Beyond Lucky

“The capacity of the female mind for studies of
the highest order cannot be doubted, having been
sufficiently illustrated by its works of genius, of
erudition, and of science.”

In the hall, two girls wave. They say, “Hey, Ari,” which means they are talking to me, and they know my name. For the fifth day in a row, I don’t trip. In social studies, Eddie remembers to save my seat. We start a unit on the Civil War, the bloodiest war in American history, one of my five favorite topics after the presidents.

I raise my hand. “Did you know that the war began as the result of a dispute between certain Southern states and certain Northern states regarding slavery and the taxation of cotton exports?”

Mr. Sigley says, “That’s very interesting, Ari. You really know a lot about the Civil War. Please feel free to chime in anytime.”

Eddie says, “I can’t believe you know all that!” Then he asks me if I want a ride to the field—his mom is picking him up.

“That sounds great.” As we walk to our next class, I pull a crumpled five-dollar bill out of my back pocket that I forgot was there. I envision the Wayne Timcoe card safe in my backpack. Everything keeps getting better, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence.

In English, the book we are reading next has very short chapters. When the teacher gives the assignment, I know exactly what to write.

At lunch, the whole team sits together at the two tables in the middle of the room. Becky comes over with Sandy, the striker from the girls’ club team, and Randi and Kellie, whom I have never seen break a sweat, even though they were in my gym class for two years straight. They ask if they can squeeze in too. According to Sandy, Parker has been bragging all week about how great and nice we all are. Randi and Kellie offer to make signs for every Somerset Valley soccer game and put them all over the school. No one has ever done this for a club soccer team before. They write down all our names, so they won’t spell any of them wrong.

Pretty soon, they’re all sketching and comparing notes and trading papers. As far as I can tell, the point is to incorporate the letters of each name into a big picture or design.

They finish Eddie’s name first, because names with double letter combinations are way cooler and fun than names with a variety of letters, and Eddie has two sets. I see what they mean. The g’s in Biggs look especially good next to each other, and the girls decorate them with a lot of squares and swirls and colors.

Becky makes Mac’s, complete with golden arches, and the ball flying right over the top, which of course, Mac loves. He looks at the ceiling and tells a joke. Soup gets a can of soup with the slogan: “Mmm. He’s good.”

When Soup blushes, his dark skin looks almost purple. “Yes. I do.” Soup never says much. He might be confident on the field, but lately, he has become extremely shy, especially around girls. Mac thinks this has something to do with his family or culture, but I think it’s because his voice is changing. At least, it’s gotten a lot lower a lot faster than mine or Mac’s. And he is the first person to get hair over his lip. I wouldn’t have noticed, except Soup is constantly touching it when he thinks no one is looking.

Next, they start working on mine. They experiment turning the dots over the i’s into stars. Then the end of the h becomes a tidal wave and they change their minds and turn the i’s into bubbles. “We can draw a shark too. Eating a soccer ball. That will be cool.” The shark has an open mouth, revealing long, sharp teeth.

It looks excellent. I still wish I had a cooler sounding name, like Tiger or River or Darius or Lance, a name that made me sound more electric and less like someone destined to study math. Something with a good nickname. Like Ike. Or Jimmy. Or Jack. Millard Fillmore, our thirteenth president, had the worst nickname in the history of the presidents—the American Louis Philippe.

Parker squeezes in next to me just as they finish the shark. The girls ask her if she wants to be Parker, Parks, or just P, and she shakes her head. “You don’t have to make one for me,” she says. “Wait until I’m starting.”

They draw. I open my lunch. There’s a sandwich, two black and white cookies, a bag of carrots, and some fruit. I stare at it, because I don’t want to look at Parker. I would feel the same way she does. It is never easy being a backup.

She looks a little happier. “Thanks, guys.” Then she admires the rest of the signs. When she sees mine, Parker says, “My father told me that Ari is a Hebrew word for lion. If you don’t like the shark, a lion would make a great poster too.”

Mac takes one of my cookies. “Are you crazy? Do not call Fish a lion. The lion is the king. As in the top dog. He can’t call himself that. He’ll look like a goon.”

Parker opens her bag and takes out a turkey sandwich, chips, and a black and white cookie, the same as mine. “I don’t know. It might be fun if people called you the Lion. Because you were really ferocious this week. We were hitting some beastly shots and you didn’t seem to be bothered at all. You really are playing great.”

I take a big bite of cookie. At exactly the same moment, Parker bites hers too. We both eat the white side first. Mac passes me a note, on a torn piece of notebook paper. It says: “Let’s get out of here now.” When I don’t respond, he writes another one: “Can’t you eat faster?”

Parker acts like she doesn’t see us passing notes. “I think everyone should eat dessert first. It seems so standard not to. Why do we always save the best for last?” When I don’t have anything to say but “yes, I agree,” she starts telling me a story about when her dad played soccer. According to her, he was pretty good. Even played in college. As she talks, she waves her hands and shakes her ponytail. And her eyelashes flutter, like she’s got something in her eye.

When she finally takes another bite of cookie, I tell her a story about the season Sam broke the select scoring record. When I am finished, Mac kicks me under the table. Right below the knee. “Ow.”

Parker picks up the bread from the top half of her sandwich. “Do you ever put potato chips inside your sandwich?” When I admit that I have never once put chips between the bread, she says, “It’s really good. You want to try it?”

“Okay. I’ll try.” Mac kicks me again. Ow. Same spot. I take some of her chips and I have to admit, turkey sandwiches with chips are a thousand times better than turkey sandwiches flat.

Parker looks at him like he smells funny. “That’s too bad. Because it’s really good.” Then she leans in close and whispers in my ear, “He thinks he is so clever.”

Mac immediately gets up. “Gotta go,” he says. He smiles at Becky, and she gets up too. Soup and Eddie crumple up their lunch bags and follow. At the same time, Sandy, Randi, and Kellie scoot to the far end of the table and giggle about something, hopefully not me. I stuff most of my sandwich into my mouth, but before I can make my move, or chew, or swallow, Parker asks, “Would you wait a minute?”

We are essentially alone. This does not feel exactly like good luck. I swallow the gigantic wad of turkey, bread, and chips. It would be even better with cranberry sauce. “What do you want?”

“Really?” She looks relieved. “Well, I can definitely do that.” Then she smiles in a sneaky way. “I can’t tell you what it is, but I have a secret weapon.”

Now, that is funny. I’m the one with the secret weapon. It’s better than anything she has. “Well, if you work hard, and if Coach decides to start you—”

“You mean when he decides. It’s only a matter of time.” Somehow, the way she looks at me, I know she wants to say something I don’t want to hear. “Ari, you won’t make fun of me if I ask you a question?”

“Sit on the sidelines.” She sighs. “Did you ever think about quitting? You had to know you could do the job just as well as Mischelotti.”

This must be a girl thing. Even when it’s true, guys never talk like this. “It is what it is. I wouldn’t call it terrible. I had a job to do for the team. I had to be ready to go in. Just in case.”

She does not need to know how much I hated every minute. Or that there were days I believed that the only reason Coach kept me on the team was to make sure Mac had a ride to the field. I say, “Besides, Coach practically promised you a starting position on the offense. He thinks you’re great.” I want to get out of here. “Last year, I didn’t have that. Sometimes I played sweeper, but that was it.”

She finishes her crunchy sandwich. Apologizes a few times for being so nosy. “I know I should be psyched, and I hope this doesn’t bother you, but I can’t totally be happy. It’s my dream to start in the net.”

I must look like it bothers me, because she backpedals fast. “I’m not saying I want you to get hurt like Mischelotti. And you’ve really taught me a lot. But I’m hoping that if we are in a blowout, or if you hit a rough patch . . .”

She starts tearing up her plastic wrap. “No, this is coming out wrong. I don’t think you will. I just want you to know I’m taking extra practice. I’m doing everything I can to be ready. Would you be upset if I asked Coach for a little more time in the net during practice? So he could see what I’m learning?”

Mac is not going to believe this. I would never have asked Mischelotti for extra time. “I thought you liked playing offense.”

I wish Sam were home. If he were, he would probably tell me to stand tall, that I am the starter. That I wouldn’t want a backup who didn’t want to play. That I will not lose my first game and I won’t mess up in the net and Coach won’t give the job to Parker—especially if she can score. He would quote his favorite president, FDR: “The only thing to fear is fear itself.” And to him, the fear would not be insurmountable.

We watch her sprint across the field. She can almost keep up with Soup, which is saying a lot. Soup is fast, one of the best pure athletes on the team. Coach tells them to do it again—this time while passing the ball. Mac is not happy. He asks if he shouldn’t do this with Soup instead of Parker. Coach shakes his head and sends us to the net. “Why don’t you two practice some penalty kicks?”

Mac says, “Sure. No problem.” He pumps his fist. I get ready for the worst. Penalty kicks favor the offense—they are almost impossible to defend. The only way I’m going to stop Mac MacDonald is if he wants me to.

“Don’t take it easy on him,” Mischelotti tells Mac. “I know you guys are friends, but a good keeper needs to be tested.”