I should feel sorry for him. “It’s Monday. We don’t have practice.”
Mac stoops down and ties his shoes. When he gets up, he doesn’t look me in the eye. “I’m going to the field anyway. I didn’t know I needed your permission.”
“You don’t.”
Mac never takes extra practice. He never cops an attitude like this with me. It takes work to keep up with him.
He asks, “So, did you find your card?”
“No.”
He drops the ball, kicks it high into the air, and catches it with one hand. “Maybe now you’ll see that the card wasn’t really magic. No offense, but if you want a lucky charm, you should go to the field and hunt for a four-leaf clover.”
He laughs. I’m offended. “I searched the car. I covered every inch of the field. The only explanation that Parker and I could come up with—”
“You called Parker?”
“No.” I don’t know why I’m the one acting defensive when he is the one acting guilty. “She was at the field. Running the cones. When I told her what happened, she helped.” She acted like a friend. “You know, she takes extra practice every night. Maybe you should try playing with her.”
The rest of the way, we do not talk. He dribbles his soccer ball and doesn’t pass it to me once. I count presidents who betrayed our country, who didn’t understand the importance of the truth or morality or honesty.
It is not easy walking eight blocks with the person who just stole your most valuable possession, but I do it. It’s a Pisces thing. We’re compromisers. We don’t confront anyone unless absolutely necessary. I try to make conversation, but every topic I start ends with long, awkward silences.
When we get to school, Parker is waiting. She is wearing her limited edition vintage Wayne Timcoe T-shirt. I speed up; Mac slows down. He calls out to a couple of girls. He does not say hello to Parker.
She says, “Tell me you found it.”
“Not yet.” My voice cracks.
If she steps any closer, we’ll be touching. “Did you talk to him?”
“No.”
“You didn’t even ask him?”
“No.”
Now Parker puts her hands on her hips and scowls. She’s clearly mad, and in a weird way, it is sort of cute. Until I turn around and see why. Mac is here. He drops his bag. “Ask who about what?”
“Ask you about Ari’s Wayne Timcoe card. Did you know it was missing?”
“Yeah. I know.”
This can’t be happening. This is not the way I wanted this to come out.
But it’s too late now. Neither one of them is going to back down. Parker asks, “And how do you think it disappeared?”
Our friends gather around. Mac says, “I don’t know. Maybe someone took it. Someone who is having trouble with their crossover dribbles?”
Eddie tries not to laugh. Parker doesn’t cave. “Actually, I think it was someone who couldn’t stand sharing the spotlight.” Eddie shakes his head. Soup stuffs his hands in his pockets. They all look at me.
The last time I felt this cornered was over a year ago. I had just lost the starting job to Mischelotti. Sam said, “You must always take a strong, confident stance.” It was a hot, sticky night, and he was home for two days. “Watch the eyes and the feet. Beware of tricks. A lot can happen in a season.” He kicked the ball hard, and I caught it. “When the chips are down, I know you’ll make me proud.”
Now the chips are beyond down. Mac looks upset. I wonder if maybe he didn’t take it. If I am about to accuse my friend for a crime he did not commit.
He stands with my friends. They all face me. Except Eddie. He looks up at the sky. Maybe for crows. Mac says, “Say what you want to say, Ari.”
Parker says, “Come on, Ari. Ask him.”
She is not helping. “Do you have my Wayne Timcoe card?”
Mac’s nostrils flare. He throws the ball at Soup, and steps forward—way too close—so we are standing eye to eye. “Do you really think I stole your card?” When I don’t answer, he steps back and smiles at everyone else, grabs the ball, and twirls it on his finger. Victorious. “Seriously, does anyone really think I needed a piece of cardboard to make me a good player?”
My friends laugh. Of course they don’t. Mac doesn’t need luck. They don’t care about his nostrils. He is a winner. The leader. The captain of our team. If anyone needed a lucky card, it was me.
It still is.
I start to panic. “Maybe it was supposed to be a joke. Or maybe you were mad. I don’t need to know how, and I don’t care why. But you’re acting weird.”
I don’t know why I thought Mac would confess. He is too proud. He does not want or need any of my loopholes, even though plenty of presidents would have jumped through less.
There is no easy way out of this. It is impossible to back down completely. “Did you find it?”
He smiles. “No.”
My shoulders feel heavy. This is worse than losing a game. As our team walks away, Parker does not seem upset at all. “Trust me,” she says. “It’s going to all work out. A person who stands for nothing will fall for anything.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
She shakes her head. “I guess not. But I still think it’s true. I got that off a fortune cookie.”
“Great.” We slowly walk to our lockers. I trip on a crack. In the halls, the lights flicker. That gives me a headache.
Parker thinks I’m looking for reasons to be depressed. I tell her, “You think I was unlucky before? Just wait. I know I’m going to regret this day.”
There are a few holy rules for guys:1. The team always comes first.
2. Don’t turn your back on a guy. Don’t accuse him of anything you can’t prove in a court of law. Don’t let a girl come between friends.
3. Never talk at the urinals. (If your friend leaves his fly down, don’t say anything. Don’t look. Don’t do anything.)
4. Don’t share an umbrella. Even if it’s pouring.
5. The lunch table is sacred. You sit there if you belong. If you don’t, go somewhere else. In other words: See rule one. The team always comes first.
Break one of these rules, and you are toast. Unless, of course, you are the top dog, the kingpin, the most important person in your group.
Then, face it: You can do whatever you want.
In social studies, triangle-shaped notes fly between Mac and Eddie, and Mac and Soup, but not to me. Even when my hand is up, Mr. Sigley calls on someone else. In the hall, Mac walks between Soup and Eddie to class. He jokes around with Eddie, even though normally, he would joke with me.
In math, we have a pop quiz. I know I got at least two questions wrong.
The news is everywhere. In the hall. In class. People whisper as I walk by:
Ari Fish had a Wayne Timcoe card. Mac MacDonald stole it. Parker Llewellyn walked up to Mac this morning and told him he was a thief, and Ari Fish took her side.
There is black duct tape all over my locker. I have to peel it off, just to open the door. It leaves a sticky residue. They didn’t stop there. Inside, all my books are crammed onto one shelf. Today’s homework is crumpled up in a ball. My sandwich is squished. I throw it away.
I want to cry. I want to punch someone. Eddie leaves me one note: “Just tell him you didn’t mean it. Before it’s too late.” I want to call my mother and tell her I really am sick.
The bell rings.
My luck is gone.
It’s time for lunch.
NINETEEN
“An injured friend is the bitterest of foes.”
—Thomas Jefferson
Parker intercepts me at the cashier. I’m counting out pennies, apologizing to everyone behind me. “I’m sorry, really sorry,” I say to the lunch lady, who will not stop tapping her foot. Counting coins slows everything down. I say, “I thought I had money in my canteen.”
“Well, you don’t.”
I am up to seven really’s and four sorry’s when Parker reaches i
nto her pocket. “Here. I have a dollar. Does that get you off the hook?”
It gets me off the hook with the lunch lady, but I’m not sure I want Parker Llewellyn helping me quite so much. I definitely don’t think we should sit together by ourselves in the cafeteria.
She obviously thinks otherwise. “Ari, I have to tell you everyone is talking about you and Mac. They can’t believe he took your card. They think you totally did the right thing. Here—let’s go sit at my table.”
I shake my head. This is not a game, and Mac and I have never had a serious argument. When we disagree, it’s always about little stuff. If I let this drag on, it is only going to get worse.
I tell Parker, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” My regular table is almost full. Mac is there, and so are Soup and David and Mischelotti, who under normal circumstances, sits with the lacrosse team. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Parker, what you did this morning was gutsy, but it wasn’t exactly . . .”
“What? What are you saying? Are you mad because—”
“No. I’m not mad.” Girls! “But you have to trust me on this. Right now, I have to sit at my table.” I thought I had already explained this. “If I don’t, it would be like saying that I don’t care about the team. Don’t take this the wrong way, but this is about more than Wayne Timcoe. We don’t want to wreck the team.”
“What is that supposed to mean—don’t take this the wrong way?” She stands extremely close, and everyone from my table stares. “The team is already wrecked. Your so-called team walked out on you. It fell apart when your friend stole your card.” She crosses her arms across her chest and a couple of the guys laugh. “You’re going to blame this on me, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then don’t let him get away with it. Sit with me.”
“No. I can’t.”
“Yes you can.”
This is ridiculous. “No, I can’t.” She walks away, most likely in disgust. I stand in front of my regular table. I envision a ball coming toward the net. When Mac pauses in the middle of an old story, I say, “Hey guys, how’s it going?”
If everything was okay, they would say hello. Or rib me. They would make fun of Parker or my tray full of cafeteria food or the fact that I had no money.
They would tell me to shut up—Mac is telling a story.
Today, they do not say anything. Mac continues to tell his story, as if I were a fly or another household pest. My friends’ faces stay glued to Mac’s, and they all look interested, even though the story is an old one.
I know it.
They know it.
There is one empty seat. It is at the far end of the table, across from Eddie, and if Soup will just push his chair in one inch, I can get there without interrupting again.
All I need is one inch. “Can you give me some space?” I ask.
Eddie looks like he is about to throw up. Soup looks smaller than usual.
I want that empty seat. This time I talk louder. “Excuse me.”
Soup scrunches forward, but otherwise, no one else moves. It’s tight. Especially when I try to shuffle behind Mischelotti. He scoots his chair back, so I can’t sit. I can’t move. “So Pickled Herring, how are you doing?”
“I’m fine. Can you give me some space?” Mischelotti scoots his chair forward, so I can get by. Before I sit, I look around. It wouldn’t be the first time Mac told someone to put a thumbtack or something disgusting on someone’s chair. It wouldn’t be the first time he sacrificed a friend to a prank.
Eddie looks at me for a split second, a sorry-it’s-your-turn gaze. Unlike everyone else at the table, he knows what this feels like.
“The guy is a liability,” Mac said after last year’s first loss. “If it weren’t for Biggs, we would have won. If he calls me one more time, I’m going to scream.”
This wasn’t true. It was the offense that lost us the game. Eddie was the best we had.
But I didn’t say that.
Instead, when Mac told me to fill Eddie’s locker with golf balls, I thought, why not? What was the harm? It was just a prank. Mac said it would help Eddie toughen up. I convinced myself that he would think it was hilarious. This is what teammates did. For fun.
Now I know how much fun it must have been.
My hot lunch smells burnt. The gravy is the consistency of glue. I swirl it into the gray potato mush and vow to make sure my sandwich is, first and foremost, unsquishable.
Eddie looks at my tray and very quietly says, “Sorry.”
Mac does not acknowledge me. Instead, he launches into the Mia-Hamm-in-the-elevator story. We have each heard this tale at least a hundred times. It’s a stupid story, with three separate endings, but no one says, “That’s an old one, Mac. You’ve told us that one before, Mac. Are you sure that really happened, Mac?”
My appetite is gone. I don’t want to hear this story. I don’t want to watch my friends pretend that this story is new. I definitely don’t want to act like nothing’s wrong.
I stand up. “See you later, guys,” I say, even though Mac will not stop talking, even though no one else says good-bye.
And for a second, I think I can do it. I can walk away. I don’t have to listen or watch or feel sorry for myself. I hold my tray and walk back toward the aisle and hope that Soup does not scoot his chair back.
Then the foot comes out. Or maybe it’s a crutch. It doesn’t really matter. Mac loves to score. If he wanted to make a fool out of me, this is the easiest shot there is.
There is no defense. You can’t stop your flying tray or your knees or your hands from hitting the ground. You can’t stop your food from splattering in all directions.
It’s momentum.
There is only so much you can do.
I brush myself off.
I pick up the tray.
I walk away. No applause.
When Mac finishes the story, everyone laughs.
For four days straight, I walk to school alone. I don’t talk to Mac. I eat lunch in the library by myself and fold planes, but they all hit the ground, nose first. In social studies, we have statewide testing. I fill in circle after circle with my number two pencil and write essays about passages I don’t completely understand. It’s hard to concentrate. I go to class, but I don’t raise my hand.
For four days straight, I go to practice, but only Coach and Parker speak directly to me. We win a midweek game, two to nothing, but Parker says the victory feels shallow, under the circumstances. I wait for her to invite me to practice with her and her friend, but she never does.
This gives me plenty of time to learn my Hebrew. By the middle of the week, I’ve got the entire passage memorized.
The rabbi thinks this is absolutely fabulous. “Let’s talk about your speech.” In case I am not sure if my mother has told him what is going on, he says, “You know, Ari, throughout your life, you will accept many jobs. Some of them will be fun. Some won’t.”
He waits. I know he is waiting for me to ask a question. He’s a rabbi. He tells all the students, “I live for questions.”
Mine is sort of lame. “Can I be honest? I wish I were reading a story. Like Adam and Eve. Or Joseph and his coat. This whole census is sort of boring.”
Of course, the rabbi is honest too. “Ari, there are no coincidences when it comes to the Torah. Trust me. When you least expect it, you will understand why Naso is a perfect portion for you.” He tells me to think about the reading and think about my own responsibilities. “You know, in the Torah, God gives responsibilities to the people who can handle them.”
“Just don’t call them blessings in disguise,” I say. When he laughs, I figure that was exactly what he was going to say. “Because they seem more like burdens to me.”
“Burdens?” The rabbi acts like I just said the magic word. “What about burdens, Ari? Do you think the Hebrews thought carrying the Tabernacle was a burden? What does it feel like w
hen someone gives you a responsibility that is too big? Can you relate that to something like that in your own life? Maybe soccer? Your mom says that you and your friend—”
“Soccer’s not a burden.” I love playing keeper. Even if my friends never speak to me again, I require no convincing. I can play on a team of rivals.
“Just think about it,” the rabbi says. “You certainly have been given some special responsibilities on the field—and off. Are they blessings? Or burdens? What about your brother? Is what he does both a blessing and a burden too?”
My mother needs to tell him a whole lot less. This is way more personal than I want to get. Sam chose his job. I’m dealing with the team. But when it comes to talking to the rabbi, it’s best to be polite. “Thanks, Rabbi,” I say, “I will think about it.”
He tries to look parental. “Good. You know, sometimes, Ari, what you think is a burden can become an opportunity.” This is rabbi-speak for “chin up.”
That may be true for the Torah, but after four straight days, there are no new opportunities waiting for me. Nothing has changed. Eddie is the only one brave enough to say anything to me, and the only thing he says is “Hi,” or “Good game,” and that’s only if no one is around. He doesn’t dare save me a seat. Or walk with me in the hall. Or even signal to me during practice, which means we are too sloppy for Coach. Mischelotti gives Mac a ride to school and the field. This week, I have e-mailed Sam seventeen times. “Help! I need to talk to you!” But he does not call.
On the way to the field, Parker asks what I’m going to do next, if I have a plan, a strategy, a line of attack that will blow Mac MacDonald out of the water. I say, “Parker. Stop. I don’t know. How am I supposed to prove that he has it?”
And that makes her mad.
I wonder what I would do if I could go back in time, before Ben Elliot’s, the green pack of cards, the good horoscope. If I knew then what I know now, what would I do? Would I still want that card? What if I had never held that card?
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