Beyond Lucky by Sarah Aronson

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.
    He was only elected once.
    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 all protest way too loud. “We are not waiting. You make soccer history. You get a sign.”
    Girls can be so melodramatic.
    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.
    The girls make Parker’s sign. It shows Parker in Super-girl clothes, kicking a giant ball.
    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.”
    I have to agree. “Really, the shark is enough.”
    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.”
    Ferocious.
    Beastly.
    My entire defense cracks up laughing. Later on, I bet Mac’ll say Parker is pathetic for trying to be nice.
    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