Beyond Lucky

by Sarah Aronson

  “Don’t make phone calls. Not yet.” She tells the rabbi, “I hate that he thinks I’m not proud of him.”

  The rabbi opens his book. He talks for a long time about journeys that are worth something and the honor of responsibility. He says that nothing really good comes easy, and that God is with Sam right now, because God is righteous.

  He says, “God never turns away from those in need.”

  But everyone knows that isn’t really true. God lets good people die all the time. When good people are in need, sometimes God is looking the other way. I wish he would explain this.

  Sometimes the good guy loses. Sometimes good men die.

  That’s why my dad writes to all those people.

  The rabbi hands out copies of some prayers and invites everyone to join in. Some I know; some I don’t. Mrs. Elliot sits next to Mom and sings along. Quietly. The rabbi sways back and forth.

  After the last Amen, Mom gets up and goes to the kitchen, picks up one of the containers, opens it, and pours it into a saucepan. In the background, the TV stays on. The twenty-four-hour news stations discuss politics and theater, weather and one oil man’s attempt to bring back the electric car. At three, they say the fire is twenty percent contained, and everyone cheers. By four, fifty percent. By seven, it is over.

  Now we have to wait for a call. From Sam or a stranger. For the names. Every time the doorbell rings, I look away. I do not want to see a man in a uniform. I do not want someone to ask for Mr. and Mrs. Fish, the parents of Samuel Martin Fish of the Redding Five. I do not want to write a speech about the responsibility of remembering a brother who sacrificed his life, of a God who didn’t hang around.

  Mac, Eddie, and Soup sit in my room and play gin rummy and crazy eights—anything not to talk. Mac deals me the same three Jacks three times in a row.

  Mac is usually a pretty good shuffler.

  The next hand, he holds all the eights, and he doesn’t even realize it.

  He stares at the Wayne Timcoe poster. “Do you ever wonder what might have happened if Wayne Timcoe hadn’t gotten injured?”

  I don’t answer—not because I don’t have my theories, but because Coach is here. He sits on my bed. “You know, when Sam played for me, I just knew he was the kind of guy who was going to make a difference in somebody’s life.”

  My mom comes in too, and we trade stories about Sam, all the oldies but goodies. Like the time he got caught driving the car . . . at age twelve. Or the time he threw a party when Mom and Dad were at services.

  I say, “He offered me one hundred dollars if I could kick one goal past him. He gave me ten shots.”

  Coach laughs. “Did you do it?”

  “Kick number eleven. It went right through his legs. He told me it was a sign that I was going to be just as good as he was.”

  Mom dabs her eye. “I told him I’d give him the money if he let his brother score.”

  Everyone laughs.

  I excuse myself and go to Sam’s room. Dad is there. He stands next to the words Sam painted on his wall.

  Fight to the end.

  Don’t be a wuss.

  Winning isn’t everything . . . it’s the only thing.

  I say, “It was cool that you let him do that.”

  We look at Sam’s trophies and jerseys, and his MVP certificate. Dad asks, “Do you think I expect too much from you? That I set the bar too high?”

  “No. I don’t know. What do you mean?”

  My dad kisses the top of my head. “Your brother. There was never any stopping him. He was smart. And funny. And so athletic. It was such a disappointment when he dropped out of school. I guess I always thought this was a phase.”

  Now I am really scared. “What are you saying? Sam can do anything! Don’t talk about him like he’s not coming home. I bet he wasn’t even scared. I bet he is already at the base, getting ready to call. I bet when Mom starts yelling at him about being an adrenaline junkie, he’s going to say it was no big deal.”

  Dad smiles, but it’s one of those sad smiles, the kind that makes people cry. “I hope you are right.”

  He sits on the bed. He holds the picture of me and Sam, the one from my room. “I’m just not ready for this. I am not ready for the call. I am not ready for a flag or an honor or a story about my great kid. I don’t want to check the mail next week and find a letter from some guy who read my kid’s obituary.”

  It’s hard to watch your father cry.

  There is no bad way to hear good news.

  It is never too late at night to hear your brother’s voice.

  Mom picks up the phone on the first ring and puts it on speaker. “Hey everyone. It’s me. I just wanted to tell you that I’m okay. I don’t know if you saw this on the news, but we had a little bit of excitement.”

  It is Sam.

  Mom pops open an old bottle of champagne, and she gives everyone—even me—a glass.

  “To Sam!”

  “To the Redding Region Five Smokejumpers!”

  “To water!”

  Dad calls the restaurant, and they bring over a cake. Five layers. All chocolate. We each take a huge slice.

  On TV, the same news lady finally has an update. Now she reports from the studio.

  The camera relives the nightmare. The sky, the fire, the houses. Then it shifts and we see piles of burnt rubble. Piles of charred wood. People sift through rubble to find anything they can salvage. Photographs. Toys.

  There’s nothing there.

  Suzanne says, “What you see here is what is left of this once thriving, beautiful neighborhood. But today, no one is complaining. And that is because although seventy-five houses burned, everyone lived. All these families are safe. And I’m happy to tell you that the fourteen incredibly brave firefighters all survived. These men—these heroes—hung on until the planes arrived. Then—you’re not going to believe this—they didn’t go anywhere. They picked up their gear and fought the blaze until it was completely extinguished.”

  The anchor actually claps his hands. “Did they suffer injuries?”

  “You are not going to believe this either, but they had to be forced to go to the hospital for checkups. But it sounds like, besides some smoke inhalation, everyone is going to be fine, back on the job. They are America’s bravest, and I am so glad they are all okay.”

  Dad turns the channel, and we listen to another station review the same story. They interview the base manager, who says, “My guys knew what to do. We train for exactly this type of situation. They are a team, and I’m proud of all of them.”

  After a while, the last slice of cake disappears. My parents’ friends go home. Mac follows me to Sam’s room. I sit on his bed and stare at Sam’s trophies and slogans. I am so relieved. There are so many things Sam and I need to talk about. Luck. The team. Responsibility. I wonder what he was thinking about when the flames surrounded him. If he wished he could come home. And go back to school.

  I wonder if he still thinks being a smokejumper is worth fighting for.

  Mac wrings his hands, then wipes them on his jeans. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

  “Before anything else happens, I need to tell you something important.” Mac says nothing for a long time. “Parker was right. I stole your card. I framed her. I did everything she said I did.”

  Jerry Mac MacDonald, the best player on our team, my friend, the luckiest guy I know, is a thief and a liar.

  He apologizes profusely, over and over again. “All I can say is I’m sorry. I am really sorry. I was wrong. I was stupid. Will you ever be able to forget what I’ve done? Can you forgive me?”

  On the one hand, an apology is a huge thing.

  Just look at the presidents. Or even professional athletes.

  Does anyone ever confess voluntarily?

  No. They do not.

  Until their guilt is firmly established, they lie. Until the proof is public.

  Until they do not have a choice.

  On the other hand, he stole my Wayne Timcoe card.
He lied about Parker. He treated me like dirt. Retaliation would feel extremely satisfying.

  I could hit him in the jaw. I could make him confess to his mom.

  I could call Coach, who would definitely throw him off the team.

  Then again, Dad is right. I am not always perfect. I need to shake hands with Mac. Say, “I accept your apology.” Even if, in reality, I am still very mad, he is finally being honest. There is no reason to drag this out any more.

  That’s what the old Ari would do.

  But that is the point. The old Ari did not do the right thing. The old Ari did not accept his responsibility when it was given to him.

  I don’t want to be that person anymore.

  I ask him, “Why?”

  It is a simple question, but those are always the hardest to ask and answer.

  For a moment, he says nothing. Then, “Honestly? When you found that card, your luck may have improved, but it messed me up. Suddenly, I couldn’t do anything right. I couldn’t play for beans. I felt tight. And nervous. And then the whole thing with Parker. When she started playing well and hanging out with you . . . I was jealous. I’m sorry, but I just wanted everything to be the way it used to be.”

  Maybe that’s true. Maybe Mac did take his game for granted. Maybe he couldn’t handle having an off day. But he used to have my back. And I had his. Always.

  Honestly, I thought we did.

  I am not convinced. “Do you really hate Parker that much? Why couldn’t you let me be the star?”

  We stand and stare at each other.

  For a very long time.

  Mac breaks the silence. “You will never understand.”

  When I ask him what that is supposed to mean, he paces around my room. “Can you just accept that I needed that lucky card. I had to have it . . . for a lot of reasons.” He turns away.

  That is a surprise. “A lot of reasons? Like what?”

  “You know. Like my mom, who never comes to a game. Or Big Dave, who doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. He couldn’t care less what I do. Don’t pretend you don’t see. My family isn’t like yours. Soccer is the only thing I am good at. It’s the only thing.”

  This whole conversation makes my stomach ache. “You told me Big Dave took you fishing every week.”

  Mac says, “Yeah, I lied about that too. Like you didn’t know.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  He shakes his head hard, back and forth. I’ve never seen him this upset. “The funny thing is, when I had the card, everything was worse. Nothing went the way it was supposed to. And then even after you got it back, nothing was right. You didn’t believe me. I could tell. You looked so miserable. Because of her. And then Sam got stuck in that fire.” He rubs his eyes. “I never thought I’d say it, but I was sure I cursed him.”

  I don’t confess that I was worried about the same thing. “You didn’t have anything to do with that fire. It was just bad luck.”

  Coincidence.

  Fate.

  Like breaking your leg in a postgame celebration. Or finding the trading card you have wanted all your life.

  “Thanks,” he says. He thinks this is it. He apologized. He confessed. He finally told the truth.

  Now it’s my turn.

  I tell Mac, “If you really want my forgiveness, you have to help me make this up to Parker.” I have a simple plan.

  When I tell him what we need to do, he doesn’t look enthused.

  I have to sell it. “She needs to feel that she is really part of our team. I can do that off the field. On the field, we have to give her a shot.”

  He is not buying. “Can’t I do something else?”

  It’s a big moment. Normally, I would say yes.

  But I think this is what the rabbi was talking about. I think this is where I need to do something new. “No,” I say. “It’s the only way. It’s the only thing that will make things right with her. And me.” When he still won’t jump on board, I do not cave, even though I know it will change everything. “If you won’t do it, do me a favor and don’t show up for the game.” I stand my ground. “Move up to premiere.”

  The next day at school, I tell everyone on the team. It is easy to keep this secret from Parker, because she will not stand within fifty feet of me. “Do you think we can pull it off? Will Mac really agree to do this?” Eddie asks.

  The truth is, I have no idea. But I don’t want to admit it. “He knows we all have to do things differently. We have to take our team in a new direction.”

  For the first time in a long time, Soup smiles. He says in an even, steady, totally low voice, “You sound almost presidential.”

  Saturday morning, that’s what I think about. Not the presidents—but changing directions. Today is the day I will step out of Mac’s shadow and be a leader.

  When it is time to go to the field, I call him, but the machine picks up. It’s not a good sign, but I refuse to think the worst. “See you at the game,” I say after the beep.

  When I hang up, I see my dad smiling at me. “Are you ready?” he asks. The paper has yet to arrive.

  “I am ready.” That is me, Ari Fish, presidential scholar and professional worrier taking the lead. It feels 180 degrees different. Scary. But good. Beyond good. A perfect personal U-turn.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want

  to test a man’s character, give him power.”

  —Abraham Lincoln

  SOMERSET VALLEY VS. SETON SOUTH

  SOMERSET VALLEY COMMUNITY FIELD

  10 A.M.

  Ronald Reagan better have been right when he said, “There is no limit to what you can accomplish if you don’t care who gets the credit.”

  When Parker gets to the field, the plan begins.

  First, I publicly apologize to her. I say, “Parker Llewellyn, I am sorry. I was wrong to blame you. I knew you would never take my card. You are a great player.” She rolls her eyes and looks the other way. It is hard to keep a straight face, but I do it. Everything is working just the way I planned. I do not smile when I ask her if she wants to count presidents with us.

  She says, “I think I’d rather just sit here and stretch.”

  I say, “I was an idiot.”

  She says, “You are immature.”

  When I promise I’ll grow up, she puts her hands on her hips and tosses her hair back and forth. “Do me a favor, and let’s just play the game.”

  Girls. They take a long time to get over stuff.

  I was counting on that.

  Coach keeps his pregame pep talk short and right on point. Mac still is not here. “Okay, team, let’s stick it to them. Destroy them. Pound them. Send them home crying. I want this one more than a spring day in the middle of February.” The truth is none of this is necessary. We are all feeling extremely motivated. Seton South displays their big silver championship plate on the opposite side of our field. No one has to remind us what happened in Mooretown.

  He assigns positions. Defense first. Then offense. But he does not call Mac’s name. “Where is he?” Eddie asks. “Ari, I thought you said—”

  “Didn’t he tell you?” Coach asks. “Mac has finally decided to take the plunge and move up to the premiere league. If you have a chance, you should all go out this afternoon and cheer him on.”

  It is a hit. A slap in the face. Not just to me—but to all of us.

  While Coach talks to the offense, everyone, even Parker, looks down at the grass. They look dejected, like there is no point in playing.

  But they are wrong.

  I step forward into the middle of the huddle and look at my teammates’ nervous, worried faces. “Are you afraid we can’t win without him?” I look at each player on my team. “Because we can.” This is my Emancipation Proclamation, my Gettysburg Address, my Great Society, my Inaugural Address. “So Mac isn’t here. So what! We are more than one great player. We are a team.” I point to the field and point out every player’s strengths. “No
w let’s show everybody what we can do.”

  When Coach pumps his fist, I say, “Let’s give them something special to watch.”

  The whistle blows, and Soup takes control of the ball. Right away, he motions to Parker and they run toward the goal. They pass the ball back and forth, across and forward. Soup looks taller. David keeps up. Parker fools her defender with a very beastly crossover. When she takes her first shot, the crowd goes crazy. Her second shot hits the bar and ricochets right to the stopper. Coach yells, “That’s the way to break their D! Next time, you’ll get them!”

  All that practicing has paid off.

  My plan is going to work.

  We definitely don’t need Mac.

  Eddie can’t believe how much room Parker has. “You were right,” he says. She takes the ball down the lane uncontested. “She is good.”

  And fast.

  She definitely knows how to handle a defense.

  Off the field, Parker Llewellyn may never like any of us. She may never trust us, or want to drink milkshakes with us, or give us another chance. She may never forgive me, no matter what I say or do. But even she will have to admit that on the field, right now, we are united. Seton South looks completely discombobulated.

  You can call it luck, and that’s definitely part of it. But it’s not the whole truth. Not by a long shot.

  The truth about soccer is that one great player is nice to have, but a team that works together will never go down easy.

  I finally understand.

  The next time he has the ball, Soup doesn’t hesitate. He passes the ball directly to Parker.

  And this time, she doesn’t miss.

  After the final whistle, three reporters run over to talk to the first girl in boys’ select soccer history to score five goals against a championship team. She grabs me by the arm. “Wait for me? Okay?”