Ten Thousand Tries

by Amy Makechnie

I can’t ever be unhappy again.

  I flex my bicep, where the captain’s band will live.

  Brady comes into the bathroom, and I put my arm down and hastily clear my throat.

  “Hey,” I say with as deep a voice as possible.

  “What’s up.” He nods.

  I escape the bathroom and walk down the middle school wing, so busy living my best life I almost don’t see Lucy standing next to my locker until I’m right in front of her.

  “Hey, Captain,” she says.

  “Hey, Captain,” I say back.

  We fist-bump, and her eyes light up with excitement.

  “Golden, we’re going to be the best team in the world. And the best captains.”

  “For real.”

  My heart beats a little faster. If Lucy is excited to be captain, she can’t be moving, right?

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, let’s get to class!” I say, taking off in that direction.

  “Dude, congratulations,” Mario says, fist-bumping us when we walk in.

  Benny and I do our handshake before sitting down. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed he wasn’t elected captain or not, but he acts happy for me anyway, and that’s what makes him such a good friend.

  I’ve never been the most popular kid in school before, though I have enjoyed some notoriety. Like, my mom and dad have made our town a soccer hub. They’re the former soccer stars who settled down to live out their dreams in the super-small town of Mudbury (personally I don’t get it—Mudbury versus pro soccer? It’s not even close). They’re credited with producing some of the best high school and college soccer players in the state. It’s cool to be the kid of parents like that, but even that became overshadowed with “the diagnosis.” Now, for the first time in over a year, I’m “captain” instead of “that poor kid whose dad has ALS.”

  Being captain? It’s what life is supposed to be like.

  “And now, class,” Mr. Mann says, “let’s talk about ovaries and sperm.”

  Unfortunately, middle school has a way of bringing you back down to earth.

  * * *

  “Hey, Captain!” C.J. tackles me on the soccer field that afternoon. After the enlightening egg-and-sperm lesson, I bolted out of the classroom, beyond ready for my first practice as captain.

  And now I’m eating dirt, sandwiched by C.J., Chase, and Brady.

  “Get off,” I say, struggling beneath them. I definitely need to add more push-ups to my workout. More bench-pressing, too.

  “Well, isn’t this sweet,” a voice above us says.

  One inch from my nose is a familiar pair of worn-out cleats.

  “Hey, Coach!” C.J. says loudly in my ear as the boys scramble off me.

  “You aren’t hurting my baby boy, are you?”

  “No way, Coach!” Chase holds out his hand and hauls me up, patting me too hard on the back. “Love this guy. Captain.”

  “I’m too jacked to get hurt,” I say, flashing my abs. “Punch me right here.”

  “Or you could warm up,” Coach says.

  “Yes, Coach!”

  C.J. puts on his gloves and heads to the net while the rest of the team gets ready to take shots.

  I scowl.

  “Baby boy?” I say to Coach. “A captain doesn’t need his mom to rescue him.”

  “Well then, he doesn’t need his mom to lead warm-up, either, right?”

  “What? Oh! What should I do?”

  “Figure it out—Captain.”

  Lucy and I stand in the middle of the field, while our team is in complete chaos. Few of us are actually ready to go. Some of our teammates are still on the bleachers, slowly lacing up their cleats. Others are taking wild shots on goal, while most mill around doing nothing. Mario kicks Brady’s soccer ball over the fence. Coach looks at Lucy and me like Get this under control.

  “Okay, team,” I say.

  “Golden, you gotta command their attention,” Lucy says, standing on her tiptoes and holding out her arms. “Ladies and gentlemen, lend me your ears!” The team quiets and stares at us.

  “See?” Lucy says. “Your turn.”

  My mind is blank. Warm up. Warm up. How do we warm up?

  Coach taps her foot on the ball.

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “Dribble, right foot.”

  “What did he say?” half the team asks as the other half starts dribbling.

  “DRIBBLE!” I yell to the rest of them.

  Dribbling is followed by dynamic stretches, followed by lunges. It’s something I’ve seen Coach instruct a hundred times—because Coach loves all forms of torture.

  “Nice, Ava!” Lucy says.

  I try to remember coaching tips I’ve heard Mom and Dad say.

  “Uh, get your knee down,” I yell at Mari.

  “I am, Goldie!”

  “Nice effort, Moses!” Lucy calls out.

  “Don’t put your knee on the ground,” I tell Slick. He rolls his eyes at me.

  “Fine. Everyone hold the lunge until Slick does it right,” I say.

  The team holds the position and yells at Slick. He sends me hate daggers with his eyes.

  “I’m dying,” C.J. says. “Seriously, hurry up, Golden.” My quads are burning too, but I’m the captain. I can’t show pain. Also, why does he say I’m dying? I want to say, Dude, no you’re not.

  That’s usually the end of our warm-up, but I decide to add leg lifts and crunches.

  “I think that’s good, Golden,” Lucy says, but we can’t just be good. I want us to be great.

  “Plank challenge!” I yell. After a solid three minutes, the entire team is practically crying, and Coach taps her watch.

  “Get a drink,” I pant.

  “That was the worst,” Brady mutters.

  Once we’ve rehydrated, Coach takes over. How does she get everyone to listen without raising her voice? Each drill reveals our talent and skill, but also our weak spots. We have a lot of work to do.

  At the end, Lucy and I divide the team up for the scrimmage, which is hard because everyone fights about who they want on their side. We argue until we hardly have any time to scrimmage at all. After just a few minutes, Coach wearily calls out, “Golden Goal time!”

  With one minute left, we’re tied. I see my opportunity to be the man.

  The Golden Goal is the last goal, the best one, the shot everyone wants. I’ve always secretly thought that was why I was named Golden—because my parents love soccer that much.

  “Ball!” I yell. Hannah passes to me. Instead of passing it to Benny up the field, though, I keep dribbling.

  Mario comes at me.

  “Pass!” Benny yells. I hear other voices shouting the same thing.

  But I don’t. I keep the ball ready to score. I’ve GOT this. To make it look really good, I flick the ball up for a header. The ball goes up, but instead of heading the ball in, I collide with Mario right in front of the net. My hair is so long in front that I can’t see for a second, which allows Mario to intercept the ball and pass to Lucy.

  Lucy dribbles and passes the ball to Sunny, who scores on C.J.

  Ugh.

  “Golden! Pass!” Coach calls, frustrated. And she’s not the only one.

  “Geez, Captain,” someone says. This time it’s sarcastic. “Show-off.”

  “Dude, I was open,” Benny says, looking hurt.

  “I thought I had it,” I say. But everyone just shakes their head. Except Lucy and Sunny, who are high-fiving their team’s victory.

  Thankfully Coach has us run sprints to finish the day, so I don’t have to keep talking about this. I run my heart out, making sure I finish first or second, to make up for my mistake.

  “Don’t forget your fat little friend and Goat Boy out there, suck-up,” Slick says, crossing the finish line and falling to the ground.

  I look at Moses and Ziggy, who, as usual, will finish almost last.

  Except for Archie. Once they cross, he’s totally alone on the field, huffing and puffing. Not giving up. />
  Wearily, I step off the line.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Slick says. “If you keep running back that means we all have to run too.”

  I hesitate and take a step back until Lucy looks at me.

  “We go back for those left behind—don’t we, Golden?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Of course.”

  “Don’t we, Golden?” Slick mimics.

  “Be quiet, Slick.”

  “Be quiet, Slick.”

  We run until Archie crosses the line. “Thanks, you guys,” he says. “I’m sorry I’m so slow.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Archie,” Lucy says, but she’s looking directly at me.

  When we get to the huddle Coach raises her hand in the air, holding a pack of gum.

  “MVP of the day. Awarded at the end of each practice for the best effort and hustle.”

  “Archie!” C.J. says, patting him on the shoulders.

  “Archie!” the team yells, applauding.

  Archie’s whole face beams like he’s won the World Cup.

  “Listen up,” Coach says. “In a week we have our first game against Merrimack Middle School.”

  Merrimack!

  I realize that’s only four practices before we take on our biggest rival and toughest team in the league. In game one.

  “Come back tomorrow ready to work hard again,” Coach says. “Sleep, vegetables, and positive self-talk. And… I hereby decree the no-sugar challenge! I want you all to steer clear of sugar until the end of the season, but especially before practices and games.”

  There is an audible gasp.

  “Does Powerade count?” Ziggy asks.

  “Archie?” Coach says over the objections. “Final cheer?”

  “One, two, three, Magpies!”

  After the cheer everyone starts to disperse, including me.

  “Captains?” Coach says. Lucy and I stop and turn. Coach nods toward the field, at all the scattered cones and loose balls.

  Oh. Right. You’d think the captains would be the ones who wouldn’t have to clean up.

  “Guys, come help!” Lucy yells.

  But it’s too late—everyone has wandered away. They’re all getting in cars to go home.

  Lucy and I look at each other, then spend the next fifteen minutes cleaning up and hauling the ball bags into the shed.

  Besides the armband, which I don’t even wear in practices, why did I even want this job? What’s so great about it? Picking up cones and balls and getting yelled at for not doing it right? No one’s even listening to me. I realize I have no idea what a captain is really supposed to act like.

  I look down at my Battle Packs, wondering what the great Messi wants me to do now.

  Lucy and I Make a Plan

  Where there’s a will, there’s a freakin’ way. Am I right?

  —GOLDEN MARONI

  “Can I catch a ride?” Lucy asks after practice. She looks uncertain. She used to ride home with us every day, but this year she’s been going home with Benny. She probably doesn’t want to ride in a big white whale.

  “Lucy!” Roma screams when she gets in the van. Roma and Whitney hang out on the sidelines during our practices, since Dad has either physical therapy or his own practice to run.

  “Can you ride home with us every day?” Whitney asks, snuggling up to Lucy in the backseat.

  Lucy shrugs. “I’m not supposed… to bother you guys.”

  “Lucy!” Coach-who’s-slowly-de-Hulking-back-into-Mom says. “You’re never bothering us. In fact, I’ll be insulted if you don’t ride with us every day from now on—and that includes going to school.”

  “I’ll be insulted too,” I say. Lucy grins.

  “What about when we have a wheelchair?” Whitney says.

  “Pfff,” I say. “If we have a wheelchair.”

  “We’ll make room!” Mom says, like I didn’t say anything. “It’s going to arrive soon—just so we can get used to the idea.”

  I look out the window.

  “You’re sweaty,” Whitney says to Lucy.

  “Duh,” I say. “Athletes sweat.”

  “I probably smell, too,” Lucy says.

  “We still like you,” Whitney says.

  “Did you do better than Golden?” Roma asks, looking up at Lucy adoringly.

  “Of course,” Lucy says. “He can’t get past my mad skills.”

  “What!” I say.

  “You should ride home with us more often,” Mom says. “Keep Golden humble.”

  “Can you eat dinner with us?” Roma asks.

  “Yes!” Mom says. “Golden’s my sous-chef tonight.”

  “Again?” I groan.

  “Read the chore chart,” Whitney says.

  “I’ll help,” Lucy says. “My mom isn’t home until late anyway.”

  “What about the Dark Lord?” I ask.

  “Golden,” Mom says. “I want you to stop calling him that. His name is George.”

  Georgie Porgie I don’t really care what his name is.

  Mom smiles at Lucy. “You have to stay for dinner. It’s been too long without Lucy Littlehouse in the Maroni house.”

  “It’s my favorite house in the whole world,” Lucy says. “Like, for real.”

  I try to imagine dinner. She’s seen Dad a little, but not much since June. He can barely raise his fork now. What if I have to help feed him? We pull into the driveway, and now my palms start to sweat.

  Lucy elbows me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Maybe you don’t want to eat with us,” I say before Lucy comes into the house. “I mean…”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she says, walking right past me into the kitchen.

  Mom says she’s just supervising, so Lucy and I decide on tuna fish casserole for dinner, since the only other thing I’m good at is cereal. But Mom hasn’t had time to go to the store for a while.

  “Can we borrow a can of tuna fish from your house?” I ask.

  “Race ya!” Lucy calls, taking off, and I jump up and race her to her front porch, crashing into the front door. A new wreath falls off and onto the ground.

  “Oh, shoot!” Lucy quickly hangs it back up, patting it nervously like it’s fragile. “Stay here. I’ll grab the tuna fish.”

  “Now I’m not allowed inside?” I joke as she opens the door.

  But by the look on Lucy’s face, I wonder if it’s not a joke. “Wait, for real?”

  “No, it’s just…” Lucy sighs. “Come in, but take off your shoes and don’t touch anything or they’ll freak.”

  I stop abruptly as soon as we enter. “Whoa. It’s like super clean—like museum clean.”

  “Yeah… we’ve been purging.”

  “You purged the cool elephant lamp?”

  “Mom did.”

  Lucy tiptoes across the kitchen floor in her bright pink soccer socks and opens the cupboard.

  I look around, my eyes settling on a business card and brochure on the counter. I pick them up and slowly read a name out loud: “Myra Martin, Realtor.” The lady with the silver hair and car. Of course. I knew it, but my stomach still sinks.

  Lucy slaps them both back down on the counter, covering a smiling Myra’s face.

  We stare at each other in a terrible silence.

  Lucy twists her mouth around as if thinking carefully. “I got your note in Kermit,” she finally says. “ ‘Which is better: Mudbury or Maine? Circle your answer.’ Seriously, Golden?”

  “I was just wondering.”

  “You could have just asked me.”

  “You can just tell me.”

  “I like them both in different ways.”

  “Okay… are you moving to Maine?”

  It comes out as an accusation.

  A look crosses her face, like she’s going to either laugh or cry. What if she cries? Please don’t cry. I take a tiny step back.

  “I saw you looking at houses,” I say. “Through the window. I’ve even met Myra—and I saw you pull up the For Sale sign.”

  “
We can’t find that sign anymore,” Lucy says, getting out the tuna fish. “Do you think that’s a sign? That we’re not really going to move?”

  “I threw it really far into the woods,” I say.

  A smile spreads across her whole face and she begins laughing.

  “Lucy, it’s not for real, right?”

  She waves her hand, grabbing the tuna with the other, but there’s worry in her eyes. “My mom is just… Love makes you crazy. And Maine was amazing. That’s over now. At least for me.”

  I follow her out the door.

  “Lucy, there was an actual sign in your yard.…”

  “Yeah.” She sighs breezily. “But now there’s not.”

  “Lucy, we’re Mudbury lifers—at least until we’re recruited for the US National Team. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter what they decide. I’m not going,” she says. “They can go without me. I can… share a room with Jaimes.”

  “Jaimes shares a room with me,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. I blush all the way up to my hairline. “Don’t tell anyone!”

  “Like I didn’t already know—my room is right across from yours.”

  “Oh.”

  “And who would I tell?”

  “Slick. The boys.”

  Lucy rolls her eyes. “As if I’d do that. Come on,” she says, handing me the tuna, followed by three cartwheels across the grass.

  I feel a surge of hope.

  Could she really not go? Could she stay and be my real twin sister even if her mom and George moved? I start to feel lit up inside at the possibilities. She could sleep in a really cool tent. Or we could build a tree house and live out there, or we could actually finish the basement and Jaimes and Lucy could share. Lucy could FaceTime her mom and maybe… But in the back of my mind I have a nagging worry that most parents take their children with them when they move.

  Details.

  I focus on the tree house option instead. We’ll hang Christmas lights for sure.

  A Haircut That Tries to Ruin My Life

  ANYONE can be negative. Being positive is the real discipline.

  —COACH

  “You’re weirdly quiet,” Jaimes says while we do the dishes after Lucy goes back home.

  I shrug.

  Dinner was fine. Everything was fine. Jaimes talked about the highlight tape she needs to make for soccer recruitment, and Whitney said she wanted to try field hockey next year (the betrayal). Dad ate and chewed more slowly, but Lucy didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she was pretending not to? But then Mom got out her laptop and started reading about you-know-what again.