Beyond Lucky

by Sarah Aronson

  But at least Mac picks up. “What’s the matter?”

  I try not to freak out. “I need you to come to the field. Now. It’s an emergency. Wayne is missing.”

  For exactly four seconds, he says nothing.

  “Are you there? Hello? Did you hear me? The card is gone. I looked everywhere. It was in my backpack and now it’s not. Can you come over and look with me? I think I must have dropped it.”

  Seventeen seconds of total silence. Then footsteps. Soft voices. Then more steps. “I’m really sorry,” he says, “but I can’t.”

  Deep breath. “I’ll talk to your mom.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Mac, can you just ask?”

  When he comes back, he doesn’t sound any different. “My mom says I’m not allowed to go anywhere. She thinks I’m not meeting my potential, and I’m not going anywhere extra until my grades improve.”

  Mac’s mom has never cared about his potential before. She usually loves when he comes to our house. “But did you tell her? That this was an emergency? I’m sure she’ll—”

  “No. Yes. Look, Ari, I’m sorry. Deal with it. I can’t come. She doesn’t care about your trading card.” When I start to beg again, he sighs. “Are you sure you looked everywhere? Did you check your bag?”

  “Yes. Of course I checked my bag. Three times. And every drawer in my room, even though I know we—”

  “What about the car?”

  No. The car! Of course! It’s a good idea. “Bye,” I say, and hang up the phone. I run to the car, but the floors are clean, the seats uncluttered. The card is not on the floor. It is not under the mats. It’s not stuck in the seat or the glove compartment or the crack behind the cup holder. The windows are shut.

  The card has to be at the field. If I go over there, I’m going to find it, and everything will be okay.

  I pick up the phone to call him, but there’s no point. I get the message. He is not coming with me.

  I listen to the dial tone. A long flat line.

  SEVENTEEN

  “When you are in any contest you should work as

  if there were—to the very last minute—a chance to

  lose it.”

  —Dwight D. Eisenhower

  I run downstairs, almost smack into Mom. She is carrying an overflowing basket of laundry. Wrinkled shirts tumble to the floor.

  “Sorry.” I pick up the clothes, dump them back into the basket, and talk fast. “Mom. I need to go back to the field. I lost one of my trading cards. I know I brought it to the game, and now I can’t find it. I must have dropped it. It was in my bag—but now it’s not.”

  She walks to her room, dumps the clothes on her bed, and begins folding. No sympathy. “Honey, you have so many of those cards. Do we really need to go to the field? You have schoolwork. I’m tired. And your father needs to get to the restaurant. What if I give you some money? You can buy another pack later.” She notices a faded grease stain on one of Dad’s shirts, balls it up, and tosses it into the corner basket.

  I grab the next shirt and fold it the way she likes it—with the buttons up and the arms in the back. “Mom. Please. It’s not just any card.” I fold a pair of pants and find two sock matches. “It was a Wayne Timcoe.”

  My dad walks into the room. “Ari? Did you just say you had a Wayne Timcoe card? You’re pulling my leg. Let’s see it. That card is supposed to be valuable.”

  “What do you mean, valuable?” Mom asks. “Ari, if you found something valuable, why didn’t you tell us?”

  Now I feel stupid. “I didn’t find it. Mrs. Elliot gave it to me. And I don’t know. I just didn’t. You have other things on your mind.”

  Dad grabs my mom and makes for the stairs. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  She still won’t believe it. “Are you sure you lost it? You never lose anything . . . you’ve always been so careful with your things.”

  Thank God, Dad drives. As we pull into the parking lot, he says, “Don’t worry, Ari, if it’s here, we’ll find it.”

  An old gray car speeds away, but the field is not empty. Parker is still here, and now she’s sprinting around cones. Seven balls sit in the back of the net. When she sees me, she runs to the elm tree. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

  She sounds a little annoyed.

  “The Timcoe card . . . it’s gone.”

  I don’t need to say anything else. We get down on our knees, and together, we comb through the grass near the tree and every bench. Under the bleachers. Near the net. My parents check out the bathrooms. We start running when my mother yells, “Ari. Come over here. I think we found something.”

  It’s the letter from Sam, and it is wet and soiled and decomposing as we speak. My dad holds it as far away from his nose as possible. “It was where you think it was. Near the top. Crumpled up in a ball. Disgusting.”

  Beyond disgusting.

  Dad returns to the Porta-Potty to throw it away. Mom says, “Don’t worry—the card wasn’t there. Your father looked.” She pinches her nose, but it’s not funny. “I made him stir.”

  I want to scream. Parker grabs my arm. “Come on. Let’s check the field.”

  That seems too crazy, too illogical, but if I don’t do something, I’m going to scream. We leave my parents to search through the garbage cans and run as fast as we can, and the crows fly away in all directions.

  There is nothing on the grass. If Parker weren’t here, I’d probably cry.

  But she is. So I keep looking, until we both have to admit, it’s pointless. The letter did not accidentally flutter into the Porta-Potty, and the card did not fall out of my backpack onto the field. I lie down and stare at the sky. Parker sits down next to me and stretches her legs. She is wearing the cleats I wanted, the latest detachable kangaroo leather cleats for advanced players. Her father is gone. I ask, “What are you still doing here anyway?”

  “Practicing.”

  “No one likes soccer that much.”

  “You don’t have anything to prove.” When she straightens her knee, her muscles bulge. She does the same thing to the other leg, then puts her arm behind her back to stretch her triceps. “I always loved playing soccer, and playing on this team with players like you was my dream. But lately, it feels more like a nightmare.” She shakes out her arms and pulls up a big clump of grass. “Even practice is frustrating. When I’m wide open, no one passes to me.”

  “That’s just part of being new to the team—you know that.”

  She sighs. “My dad says they’re doing it on purpose, and that I have to push the issue with Coach. I asked him if I should go back to the girls’ league, but he says that now that I’ve committed to the team, I have to stick with it. Otherwise I’ll look like a quitter.” She sighs. “It’s a lot of pressure.”

  I look at my parents, who are now sifting through garbage. They couldn’t care less about soccer. They tell me all the time, “We just want you to be happy and healthy,” which also means I can play soccer only as long as I have a bar mitzvah, get good grades, and go to college. Last year, when I was hoping for new cleats, I got a leather laptop case instead.

  I think I see something small flicker near the opposite net, but it’s a supermarket receipt, not the card. I shout, “Wayne Timcoe, where are you?” Parker startles extremely easily, which makes me laugh. “What are you so nervous about?”

  She shakes her head. “Nothing. I’m just tired, and you yelled really loud.” She rolls onto her stomach and props her chin in her hands. “Tell me the truth. Are your friends ever going to stop laughing at me?”

  It is nicer to lie. “They don’t laugh.”

  “Mac does.”

  “Well, he’s different. You just have to understand—”

  “Don’t try to tell me he’s insecure. Or that once I pass his test, he’ll be nicer. When you let me touch the card, he looked like he wanted to explode.”

  Girls are so sensitive! “You have to understand, he’s just looking out for me. He’s my oldest friend�
�we’re practically brothers. He sticks with me; I stick with him.”

  She looks skeptical. “But you’re so different.”

  I forget she’s new in town, that she doesn’t know everything. “Mac didn’t always have it so good. His mom, if you haven’t noticed, is really young.”

  “When would I have noticed? She’s never here. My dad wanted to talk to her, but he couldn’t find her. Coach told him that she doesn’t come to the games. I was sure he was lying—sometimes my dad makes a scene. But then she didn’t return his calls.”

  “She must have been working. When she’s not busy, she comes to our games.”

  I’m lying. The truth is, Mac’s mom doesn’t come to anything—not even the playoffs. She doesn’t drive unless my parents can’t, which is basically never. And I would never tell Parker, but once she spent a night in jail.

  But maybe things will change. Maybe now that she has Big Dave, she’ll be able to relax. Maybe he’ll be the dad Mac never had, or better yet, his real dad will finally come home. We never talk about it, but deep down inside, I know that’s what he wants. His dad. Or at least, a dad. Someone who will stand on the side and cheer for him.

  My parents finish what they are doing and go back to the van. They don’t call out to us. They don’t even wave. This is unofficially the longest conversation I have ever had with a girl in my entire life. Even if we are talking about Mac, we are talking.

  They are the best parents in the world.

  I say, “You know, he could play premiere, but he doesn’t.”

  Parker doesn’t think this is so special. “If he played premiere, he wouldn’t be the star of the team.”

  “If he played premiere, we would probably have lost today.” That gets her. “Look,” I say. “Do me a favor and stop worrying about Mac. Eventually, he’ll deal. You’ll be friends. He has to. It’s a rule.”

  Now she laughs. “What rule is that, Ari?”

  “The team always comes first rule.”

  She thinks about this for a minute. “So let me get this straight—now you want me to believe that none of you ever put yourselves above the team?”

  “When you put it that way, no. Of course not. But when it’s necessary, we all suck it up. So even if he thinks you should have stuck with the girls’ team . . .”

  “Which he does.”

  “Could you let me finish?” She nods. “Even if he thinks that, he won’t jeopardize our record.” I am absolutely one hundred percent positive this is true. Plan Freeze-out is just a joke. “He may complain. He may act like a jerk. He’ll even threaten to change teams. But he won’t leave. And neither should you.” I can’t believe I just said that. “I mean, that’s the rule. But don’t. Okay? You’re good. Really good. You just need a little more confidence.”

  This is so embarrassing.

  I’m the one with no confidence.

  But she doesn’t bring that up. “Really? Do you think so? Last week, I should have had that guy. I should have cut the ball with my heel, but I blew it.”

  “You just slipped up. Next time, you’ll do it. You just can’t let them intimidate you.” I am sure she is going to bring up her dream to take my spot, but she doesn’t. Today, she nods with enthusiasm.

  “That is exactly what my friend told me. He said I’m overcompensating and getting intimidated.”

  “Your friend?”

  She half smiles. “Just this guy who helps me out once in a while.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “Not really.”

  I have to admit, I’m jealous. Mac never wants to take extra practice—he doesn’t need it—and if he won’t, Eddie and Soup would rather not either. “If you guys ever need a keeper, I’m free after practice.”

  She bites her lip. Then she looks away. When the silence becomes awkward, she says, “Thanks. That would be great.” When I smile, she does not smile back. Instead, she looks beyond me to the double x. “If it works out, I’ll let you know.” She doesn’t mean it.

  Maybe her dad hired a college student to coach her. “I mean, if your dad’s paying, I’m happy to pitch in and all. I’m not looking for a handout.”

  Now she looks totally uncomfortable, like her beautiful cleats are on fire and she wants to get out of here. I change the subject. “You know, I’m surprised the newspaper hasn’t been around. You would think they’d be all over you. Front page.”

  Parker has an extremely nice smile. “My dad won’t let them. He won’t let them cover me until I’m starting.” She rolls onto her back, and pushes with her hands and feet into a perfect arch. Her shirt inches up. I stand up and look away. If I don’t, I’ll turn purple. “He says they’ll turn me into a curiosity. That I have to do more than just make the team. He wants me to score. That is, if I can’t play in the net.”

  Her face turns red.

  I’m sure mine is too. “Right now, all I can think about is finding Wayne Timcoe. Without him, your dream will come true and you will be in the net.” We walk around and stare at the grass, even though we know the card is not here.

  She asks, “You’re not afraid, are you? That without the card, you can’t play?”

  I guess it’s obvious. “Of course I am. If it’s gone for good, I’ll stink. We’ll lose games. I’ll go back to the bench. My friends will hate me.”

  She doesn’t laugh.

  I say, “I just don’t understand it. I put that card in my backpack, I know I did. No one else touched it.”

  Parker stops walking. “That’s not true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Mac had your backpack.”

  “No he didn’t.”

  “Yes he did. During the break. He took your blue bag. Ari, I’m sorry, but I don’t think he cares as much about the team as you think he does. I thought you knew. He took your backpack and he took it into the bathroom. I saw the whole thing.”

  As the sun goes down, reality sinks in.

  Somebody stole my card. Somebody on my team. Somebody who knew it was lucky, who knew how important it was.

  I did not drop it. I did not lose it.

  The card was in the backpack, but only two people knew exactly where it was.

  One was Parker. The other was Mac. He knew exactly where I put my stuff. And he has been acting strange. Only Mac thought the card was a joke. Only Mac touched my stuff.

  Mac.

  It is the worst feeling in the world, beyond falling off a cliff or standing in pitch-black darkness, not knowing which way to walk. It’s like getting caught alone in a fire, when you were sure someone had your back.

  If there is another answer, I don’t see it.

  Mac is a liar. His mother didn’t ground him.

  Mac doesn’t care about the team. Or me.

  Mac stole my card.

  EIGHTEEN

  “The new frontier of which I speak is not a set of

  promises—it is a set of challenges.”

  —John F. Kennedy

  How to fake illness in order to avoid seeing your friend, whom you suspect of stealing your most important possession:• Take a steaming hot shower. Cough until your voice sounds scratchy.

  • Put a sweatshirt on. Keep the heat in. Shuffle down the stairs and look as sad and pathetic as you possibly can.

  • Pray that Mom is too busy to notice.

  When these techniques do not work, try honesty.

  “I don’t want to go to school. Please. I don’t want to face Mac. I think he stole Wayne Timcoe.”

  My father is usually in my corner, but today he plays the skeptic. “Are you sure?” He beckons me to the stove. He is stirring oatmeal. “That doesn’t sound like Mac.”

  I say, “He wouldn’t help me look. He’s been acting really weird.”

  “Ari, that’s not evidence. Maybe he has other things on his mind.”

  Mom, of course, is practical. “You’re going to have to face the music sometime. If you wait, it will only get worse.”

  I look through the paper
. There are one hundred and seventy-one fires burning in California.

  My horoscope makes me ill: “The New Moon in Libra helps you discern if someone is sincere. You could decide that someone new in your life is not worthy of your time. If you visit a sick relative or friend, forget the flowers. Bring a book of puzzles instead—something to keep their mind busy.”

  My mother sits at the table and stares at her laptop. She clicks a few keys, then slams the lid shut. “It’s been an entire week. Why hasn’t Sam written? Where is he? Why don’t you just talk to Mac?”

  Dad pours a glop of oatmeal into a bowl, and I eat it with extra sugar and milk, no raisins. He says, “Son, your mother’s right. You guys just have to sit down and talk. Together, you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

  Maybe I walk too slowly. Or maybe Mac doesn’t see me coming. Maybe once the sine wave of luck turns, there is nothing anyone can do to stop the momentum.

  All I know is when I get to Mac’s house, he’s already walking out the door with a soccer ball. Even though it is Monday and we do not have practice. I ask, “Weren’t you going to wait for me?” I sound pathetic.

  He doesn’t look particularly guilty. “Hey. Let’s go,” he says, without breaking stride or razzing me. I swear my fever spikes for real.

  At the same time, Big Dave and Mac’s mom walk out the front door. They look like they are dressed for the beach. They get into their car and pull up beside us.

  “Can we have a ride?” Mac asks.

  “Heck no,” Big Dave says. “Just washed this car.”

  His mother looks like Jackie O with her big sunglasses and hair tied back. “Don’t forget we won’t be home until late. So have a good time. I left you a ten-dollar bill. So get yourself something to eat after practice. If you want, sleep over at Ari’s.” She winks at me. “I’m sure your parents won’t mind.”

  Big Dave revs the engine. “If you go to the Double D, remember—they think I’m sick. Don’t mess that up.” They drive off.