The Word that Mattered

The last time I saw Isaiah, he had a ball under his arm. The sun was setting and he was walking off the soccer field, smiling and goofing around with his friends. We were at this camp where sometimes foster kids go in the summer. After we got taken out of our mom’s place, it was the only place I really got to see him. I don’t know how or when he got into soccer, but he was pretty good — the best player at the camp that year, actually. I don’t know exactly how much, but he was way older than me — probably three or four years — and that kid was my hero. All the crap feelings from shifting around and being yelled at, anger at mom, all of it disappeared for that brief time we spent in camp every summer, and we were inseparable. Even though I only got that one week each year to see him, it was always the best week of the year. That year, he’d started teaching me to play. “You better practice, now,” he said. “You gotta hold up our rep.”

It was pretty shortly after camp ended that the lady I was staying with shipped me off to some new foster home. Guess she couldn’t handle having a kid, you know? It was like my fourth placement, so I handled it like a pro — no tears, no questions, no insults. Isaiah would’ve been proud. I just grabbed the plastic bag the lady had jammed all of my stuff into and hopped in the caseworker’s car, careful to make sure that, like I’d seen Isaiah do years before, I kept a stony, expressionless face.

“Don’t worry. You’ll like your new school much better, too,” she said, trying to make me feel better. Just a few weeks after camp and everything was back to normal — people comforting me by talking about crap they don’t know anything about. Already I was just wanting to see my brother again. The new foster place was nicer, at least, and Mr. Riker, the guy who was taking me, seemed friendly enough. It was kinda weird that he didn’t have a wife or anything but whatever, I just wanted to stop moving around so much. He helped me get my stuff in the house, and he’d already set up a room for me. I guess this was his first foster kid ’cause he’d decorated the walls with basketball and movie posters but there were toddler toys and crib next to the bed. Like I said, weird.

The caseworker left and Riker must’ve been really excited or something ’cause he just kept asking me a lot of questions. I stuck to one word answers until he finally let me just be alone in my room. I stared around at the posters, Kobe Bryant and Lebron James. I laughed at’em for a bit — this Riker dude was clueless. Even today, I still hate basketball. But, the house was clean, he seemed much nicer than the last lady, and I was not looking to keep moving around.

I could stay here, maybe. So long as school doesn’t suck.

The next day, after getting met by the principal and getting my schedule and locker, I was left on my own for a few minutes before class started. The first thing that caught my attention was group of kids kicking a soccer ball around the hallway while everyone waited for the first bell. Isaiah had shown me some tricks at camp, and I’d gotten pretty good, so when the ball got knocked towards my feet, I thought maybe I could impress them. In my head it was easy enough: Kick low under the ball to get it into the air, then give it a solid tap with the side of my foot to get it up to head level, then bump it with my head in their direction. The first kick went great but the second “tap” sent the ball flying off down the hallway — I almost pissed myself from embarrassment.

“Nice moves, kid,” one of the boys said, rolling his eyes. “I’m not getting it — you better go get it back for us.”

I tried to look tough as I scoffed at him, but I walked to the ball anyway. I shuffled back and tossed them the ball before quickly turning away again so I could finally breathe — the bell rang and everyone scurried off, and I thanked God that was over.

“What were you thinking?” I asked myself. “You haven’t touched a soccer ball since camp.” The rest of the day was spent thinking about that one stupid moment where I thought I could show off. What about what Isaiah said — what about our rep? I’d never even owned a soccer ball — how was I gonna hold our rep?

I got home that day and just threw my stuff against the wall and went straight to the room Riker’d given me. I wasn’t down to deal Riker’s weird questions. He heard me came in and popped his head out of the kitchen — weirdo was cooking dinner at like 3 P.M. — but I ignored him.

I had slammed the door before noticing the box on the bed. It was a wrapped gift box, and as I got over to it Riker knocked on the door. “What?” I asked, not trying to invite him in. He opened the door anyway.

“Hey, so, rough day?” No crap, Sherlock. I stayed silent and folded my arms over my chest. “Well, I got you something. Open it up.” I hadn’t gotten a present in long time — not even for my birthday at my last house — but I was reluctant to give this creep the satisfaction he was probably looking for. I didn’t really care what he got me, I just wanted him to leave the room. I picked up the box carelessly and started to pull off the paper.

It was a soccer ball.

What?

How did he know?

“Yeah, so, I hope you like it. Last night when I asked your favorite sport you said soccer, but I didn’t see a soccer ball with any of your stuff.” He’d asked me about my favorite sport? I’d barely paid him any attention.

“Great. Thanks,” I said, making sure to seem like I didn’t care. I threw the ball, still in the box, onto the floor and flopped on the bed. “Anything else?” He looked disappointed.

“Uh, no. No, nothing else. Dinner will be ready at five. I’ll come get you then.” He shut the door and as soon as his footsteps faded away down the hall, I ripped that box open. Even though I had no idea where he was, I felt Isaiah standing next to me as I gave the fresh ball some light kicks and taps. Maybe this Riker guy wasn’t so bad — I’d said a whole lot more to my other foster parents, and they hadn’t done jack for me.

But somehow, through my one-word answers and don’t-give-a-crap attitude, Mr. Riker had found the one word that mattered — soccer.