At lunch the Fab Four land at our regular table. Jaesang pulls out his tray of Korean sushi, and Catalina unwraps a burrito. Then they trade.
I have my same old peanut butter and Nutella sandwich.
Alistair’s lunch usually starts with him spreading a cloth napkin on the table, taking the lids off various Tupperwares, and “plating” a meal of fabulous leftovers he cooked the night before. Today he unwraps—
“A PB and J? Where’s my friend Alistair, and what have you done with him?”
“I didn’t feel like cooking last night, Sam. Now that we lost the case, I’ve lost my appetite for fine food.”
He crunches a celery stick. I take a bite of my soggy sandwich and think, What have I done?
And to make things even worse, my teachers all assigned un montón of homework, due tomorrow.
In the afternoon when I walk home, I notice Mr. Kalman’s LA Times still sitting in the gutter. I pick it up and walk it to his front door. On the porch I look through the window and see a candle burning. It’s one of those tall, fat candles in a glass holder with Hebrew letters on it. Last year around this time he lit one too, but I don’t know why.
I knock on his door. No answer. I ring the bell. No answer. I leave the paper on the porch.
At home, we eat dinner together. Even Sadie’s been eating with us every night since we lost in San Francisco. I ask Mom if she found a new job yet and she says, “Not yet, but I’ll keep looking.”
After dinner, in the living room, Sadie sits on the couch opposite Dad, their socks touching, feet to feet. He watches Thursday Night Football while she works on her Common App essay.
I know I’m not supposed to look over her shoulder, but I’m curious to see what she’s writing about, so I pretend to be sweeping the floor.
“What are you doing, Sam?” she asks.
“Sweeping the floor.”
“Since when?”
“I ate a cookie in the general vicinity of the couch. Probably dropped some crumbs.”
I sweep around the back of the couch and peek at her yellow pad. The title of her essay is “My Greatest Failure.”
Halfway down the first paragraph I see the words “my brother” and “lawsuit.”
Bernice says failure is the greenhouse of success. Right now it feels more like the doghouse.
Or the outhouse.
I want to say something, but I’m not allowed to because I’m only sweeping, not snooping. I don’t want Sadie to feel like she’s done anything wrong. The loss is my greatest failure, not hers. In Prisoner when you yell “Jailbreak!” and then drop the ball, whose fault is that?
Later, I hoist my backpack into my bedroom. I have math review exercises, notes on a science chapter, chapter 12 of Black Ships Before Troy to read, and a current event due because I missed Monday to be in San Francisco.
At my desk, I flick on the light and start my work. I’m my big sister’s greatest failure, so I decide that from now on, I’m going to work hard and get good grades and make her proud. Besides, we lost. We gave it our best shot. It’s time to get my priorities straight.
I wake up in a puddle of my own drool. It’s still dark out. Across the street I see candlelight flickering in Mr. Kalman’s window. My cell phone tells me it’s 3:35 in the morning. Plenty of time to get things done.
Eight scoops. That’s what I remember Mom counting out every morning when she makes her coffee. Eight scoops and water to the ten-cup line. Or is it ten scoops and water to the eight-cup line? Yeah, that sounds more like it.
I wait for the coffeemaker to gurgle and hiss, and that’s how I know it’s ready. I reach for a mug, see that it’s Mom’s Coldwell Banker top sales mug, and put it back. I’m still mad at the company, so I take an ordinary white one instead.
To tell you the truth, I’ve never tasted coffee before. Everyone says it’s a required taste. Required for what, I always wondered. Now I know.
Mom drinks hers black. Dad loads his up with cream and sugar. And Sadie puts soymilk in hers. With enough milk and sugar, anything goes down easy. And once it’s down, I’ll be up and ready to work.
Ready to show my teachers that I’m not a slacker, not a lazy complainer who lost his lawsuit. Ready to show them all that I can get back on their field and win.
I hold the mug to my lips and blow. Even with cream and sugar, this smells gross.
“What are you doing?”
I spin around. Sadie is standing in the kitchen doorway, holding her laptop and a stack of books. She eyes the mug of coffee in my hand.
“Since when do you drink coffee in the middle of the night?”
“I’ve got five things due in four hours.”
I take a long, sweet, milky, and bitter sip. Sadie sets down her laptop and her books and charges over.
“Give me that.”
“No.”
She grabs my arm.
“No way an eleven-year-old is going to get jacked up on caffeine just to do his homework.”
“Why not? You do it all the time.”
“I’m practically an adult.”
She starts to twist.
I resist.
She twists harder.
I let go.
She dumps the coffee into the sink.
I reach for the pot and pull it off the warming plate.
“I can drink it straight from the pot,” I say.
She grabs my arm again and pries two of my fingers off the handle. The other two and my thumb stay put.
“Sam, let go of the pot.”
“Make your own,” I snap.
She gives a tug.
I tug back.
She jerks.
I jerk back.
Then she pretends to give up, but I’ve played enough tug of war with dogs to know it’s just a trick. Right when I know she’s about to yank my arm, I fling it away from her.
She wasn’t supposed to let go. The coffeepot goes flying out of my hand, soars
