Luckily, things look up because Coach pulls Lucy and me aside and delivers the moment I’ve been waiting for: the beloved armbands.
“You are our elected captains. Serve your team well.”
Lucy claps her hands and proceeds to do a cartwheel.
I try to feel humble, but as I slide the armband up my arm, I’m inwardly fist-pumping like a World Cup champ.
“We’re going to play a four-four-two today,” Coach says.
Four defenders, four midfielders, and two strikers.
Coach starts to pace around our circle. The rain continues to fall. “Merrimack is strong and fast and has excellent ball-handling skills. We have to play a defensive game.”
“Yes, Coach!”
I hold my breath when she gets out her starting lineup.
“Golden. Center striker with Benny.”
“Yes!” High five.
“Listen, boys. Today is not about you scoring goals and being the hero. Play wide and defensively. Got it?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Circle up!” I say when the rest of the lineup is announced. “Archie?”
“What time is it?” Archie yells.
“GAME TIME!”
“I said—what time is it?”
“GAME TIME!”
Archie throws the soccer ball into the air, and we yell, “AhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” getting louder and louder until the ball hits the ground at the same time we do.
“Go get ’em!” Coach yells.
As we run across the field, Lucy yells, “Psych ’em out! Do some burpees in the rain! Nothing can hurt us today!”
We do it, sliding across wet grass, doing a couple of up-downs until we’re completely soaked. Merrimack looks at us like we’re nuts. I feel my leg muscles, my calves working. I feel a rising within me, that feeling of happiness that I’m about to run. I reach up to squeeze my captain armband. Captain.
We start strong, all of our preseason energy coming to a head at once. When Lucy passes me the ball from the middle, I can hear Coach in my head. Slow makes smooth and smooth is fast. Nothing can stop us now.
I keep looking for Dad on the sideline in between plays. Still not here. I dribble past a defender, who is so big he could step on me and no one would notice, but I do a quick fake to the right before going left and I’m past him.
“Golden, pass!” Slick yells. Yeah, right. Slick has my shirt. He’s not getting my shot.
Benny gives me a warning look, but he’s not captain.
I let it rip and the goalie reaches, lunging left, but not in time. The ball sails past the tips of his fingers, right into the back of the net. GOAL!
Merrimack’s defensive player #4 is so mad, he chirps in Benny’s ear, “Hey, Chopsticks.”
“Don’t be lame!” I yell at #4.
Benny doesn’t outwardly flinch, not like he used to. Unfortunately, racist dumb stuff like that happens sometimes. Instead he just does what he can do: this sweet fake-out past the defense, and getting a corner kick for us.
Chase gets a head on it, but Merrimack retaliates too quickly. They pass really well, and we have to play just like Coach said: defensively.
We hardly make it out of our half of the field again, but we defend well enough to keep our lead into halftime. When I jog to the sidelines, I notice Dad still isn’t here. I want to ask Mom where he is, but she immediately starts talking strategy.
When the game resumes, our defense stays strong until the second half, when Merrimack scores on a penalty kick because Ziggy touched the ball in the box. We’re tied.
“Ziggy!” I yell in frustration. “Come on!”
“Hey!” Lucy says. “Stop!” She talks to Ziggy quietly while Coach subs me out and tells me to chill.
“Let’s recover!” C.J. calls from the box. “One more, team!”
We don’t score again for the rest of the game, but we also don’t let in any more goals.
We end with a 1–1 tie, something we’ve never been able to pull off against Merrimack before. We’ll take it.
My team walks off the field soaking wet, muddy, and grass-stained. Smiling ear to ear.
I already can’t wait for the rematch. In the championship. Winning—and that time will definitely be in front of Dad. I’m going to make sure we have NO penalties. We just have to work harder.
* * *
When we pull into our driveway, wet and chilled, the Dark Lord is by the mailbox, actually outside in daylight. The rain has stopped, and a huge rainbow hangs suspended in the sky.
“What’s he doing?” I ask.
“Putting new numbers on the mailbox,” Lucy says, biting her lip. “So it looks better for the Realtor.”
I stop breathing.
George walks up the driveway, kisses Lucy’s mom (ew), and asks how the game went.
I ignore him completely but let Lucy dance me around the driveway yelling, “We are awesome!”
“Sorry I couldn’t be there,” he says. “Definitely next time.”
I run into the house to look for Dad.
He’s lying on the couch looking wiped out.
“Dad’s fine,” Jaimes says, wrapping a blanket around him. “Sorry we didn’t get to your game. It was too wet.”
“Who coached your practice?”
“Kelly, Dad’s assistant.”
“Was he outside in the rain?” Mom asks.
“He waited in the car,” Jaimes says, shaking her head.
“I’m fine. Tell me about the game,” Dad says, shivering. I pull the blanket up around his neck and start going through the game highlights. His eyes light up, like he could get off the couch and start running down the field with me again.
“We would have won, too, if Ziggy hadn’t had a hand ball in the box! I was so mad.”
“Remember you win and lose as a whole team, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Everyone messes up.”
“I guess. We’ll get them next time. But the real downer is I didn’t get Messi’s number.”
“Make your own number mean something.”
“Did you know ‘fan’ is short for ‘fanatic’?” Jaimes says.
“Who wants pizza?” Mom interrupts. “To celebrate?”
“Go without me,” Dad says, closing his eyes. “Hard to eat today.”
She comes to sit down next to him, puts her hand on his cheek.
“He’s okay,” I say quickly. “Right, Dad?”
“Just tired.”
Mom scratches his mosquito bites. He sighs happily.
“We’re bringing the pizza here,” Mom says. “Lucy and her mom are bringing a salad. And George.”
My eyes widen. “The Dark Lord is coming here?”
Mom gives me a withering look. “It’s George.”
* * *
“Slow down, Golden. There are others who’d like to eat.”
I stop mid–pizza shove and glance at Dad, who is looking at me pointedly from one of the barstools he managed to seat himself on. I wonder if “Good Leaders Eat Last” is just a saying or if I’m literally supposed to eat last forever. Mom puts a piece of pizza in front of Dad. He looks down but doesn’t touch it.
Roma shields Dad’s plate before Lucy’s mom can put salad on it.
“The croutons can kill him,” she says solemnly.
“Roma,” I scoff, “don’t be dramatic.”
I reach over and put Dad’s left hand on the table so he can eat, but he still doesn’t touch the pizza.
Lucy’s mom and George laugh and talk with everyone… until they get to the serious part.
“As you may have heard,” Lucy’s mom says, “we’ve talked about moving.”
The room goes quiet.
Lucy looks up at me, and her entire face crumples.
“We’ve gotten a really great job offer,” the Dark Lord says. “In Maine.”
“You have or they have?” I ask.
“Golden,” Mom says.
“Fair question,” he says, putting his hands
up. “I’m the newcomer here. You’ve been neighbors a long, long time.”
“Our whole entire lives,” I add.
“Yes, I, uh, realize this must be very hard for you.”
Would it be very hard for him if I threw an entire pizza at his face?
“It’s hard for all of us,” Lucy’s mom says, taking my parents’ hands in hers. “We’ve been together for so long. You’ve helped raise my little girl.”
“It’s for sure?” Jaimes asks.
“We’ve got a showing for the house tomorrow,” Lucy’s mom says.
I feel my whole body get hot. Lucy gulps and her eyes get teary—which makes Dad’s eyes get teary. I have to do something.
“Well, we’ve actually decided that Lucy will stay here,” I announce.
The adults laugh like I’ve made a joke.
Mom cuts Dad’s pizza into teeny tiny little pieces, and Dad finally opens his mouth. I can feel my face burn. I know he can’t raise his left arm to his mouth very well, but he could at least try. He sticks out his tongue. Mom puts a tiny pizza piece in his mouth and carries on the conversation like nothing is amiss.
“What’s the timeline?” Mom asks Lucy’s mom.
What’s the timeline?
Three to five years.
And then what?
And then he’ll die.
I don’t hear what Lucy’s mom says. I don’t want to. I watch Dad chew and chew and chew. He swallows, smiles, and opens his mouth for more, reminding me of a baby bird.
“Can I feed Daddy?” Roma asks.
“Small,” he says.
She puts a crumb on his tongue.
“Maybe-uh-little-bigger.”
She puts a bigger piece in. He closes his eyes, chews.
Dad’s arm swings out softly, brushing across my arm, resting there. At first I think it’s to comfort me. Then I realize he’s in trouble.
“Daddy?” Roma asks.
Dad is turning a strange reddish purple. He makes a gagging sound.
“Patrick!” Mom screams. She jumps up, pulls Dad forward, and gives abdominal thrusts. I freeze, not knowing what to do. Roma and Whitney start to cry.
“What do I do!” Jaimes yells.
“Hold your dad, Golden,” Mom instructs.
I grab Dad and hold his shoulders while Mom tries to get him to cough up the pizza. She pulls up his shirt, her hands under his ribs. His midsection, always so hard and rock-solid, is loose, flabby white, and weak. He’s like a rag doll being pushed up and down, his limp arms hanging down by his sides. He makes another gagging noise, a curdling sound like he’s trying to cough and can’t. His eyes are turning glassy and his face is an unnatural blue.
“Hang on, Dad,” I say, pounding on his back. “Cough!”
Dad is beginning to lose consciousness. It’s then that the Dark Lord springs into action. He whacks Dad on the back directly between the shoulder blades and gives another abdominal thrust. Dad coughs, making a gagging sound.
“Got it,” George says, hooking his finger in Dad’s mouth and fishing out a saliva-drenched pizza bite. “Everything is fine. He’s okay.”
They lay Dad down on the floor now, legs splayed out in an undignified way, but he’s breathing. Taking big gulps of air. Breathing.
“Here he comes. He’s coming around. Everything’s going to be just fine. Patrick, can you hear me?”
There’s a gasping sound.
“Patrick?”
We hear his voice before we see his face.
“I’m here. Good… pizza.” Our eyes meet. “Gold… en?”
“The pizza’s not that good,” I say, forcing a smile for the Squirrels’ benefit.
“Dragon-Ball P?” Lucy says, squatting down by Dad. She reaches down and holds his hand like she used to do when she was little and she didn’t have her own dad’s hand to hold.
“Lucy Goose,” he says. She wipes her eyes with her jersey.
Dad doesn’t eat anything else. When he’s ready, we get him back on the barstool and then slowly we resume the conversation like what just happened is a small blip in any normal person’s day.
“What were you saying?” Mom asks.
“Well… it will likely take months to sell,” Lucy’s mom says, clearly shaken. She keeps glancing at Dad, with that look I hate, even though I keep looking at him too. “Ideally we’ll finish the school year. We made a deal with Lucy that we’d definitely finish the soccer season. Can’t miss that!”
I look at Lucy, who hasn’t mentioned this detail. Is she giving in? How can they still be thinking of leaving with what just happened? With everything going on with Dad? He’s practically Lucy’s dad too. Not George.
“We’ll definitely stay until it sells,” the Dark Lord says.
Definitely stay until it sells.
And there it is. My in.
I accidentally smile. The Dark Lord watches me with curiosity.
I resume a neutral face like I didn’t just have the best idea ever.
I know exactly how to keep Lucy here.
They said it themselves.
They’ll stay until the house sells.
So the house can’t sell.
And Lucy will stay.
The Day She Actually Crashes the Big White Whale
The best decisions aren’t made with your mind, but with your instinct.
—LIONEL MESSI
One week later and it’s another game day!
Today we travel an entire hour away to play Franconia Middle School near the White Mountains. I can’t wait for the bus ride and Secret Circle. Coach is dreading both.
I’m wearing my jersey to school like I told the rest of the team to do.
Jaimes and I walk to the big white boat, loaded down with our backpacks and soccer gear, but instead of getting in, I drop my stuff and run to the mailbox.
Curtis Meowfield is on a mission too, and meows insistently at me.
At first I think he’s trying to bite me until I realize he’s meowing in approval.
We’ve never done anything together, but here we are looking left and then right. Curtis plays the lookout as I very carefully peel the brand-new numbers off Lucy’s mailbox.
The impossible, Dad said, is always possible.
Curtis walks so close to me his tail flicks my leg. Like a high five. Maybe we aren’t friends exactly, but we both need Lucy.
And now we have a common enemy.
“What the heck are you doing?” Jaimes asks when I get into the van.
I smile, making room for Whitney and Roma. Roma’s wavy hair looks like a giant beehive had a fight in it.
When I wrestle with her hair, she cries. When I suggest we buzz it like mine, she cries. When I say she can go to school with it like it is, she cries.
“I’m never going to have kids,” I say, finally getting her hair into the rubber band.
Roma looks in the mirror and stops crying. “I love it, brother!”
I flex. Maybe I’ll have ten kids.
“I can do my own hair,” Whitney says.
Eventually Dad comes out of the house.
“Does he look like he’s shuffling more?” Jaimes asks, starting the van.
“Nope.”
“You didn’t even look. You live in denial.”
“Dad’s just tired today,” I say. “Don’t let him work too hard at practice.”
“Golden… Dad’s energy has nothing to do with me or the team.”
Dad’s followed by Mom, who is carrying jackets, her purse, and a frazzled expression.
“Ew,” Jaimes says, looking in the mirror. “Is that a pimple?”
“Can you please not say ‘pimple’?”
“Don’t worry,” she says. “If you ever hit puberty you’ll get pimples too.”
“If Jaimes was a pimple I would pop her,” I say for Roma and Whitney’s benefit. They collapse into their seats, laughing.
It takes an excruciatingly long time for Dad to shuffle to the van.
“Yur moh need
s mo help,” he says. We stare at him, his speech so thick and garbled this morning I can barely make out the meaning.
Jaimes and I take Dad’s arms. We pull while Mom pushes from behind. Dad waddles up the small van ramp. Roma grabs on to his left arm, while Whitney pulls the right.
“Than yooo,” Dad says.
I want to tell him to enunciate but keep my mouth shut.
“Golden,” Mom says as Jaimes begins backing out. “Don’t freak out when I tell you something, okay?”
“Since when do I freak out?”
“I just got a phone call. The wheelchair is arriving this afternoon.”
I shrug like I’m not totally freaking out on the inside.
“It’s really going to help Dad—especially at school. You see how long it takes for him to walk from one place to another.”
Dad glances over at me and down at his seat belt buckle, tapping it with his left hand. I pull down his seat belt and buckle him in.
“Thankssss, bud.” He swallows thickly.
“What’s happening?” Whitney asks.
“Tongue,” Dad says. “The muthles…”
“The tongue is a muscle,” I say to her, sticking my tongue out to make her laugh. “Dad needs some time to warm it up. We can do some tongue exercises!”
I can see Jaimes shaking her head. “Mom, you’ve got to talk to him.”
“Uh, I’m right here.”
“Golden, did you know that lifting weights just tires Dad out and doesn’t actually help him? The only reason he does it is because you—”
“That’s not true!” I yell. “It has helped. I know because I’ve seen it, right, Dad?”
“J… aimes!” Dad says sharply. “Don’t. P-please.”
“Not here, Jaimes,” Mom says. “Just drive.”
Not here? I’m so rattled I’m shaking, but Jaimes distracts me by slamming on the brakes. We all fall forward, including Dad, whose head snaps forward and back, hitting the headrest, hard. He winces in pain. He glances at me.… You’re totally right about her killing us with this driving thing.
“That was fun!” Roma yells.
I reach over and steady Dad’s head, scratching his mosquito bites while I’m at it.
Mom closes her eyes and loudly inhales. I get the feeling it’s preventing her from killing her offspring.
Ten Thousand Tries Page 12