Go With the Flow

The boy waited at the empty, lonely park, waiting—yet again—for his busy grandmother to get him from soccer practice. He glanced at his wristwatch. 4:05 pm. Sighing heavily, Lucas stared up at the cloudless blue sky. She promised him on the phone she was on her way.

Two hours ago.                 

Lucas went to his brand-new black and white Nike cleats, studying those now. He’d been digging them in the dirt patches, balding the green grass covering this sand-colored stuff. The goalposts and white rectangular outline were already stared at for quite some time—maybe a half-hour?

When’s Grandma going to stop forgetting me?  

Mr. and Mrs. Wrecking abandoned him way long ago, back when he was barely walking. His grandparents adopted him, but these two elderly couch potatoes consumed Lays chips while telling each other that the mail should’ve come by now. But someone else could fetch it, as a whiff of fresh Colorado air would be good for them.

Lucas also cooked the meals and cleaned the kitchen every day, after every meal and before every guest walked into their woodland cottage. Football and old black and white movies with Grandpa would distract them until midnight.     

Lucas entertained himself with his cellphone, but no new levels or harder paths or challenging villains could be unlocked yet. Traveling to the internet was a no-go—a grey frowny face said it couldn’t connect.  

Lucas shoved the iPhone into his netted navy shorts and headed towards a dense forest behind the field. Wishing he had brought his lime green ball, another thought invaded his mind: What if Grandma doesn’t want to raise a lonely kid? I’m her grandson. Not her son. I guess that’s why all the other players leave, parents and grandparents hugging and laughing as everyone packs up and drives home.        

Lucas fixed his eyes firmly on the forest behind the field. Suddenly, his cellphone rang. Rolling his eyes, Lucas jammed it to an ear, explaining his side of the story. She promised she’d be there in fifteen. But he hung up as her excuses—grocery shopping, getting gas, running her bed’s comforter to the dry cleaner, answering emails and returning calls—were spilling out. A potato chip bag and Grandpa were best friends, while Grandma couldn’t live without her laundry list of chores.

She can send me an automated message if that’s what it takes for her to see that I’m just voicemail to them.

Trees towered above him. The spiked shoes crushed grass and weeds. Lucas stopped, looking back. The sun hadn’t even started going down yet, and it was late afternoon—even the day progressed slowly! He glared ahead of him, indifferent to the poor grass and leaves oppressed under his feet.

Grandpa waved away any of Grandma’s gift suggestions for Lucas. “Can’t he just go outside and play with a stick and a ball? I did that when I was in late middle school! Besides, he’s an athlete. Give him my old volleyball to keep himself busy!” 

Lucas went faster. A creek bubbled here, and a brook salivated water there. I’m not Granddad, and I’m not just going to sit around a forgotten loser.

Lucas slowed—a car had driven onto and stopped on the park’s gravel road. But he dismissed it, smiling to himself as he crouched down, carefully maneuvering his way down a muddy hill.

Flesh stopped him.

“Grandma!” Lucas tore away. He whipped around, glaring.

“Come on, Lu! You’re a Shooting Star, too, right?”

“Bryce?”

Lucas blinked and apologized. But the boy was beckoning him, having dashed off.  

The day dragged on. Lucas worried whether his grandmother had even remembered him by now. No--after he first reminded her to come pick him up. Didn't she care that he needed to do homework, shower and eat dinner? If they cared enough to adopt him, why did the love end with soccer practice?

“It doesn’t make any sense.” Lucas headed over to Bryce, eventually seeing their team circling a fire pit. So he wasn’t left behind?

“We’re here to help you.” Bryce pulled out a matchbox and lit a match, dropping it onto the dry leaves. Lucas watched several boys and girls attack a bag of marsh mellows and then drive these possessed treats through these makeshift skewers. The air ballooned with laughter, chatty gossip and package-tossing as the sparks from the crackling fire flew up and then disappeared. Lucas was offered a marsh mellow-enclosed stick, but he shook his head.

“Come on, it’s a party to celebrate our win!” 

Some people called Lucas a killjoy while others hooted that he’d just in it for the glory. When Bryce defended him, a couple bribed Lucas. “No,” he said quietly. “No thanks.”

A punch on the shoulder. “You can’t just clam up, Lu. You’re our friend, too. What’s the Shooting Stars without you?”      

Lucas rounded.

“What am I doing here? I’m supposed to be sitting with my grandparents, not waiting endlessly for my grandmother to pick me up after she does her own important things!”   

Bryce laughed and slapped him on the back. “Well, we’ve all had our rough days where we weren’t quite able to kick that ball into the goal. Or Stephanie couldn’t catch or tackle the ball as she does so well, and it goes in. But we move on!” He scooped up his stick and roasted the dirt-stained marsh mellow. Lucas twisted his face into something like pity, pursing his lips as the fire silently murdered the innocent treat.

Bryce, he realized, wasn’t much help. He may be the Shooting Stars’ leader here, but he was just one of the team’s central defenders while Lucas was Stephanie’s sweeper—in other words, he couldn’t really advise Lucas on his poorness of life’s hardships. Lucas took one glance at the partying, carefree soccer players, and left softly, ensuring no one caught him. Then, when he got deeper, he ran, anger hot in his veins.               

As he crossed streams, hopped over dead moss-covered logs and kicked at tall weeds and grass, eventually, Lucas Bryce’s voice ask around for Lucas.

This is when he bolted back to the bench. Hurtling over rotting branches, Lucas shoved away trees’ protruding ones and crossed brooks like his life depended on it. Bryce just sounded concerned, but this truth didn’t make him matter to the team any more than if the kid turned everyone into a search party—

“Lucas?”  

The redhead jumped. He slowly turned from staring at the field, and astonishment overtook him as his eyes met blue ones. “Grandma—you’re here!” He sprang up, giving her an excited hug. She returned it, apologizing for her rudeness. 

“Let’s go home.”

“Yes—that’d be great! I don’t want to daydream anymore.”     

As they walked hand-in-hand towards her blue Subaru, Lucas hoped Grandma would be on time for next week’s soccer practice. After nodding, she announced they’d enjoy a delicious homemade meal of meatball and spaghetti dinner.

“And then we’re going to celebrate your win with a fun trip to Dairy Queen. Sound like fun?” Grandma lead the way inside the house as Lucas followed behind her.   

“Awesome couldn’t describe it more!” He cheered.

Bryce had returned to the campfire, saying Lucas had probably gone home with his grandmother. Someone pointed out that he had as he stuffed another marsh mellow on his stick—she saw the woman drive away. “He could’ve, Steph.”        

She copied him. “He’s still on our team, right?”

Bryce jammed the steaming but awesomely golden-brown marsh mellow into his mouth and literally talked around it. “It wouldn’t make sense—his tardy grandmother is consistently late. I could give him a ride, but I live the opposite way.” He threw up a sticky hand. “Who votes we tell him to move here so he could walk home?”

Some kids laughed as they watched others throw their golden-brown marsh mellows into the air and then catch them in their open mouths. Suddenly, he shot up and snapped his stick in half. Everyone’s attention was stolen now. “I’m the leader here!”                  

“But not on the soccer field!” 

Snickers became outright rude laughter, but these players immediately started digging their toes nervously into the grass at Bryce’s glare. “Sorry.”  

“Besides!” this same player braved, “you were the one who invited Lucas the Loser over here. Why should someone who can’t even get picked up on time join the party?”

Bryce balled his fists and then picked up a rock. Storming over to the sniggering doofus, he raised and drew back his hand. But the boy squinted at and told everyone to tell Coach to cut this so-called defender from the team. When this warning was encouraged, Bryce whipped back his hand and struck the boy square on the forehead. He cried, doubling over with pain, hand smacked against the bleeding bruise.            

Bryce broke the silent shock, raging that this soccer team could go without him for all he cared.

“What’s wrong with acceptance?” He stomped over to the marsh mellow bag and thrust it in the fire. Then he did the same with everyone’s sticks. “If you’re not happy, I’m leaving. I’m tired of this constant bullying.” He stormed from the camp, leaving an appalled group of middle and early high schoolers. And maybe Lucas—if he was smart enough to move to another team, too.           

Immediately, someone took Bryce’s place, telling everyone to join him on a little trip to the grocery store so they could continue their party with real food. As they all filed into his pickup truck, one of the kids warning him he wasn’t allowed to drive without a parent. Scoffing at this rule, the driver bragged he always drove alone—although he had just his permit. “Let’s go!”                           

This kid buckled obediently (like the others), and away they sped. While the driver went past zooming cars and sidewalk pedestrians, one of the boys whipped around to the rest of the players. “Is it still bleeding?”

“Yeah.” One kid peered closer. “It’s starting to, anyway.”    

“Well, is it or not?”

“Yeah…”

“Yeah what?”

“Yeah, yeah—it is!”

Both boys sat back in their seats. The bleeding kid complained, but the driver told him they were getting closer—the Walmart sign was right up ahead. The moaning became muffled. Then he demanded why Bryce had angrily struck him on the forehead.

“Don’t know, Cam. Just keep it away from my car!”   

But Cam slid a hand across the redness and then onto his seat. He laughed to himself—leaving some red would avenge Ty’s stupid demand.

After escaping out of the truck, the hyper group followed the new leader towards the store, until someone stopped them all.

“Uh, Ty—”

He spun around, froze and then strove to give an excuse as they scolded and then demanded him to get in their car.

“Mom, it’s not what it looks like. I can explain!” 

Mom didn’t listen. Dad told him to buckle up while his wife and he climbed into their seats. Ty nervously obeyed. Once he left, the team wondered aloud who was driving everyone home. Then someone said, “Let’s just get some stuff. It’s not like we’re going to be babysat like Ty!” 

Cheers arose, and all of them abandoned the parking lot. When inside, some headed towards the ice cream, while others swarmed the candy aisle. A couple of others grabbed cookies and then exited the sliding doors, encouraging anyone who didn’t want to waste time at the cash register, either, to follow them back to the bonfire. Everyone grabbed food and hightailed it out of there. Cleats pounded the parking lot as angry employers charged the thieves, threatening arrests. The soccer players jeered at the uniformed men and women.    

Once they were back at the campfire, someone announced Bryce had been gone a while.

“Shut up, Quinton.” 

“Just saying.”

“We didn’t reward ourselves with this feast for no reason—”

“Hey!”

Quinton sprang up, attacking whoever had startled him. The box of cookies was grabbed, and before anyone could utter Stop, this kid was pickpocketing everyone’s groceries! Irate teammates soon chased him, and then another one. When one of these thieves cried out after falling from tripping over a tree stump, the other told him to get up. The latter did, the kid saw, but he was grabbed by the shoulder from a large kid. Whirling him around, this angry guy stretched back a fist. But his ugly frown changed when the kid kicked him in the shins and then tore away, yelling for the first kid to follow him.    

“No, Lucas, this way!”          

Both boys soon hurled themselves at what one of them claimed was his parents’ minivan.

“Get in! I’ll drive you.”

Thinking they’re returning the groceries tossed into the passenger seat opposite him to Walmart, Lucas scampered but made it into the car. He fiercely pushed the sliding door faster closed. Seeing the other players gaining, he forced it, ordering the thing to shut now! It did, and the boy sped out of the parking space and then the whole park, gravel spewing everywhere. It was a while before Lucas and his fellow thief could tell their hammering hearts and panicked breaths to become normal. Lucas laughed out loud, and the other boy shook his head.

“Man, if we get caught, we’re dead. But at least, we have a good reason!”

“Bryce—thanks for including me on your heroism. It’s great we’ll save the store the trouble of buying more food by returning this stuff to them.”

But Bryce nodded stiffly. “FYI, I stole this car. It’s mine now.”

They approached a stoplight. Lucas watched Bryce warily and then looked outside. The sky was just getting dark—geez! How long was this day? Lucas still remembered waiting for Grandma hours and hours ago. He wanted to be home again, eating a nice bowl of warm soup and talking about the famous kick that always gave him goals. Grandma’s beaming smile tugged at his heart, while Grandpa would throw an arm around Lucas’ bony shoulders, delivering the congratulations he would never receive from any of the other team players.

Lucas worried, biting his lip, puckering his eyebrows. He was driving, under-aged, with a stolen car and stolen groceries. A thief! What if Bryce was playing some kind of weird game—because he slapped hands with everyone but the kid who went home late? Whose grandmother forgot him? Every. Single. Practice.         

“Bryce?”

He grunted.

“I just want you to know that my grandparents—”

“Don’t need to know about this little misadventure you’re on.”

“Uh…they’d kill me if they found out that I’m driving with someone underaged!” Widening his eyes, Lucas went for his seatbelt.

“Aw, don’t worry.” Bryce was looking in the rearview mirror. “We’re going to hang out at my place. Don’t you want to be more than just the one who goes home four hours later than everyone else?”

“Yeah, but—” 

“Then relax!”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Lighten up, Lu! Not everyone’s going to stop their antics just because you disagree with them.”

“Bryce!”    

Bryce ignored him, pulling up. He got out and went around to the other side of the car. Sliding open the door, he told Lucas to get out. His stomach churned as he grabbed the bags first and then pulled the handle. He pursed his lips, his stomach gurgling with nausea. Bryce motioned for him to follow, and Lucas forced himself to hike a set of metal stairs.   

“Why?” Then Lucas wished his tongue was bitten off. He was too innocent—he needed to go with the flow.

“Because,” Bryce unlocked his door, kicked it open and entered, “you’re always left behind. I want to make you feel better.” Flicking on the kitchen lights and snatching the bags from Lucas’ hand, Bryce reassured him they’d enjoy themselves with the snacks and a show. Not daring to remind him of homework, Lucas obeyed, closing the door.

It wasn’t long before he too cracked up at the actor’s dumb antics. Bryce’s and his finished Lunchables and soda cans were strewn all over the wooden floor and table amidst torn Walmart bags split open from the boys’ ravenous need for the candy and cookies.    

“This is fun!” Lucas admitted.

A sly grin. “What’d I tell you?”

While the new friends killed time with more dumb shows and buttery bags of salty popcorn, Lucas purposely forgot about school tomorrow. His grandmother’s repeated calls ended in voicemail. Lucas told Bryce he couldn’t ask for a better friend.

“Lucas, you’ll never have to worry about that team ever again.”

“Why?” Lucas helped himself to another bottle of soda from the kitchen refrigerator, and grabbed a carton of ice cream from the overstocked freezer.

“Because.”

Lucas looked at him after plopping these goodies on the coffee table. Responsibility was as far from Bryce’s mind as Lucas could be from his grandparents’ house. Although Lucas didn’t know Bryce very well—the defender and former leader of the Shooting Stars back at the campfire—he was definitely friendly.

No—he selflessly turned Lucas the Loser into Lucas the Partner in Crime.

“What will you be doing?” Lucas cracked open the can and downed the drink and then dove into the ice cream after retrieving a spoon.

“Thievery’s been my sport long before soccer. No one knows I stole those marsh mellows.” Bryce grabbed a Snickers bar and winked at him. “Care about fun, or want to get insulted forever?”  

Lucas knew he’d be kicked out of soccer for any declination. So he clinked sodas with Bryce, telling him he wouldn’t suffer any more humiliation as a forgotten nobody.  

“What I thought.” Bryce wore the happiest smile. “I’ve always wanted a friend to accept me.”

“Me too.”

Lucas watched the sun just starting to set, slowly turning the torn, worn leather sofa, stained coffee table and scratched floor a beautiful sunset orange. “Me too.”