnected. Or out of service. When we call the state office, the last resort, we find out that the town of Redding has turned off the power due to the enormity of the fires. Mom says, “Thanks for letting us know. Keep up the good work.”

  Strange. She’s calm.

  We do Dad’s work. We go to the market, collect the donations, and mail a huge care package to all the firefighters at the base. She makes chocolate chip brownies from the mix. At noon, Dad finally wakes up. She cooks him a scrambled egg with cheese, toast, and a baked apple, which in the history of Fish breakfasts, might be a first.

  Dad scrapes his plate. He jokes, “You know, I could use you on Sundays.” But when the doorbell rings, he goes upstairs. “I’m just not ready for the well-wishers.”

  Neither am I, but Mom makes me stay. I talk to Mom’s friends from the hospital and the entire staff at the restaurant. I call Mac, Soup, Eddie, and Coach, and they come over as fast as they can. Coach cancels practice. He says, “We took a vote and it was unanimous. We are not going to play until we know Sam is safe.” When the rabbi walks in with three containers of soup, I get nervous. The rabbi never comes to your house when there is good news.

  When he hugs me, he pats my back, and says something in Hebrew. I wait for him to bring up my Torah portion—to tell me how important it is to deal with tough tasks, but luckily he doesn’t turn this into a lecture. He asks Mom, “What can I do? Would you like me to lead a healing prayer? Or do you want me to make phone calls.”