Ten Thousand Tries

by Amy Makechnie

  My stomach growls as we turn into the road.

  I swivel and stare at Lucy’s mailbox, to where the address numbers should be, the ones now rolled up in my pocket. Jaimes follows my gaze and is so distracted that something awesome happens—she hits the mailbox with the van. There’s a crunch and the entire mailbox smashes into the street.

  My family goes nuts.

  “OPERATION MAILBOX DOWN!” I say.

  I can’t say what Jaimes says back to me.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, with Mom sending a flurry of apologies to Lucy’s mom via text, we’re driving again. A mere thirty-five minutes late for school.

  “Stop sign!” Mom says as Jaimes slams her foot down on the brakes, coming to a full stop in the middle of the intersection next to our school. Why Mom continues to let Jaimes drive is a complete mystery.

  “I think we should definitely start praying more,” Whitney says. “Like other families do.”

  “I think we should get out of the intersection,” I say.

  Jaimes looks at me with utter contempt.

  “Dear God,” Whitney announces. I glance at the clock. Thirty-six minutes late. “We’re thankful we’re still alive and that Jaimes didn’t murder any real squirrels trying to cross the road, as is their right, and please help us today to… be brave and to do our best and love our fellow beings. Amen.”

  “That’s very nice, Whitney,” Mom says.

  “Did Lucy teach you that?” I ask.

  “I learned how on YouTube.”

  Mom turns around. “You learned to pray from YouTube?”

  I open the door and jump out. “Bye!”

  “Bye, lovessss,” Dad calls to Roma and Whitney as they follow me out. Roma stops and stares at Dad.

  “Are you ever going to be able to walk me inside again?”

  “God is the God of miracles,” Whitney says sagely.

  Dad opens his mouth and nothing comes out.

  “Come on,” I say, grabbing Roma’s hand and starting to run into school.

  “Whit, let’s go!” I say.

  “I believe—you can’t make me not!”

  “I wasn’t…”

  “The only thing you believe in is yourself and Messi and becoming a professional soccer player. Why don’t you try believing in something important?” Whitney bursts into tears and runs up the stairs.

  “Whitney!” I yell. “I was going to say I’m glad you believe.…”

  But she’s gone.

  After I drop Roma off, going through the kind-brave-darlin’-girl-I-love-you thing, I walk alone, down the middle school wing.

  I wave at Whitney when I pass her classroom. Her face is red and worried as she scrambles to open a notebook and get to the assignment everyone else has already started. When she finally sees me, I wave until she comes out—teachers let us do that now. Pity perk.

  “I’m sorry, Whit,” I say. “I didn’t mean to make you sad. We both want Dad to get better, right?”

  She nods.

  “So let’s keep doing what we’re doing and make it happen. Deal?”

  She holds out her hand and we shake.

  Whitney walks back into class with a smile, and I continue my walk down the hall with a little less angst. I guess I need to help Whitney and Roma know that everything I do is for Dad. Maybe Whitney is spending too much time on YouTube and everyone’s too busy to notice. Dad’s right. The Squirrels are annoying, but they’re part of my team off the field. They need a captain too.

  The thought comes before I can stop it: What would our family be like without Dad? What if his neurons keep dying? Will I have to become, like, Roma and Whitney’s new dad? Will I be doing Roma’s hair every day? Is that my destiny? HAIR?

  No.

  I’m supposed to be Messi!

  Overcoming the odds, being a champion, THAT is my destiny!

  I literally stand in his shoes.

  Whatever Jaimes was saying, she’s wrong. The game isn’t over until we stop fighting.

  Like my ten thousand hours chart.

  Ten thousand touches.

  Ten thousand tries.

  Ten thousand spectacular fails until you finally get it.

  I’m trying so hard to stay positive. Just because I’m failing right now doesn’t mean I’ll stop.

  Believe me, if I could, I’d never doubt again. I’d believe every single second and never ever stop.

  * * *

  I think about all of this through the rest of the school day, on the bus, until the second I finally step on the field. We play Franconia in the shadow of the mighty White Mountains. We demolish them with a 6–0 win, with five different players scoring and assisting. During the second half, Coach pulls out all us starters and tells everyone we’re not allowed to score anymore. But then on a fluke shot, Paige gets her first goal and, well, we have to go wild. I feel a little bad, a little awkward, shaking hands with the opposing team after, because no one likes to lose like that—but we’ve all lost like that.

  We do Secret Circle in the back of the bus, out of Gag Me and Coach’s earshot. We ask all the most secret questions, like who we like, who our first crushes were, and who we think is coolest. Usually I love it.

  But nobody is going to ask me the questions I’m still trying to answer—

  Were we destined to have a dad with ALS or is it all just random? Is this a test? To see how much we love him?

  This is how I’d answer:

  Ten thousand tries until we’ve mastered the impossible thing? That’s nothing. Nothing compared to how much I love Dad.

  We create our own destiny.

  ALS doesn’t stand a chance against the Maroni dream team.

  The Day I Meet Sugar Ray—and Start a War

  Some people think football is a matter of life and death. I assure you, it’s much more serious than that.

  —BILL SHANKLY, SCOTTISH FOOTBALL (SOCCER) PLAYER

  “Today we’re going to talk about the care and keeping of babies,” Mr. Mann says. “You’re about to experience how much time and energy a child requires.”

  As if I need more practice taking care of a child. Roma’s hair and laundry alone are seriously cutting into my ten thousand hours.

  Mr. Mann points to the five-pound bags of sugar on the counter. “Welcome to parenthood.”

  “Isn’t it a little ironic that babies need healthy food and our babies are made of sugar?” Sunny asks.

  “Indeed,” Mr. Mann says. “Budget constraints.”

  He holds up a bowl where everyone’s name is printed on a small slip of paper. “I will do a random drawing. You will pair up as parents for the next two weeks.”

  I cross my fingers. Lucy or Benny, Lucy or Benny.

  “Sam and C.J.,” Mr. Mann says. “Congratulations.” He picks up the five-pound bag of sugar and hands it to Sam.

  The class erupts.

  “Lucy and… Benny!” Mr. Mann says, holding up two more slips of paper. Of course.

  “Sorry,” Benny whispers to me.

  “Whatevs.” I shrug like I don’t care.

  “Golden and Slick,” Mr. Mann says.

  I collapse on my desk.

  Anyone else would have been better. Slick? Totally uncool.

  “This five pounds of sugar is now your baby,” Mr. Mann says. “Print a face—and no, it can’t be my face or anyone else’s in this class—and after, diaper your child.” He holds up the smallest preemie diapers I’ve ever seen.

  I sprint to the computer and print off my idea.

  “Messi!” Benny says, pulling it out of the printer. “What a surprise.”

  “He makes a cute, and determined, baby,” I say. “Can’t you tell? He was born for greatness.”

  Lucy has printed out a baby girl face. “My darling Estelle!”

  “A word of caution,” Mr. Mann says. “In the past I’ve noticed questionable parenting techniques. For instance, would a responsible parent leave their baby in a locker while eating lunch? Or unattended durin
g soccer practice?”

  Slick breathes down my neck like he wants to eat our sugar baby.

  “Remember, if your baby is neglected in any way—left on the counter in the bathroom, accidentally rolls into a pond, or is left alone while you play at recess—I will take the baby and you will fail this assignment,” Mr. Mann says. “I’m going to give you five minutes to discuss your custody arrangement.”

  I pull the baby Messi closer.

  “It’s not like I want you as a partner either,” Slick says, pulling Messi out of my arms and taking out a Sharpie.

  “Give him back—and don’t write on him!”

  “You can’t have him all the time,” Slick says. “Anyway, I’m going to be a great dad.”

  “Don’t you have a dog?” I ask.

  “And a gecko.”

  The lunch bell rings, and Mr. Mann holds up his hands. “Go to lunch. And think about what you are putting in your mouth and what you feed your little ones. There is a link between the amount of processed food and sugar we consume and disease. Obesity, diabetes, cancer, Alzheimer’s…” I wait keenly, to see if he says ALS. He doesn’t.

  “Come on,” Benny says. “Let’s get lunch.”

  “Thank goodness. I’m literally starving.” I pat my growling stomach. The grocery situation has not gotten any better.

  “Catch,” Slick says, throwing the sugar bag into my arms before running down the hallway. “I wrote his name on the back!”

  “Wait a minute,” I say, looking at the name. “Sugar Ray isn’t his name!”

  Slick’s annoying cackle echoes down the hallway.

  * * *

  After school and soccer practice, we pull into the driveway to see the Dark Lord installing a brand-new black mailbox.

  I try to scoot into the house before I have to talk to him, but Lucy excitedly introduces our babies when he comes walking up the driveway.

  “I’ve always wanted to be a mother,” Lucy coos, rocking Estelle.

  “I’ll babysit anytime!” Whitney says.

  “They’re adorable creatures!” says Roma.

  “I quite agree,” George says, smiling. I avoid eye contact.

  “Want to play soccer?” I ask Lucy.

  “Maybe later. Estelle has just sat through two hours of practice and needs some attention.”

  “Golden,” Mom says, “can you give George a hand with the mailbox? We did run it over, after all.”

  “I’ll help!” Roma announces, taking Sugar Ray out of my hands.

  “That would be great!” the Dark Lord says. “I’m almost finished.”

  “Uh, I believe it was Jaimes who ran over the mailbox?”

  “And you would be happy to help,” Mom says, giving me the look.

  We walk in awkward silence all the way down the driveway, which feels like a hundred-mile death march.

  I hold the wood stand steady while he anchors the mailbox on.

  “Nice and sturdy!” George says, shaking it. “Should hold up against sisters behind wheels.”

  I stifle a laugh when I remember I do not like the Dark Lord. Or George.

  He pulls out new number stickers from his pocket. I look my most innocent.

  “This looks even better than before. I should probably thank your sister.” My mood darkens. We’ve actually helped him?

  “Weird thing is, when I picked up the old mailbox, I noticed the numbers were gone. Like, vanished! Poof!”

  I stay silent.

  “Listen, bud, I get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “See, I don’t really think you hate me. I think you just need someone to be angry at. I mean, what’s going on with your dad must be so tough.”

  I am not having this conversation.

  “I’m sorry, I’m saying the wrong thing. I know you and Lucy are really going to miss each other.…”

  I stare at him. He has no right to talk about anything. He’s the reason that’s happening in the first place.

  It’s lucky for him that looks can’t kill. I turn and walk up the driveway.

  “Golden,” he calls. “Just because we move doesn’t mean you and Lucy won’t still be friends! Just like removing the numbers won’t stop people from finding the house.”

  I don’t stop. I keep walking, spying a newly flowering plant right under Lucy’s window. Lucy is right above me. She leans out and waves. Like she’s giving me permission for what I’m about to do. I look back at the Dark Lord and am seized with inspiration.

  He wants to fight with me? I’ll fight.

  With my eyes fixed on his, I reach down and grab the plant by the roots. And I yank! It comes out of the earth easily.

  “Golden!” I hear Lucy gasp.

  I raise my eyebrows at George and drop the plant on the driveway before running into the house.

  He’s going to murder me. Or tell Mom. Which is worse?

  Yo, brother, I text Benny, running into my room.

  What’s up?

  The Dark Lord. Epic battle begun. Come asap.

  The battle lines are drawn. And I need my friends.

  * * *

  Benny arrives ten minutes later—with food.

  “You didn’t ask for that, did you?” Mom asks me. “We’re fine and don’t need anything.”

  “I didn’t, I swear—Benny just knows I’m underfed.”

  “Golden,” Mom says irritably, “stop being dramatic—but, Benny, we are very thankful.”

  Sugar Ray sits next to me as I melt into dumplings and homemade chicken soup.

  “I love Grandma Ho’s food!” I say.

  “This was Mom. Grandma’s hardly cooking anymore,” Benny says, looking down. Mom pats his shoulder, but I don’t know why.

  “Well?” Benny asks when my family has gotten up from the table. “What’s up?”

  Taking one last slurp, I walk to the window and spill everything. I can’t believe the Dark Lord hasn’t been over to talk to my parents yet.

  When I come to the part about pulling out their plant by the root, Benny looks more appalled than awe-inspired.

  “For real? You know how Lucy feels about… living things.”

  “I did it for her. She’ll be thanking me later. Anyway. Look—it’s…” I peer closer out the window. The plant is already back in the ground like I never pulled it up in the first place.

  My eyes narrow. “What should we do next?”

  Benny shakes his head and walks back to the table.

  We’re interrupted by Mom using the blender.

  “Have some of these, Dragon-Ball P,” Benny says over the roar, pushing some shumai over to Dad, who has come to the table. He’s breathing heavy and uses his cane to clumsily pull out a chair to sit on. He turns sideways, lets go of the cane, hands swinging limply back and forth as he awkwardly sits, moving his feet back and forth until he’s finally situated. In the corner of the living room is the wheelchair. It came. The fact that Dad’s resisting it makes me love him even more.

  “I wish I could. Drinking my dinner… tonight.”

  Didn’t Dad eat something this morning? I can’t remember. Have I not been paying enough attention?

  “Where’s Jaimes?” Whitney asks.

  Mom looks at her watch. “Away soccer game.”

  “Why isn’t Dad…?” I look at Dad. The answer is obvious. How would he get on and off the bus, let alone coach a game?

  “Golden,” Mom says. She looks at the Squirrels and Benny, offering a small smile. “Dad’s probably not going to be coaching soccer anymore. He’s going to take a leave of absence from work as well.”

  Benny silently watches this exchange, which makes it a million times worse. I try to slow my breathing and heart rate.

  “Daddy,” Roma says, putting a jar of peaches in Dad’s left hand, “can you open this?” Dad manages to put the jar between his knees with his left hand. He squeezes, his left hand clenching and twisting, his whole body contorting.

  “Here,” Mom says. “Let me help.”

 
“Dad can do it!” I say.

  “I got it,” Benny says quickly. He opens the jar and gives it back to Roma.

  “Than… u,” Dad says.

  Mom puts a smoothie in front of Dad. He leans forward and takes a sip. He then tips his head back to swallow several times.

  Benny watches in fascination.

  Mom watches like she’s waiting for him to choke and fall over again.

  “The muscles in his tongue and palate are starting to atrophy,” she tells Benny. “They’re getting too weak for him to swallow, especially food. His epiglottis is sometimes a little slow to close off the larynx.”

  “Where’s that again?” Benny asks.

  Mom pulls out an anatomy textbook she keeps on the counter at all times now. “There. If the larynx isn’t closed off when you swallow, food can go down the trachea, which leads to the lungs. Then we have a problem.”

  Mom loves telling everyone our business, but Benny doesn’t look grossed out or scared.

  “Any… thing I eat… drink now can… kill me,” Dad says matter-of-factly.

  “Soon we’ll be feeding him through his stomach,” Mom says.

  I tap my foot impatiently on the ground.

  “And we won’t have to worry about the choking,” she says, as if this will pacify me.

  “What will you eat, Dragon-Ball P?” Benny asks.

  “Ensure, smoothies, any liquids,” Mom answers for him.

  A thick spool of drool mixed with smoothie drips out of Dad’s mouth. I jump to wipe it.

  “Sorry,” Dad says.

  Benny shakes his head. “It’s okay. My grandma is getting old. I’ve had to clean up a lot of things—not that you’re getting old!” he says.

  Dad laughs. “My body is prob’ly shutting down at a faster rate than… Grandma right now.”

  “Can I have a smoothie, too?” I interrupt. “Both me and Dad have been lifting to gain weight, right, Dad?”

  Mom and Dad exchange a look.

  “What?” I say.

  “Honey, lifting weights won’t help Dad at this point,” Mom says, sounding like Jaimes, who is sounding like Mom.

  I look at Dad. Why doesn’t he back me up? It has been helping… hasn’t it?