Beyond Lucky by Sarah Aronson Read Free Book Online Page A

still stewing.
    â€œShe is too short.
    â€œShe never heads the ball.
    â€œShe smiles all the time.”
    Tomorrow is our first game. I am not completely comfortable making fun of her behind her back. “Lay off her, Mac. You can’t fault her for everything.”
    â€œYes, I can. She is so annoying. And don’t tell me you don’t think it’s weird that every time Coach needs a volunteer, she raises her hand and smiles like she can’t wait to do another stupid job.”
    He forgets that last year, we raised our hands every time Coach needed something. “Mac, give her a break. She’s a backup. You don’t even know if Coach will play her.” When he starts to argue and sulk, I say, “You have to admit, no one will expect her to be good. The focus will still be on you.”
    That makes him smile. “You think?”
    â€œI think.”
    â€œIt’s still bad.” He walks faster. “The entire town is laughing at us. Do you see how shiny her cleats are? She must clean them every night.”
    I clean my cleats after every practice. “But they’ll stop laughing when you break Sam’s record for goals in a single season . . . when the offense rolls, even with a girl.” When he doesn’t relax, I take out Wayne. “It’s destiny,” I say. “Everything is going to go our way.”
    We make fists and pound high and low, then shake in two directions. I remind him that Wayne has to stay a secret.
    â€œPlease don’t tell anyone,” I say.
    â€œTell anyone what?” Over the years, we have kept a lot of secrets, some almost as big as this one.
    â€œSeriously, I have a strong feeling about this. I don’t think anyone should know about him but you and me and Sam.”
    When I say seriously, I mean it. Mac knows it’s important.
    He picks up handfuls of gravel and pelts trees. Ping, ping, ping. He hits a mailbox three times out of three. “This morning, I heard there was this mega-fire near San Francisco. Was Sam in it? Do you think he’s seen any burned people?”
    Ping.
    Ping.
    I put the card away. “He doesn’t say.”
    The San Francisco fire must be new. Across the state, they are down to one hundred and eleven fires. Most are contained. Sam must be in one of them, because he has not answered my e-mail.
    Mac says, “I wonder if he gets to pull a lot of goodlooking girls out of burning houses.”
    Miss.
    In his letters, Sam sticks to neutral stuff like hi/how are you/what’s happening? On the phone, he tells me that he never gets tired of jumping out of a plane and how much he loves floating in the sky. That when his parachute opens up, he feels pure joy. He also tells me that even though no one knows his name, the people are so happy to see the smokejumpers, they make posters and hang them all over town. He always says, “This season is so crazy. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me. I could be out for days at a time.”
    There’s no blood. No death. If it’s scary, he doesn’t say. And I don’t ask. I never ask. Too many specifics lead to too much thinking. Sam has never been in trouble. He can do whatever he sets out to do.
    Mac wants to know every gory detail. “What if they’re dead? Does he have to touch those people too? Does he get to stuff them in body bags?”
    We cross the street in front of our school. I know Mac is just curious, but I wish he would stop asking. I have one practice before my first big game. I do not want to talk about my brother or fire or even Parker. I yell, “Last one to the double door buys ice cream.”
    We run side by side down the path. Right then left, up the small hill, and down the winding path toward the main entrance of our school. He passes the flagpole just before me, but I pull ahead halfway up the front steps. Normally, this is where he loses me. Normally, this is where I give up.
    But not