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Arcady's Goal

Henry Holt and Company

I'M A RISK TAKER. That's why I score like crazy. I score on the go, with the ball in the air, with my back to the goal. I score in all weather. Dirt, mud, or ice, I score. Today it's pelting rain. The ball is heavy, caked with mud. I beat Dimka on the dribble and push the ball through the puddles. He splashes after me, grabbing at my coat. Grabbing is against the rules in soccer, but here no one plays by the rules.

We play in a yard with a fence on all sides, the stakes of the fence are sharpened to knifepoints. The barbed wire above the stakes keeps us from climbing. Penned in like that, every kick has rebound potential. Half the goals I score on the rebound, me passing to myself. Who else would I pass to? Our soccer is strictly one on one. The guards won't let us team up.

Huffing and puffing, Dimka is knocking himself out to keep me from scoring into his goal. It's not really a goal, it's just an old potato crate on its side. Potato crates are easy to find, but not the potatoes.

I'm about to kick the ball in when Dimka grabs me by the coat and spins me around. Whoosh. The fence flickers by. I lose sight of his goal, but that doesn't stop me. I back-heel the ball through his legs. The ball slams into the crate, planks shooting out in splinters.

Goal!

My pals are watching the game from under the sagging tarp. No one cheers. Why would they? I've beaten every one of them by now.

Dimka reaches deep inside his wet sweater, digs around awhile then pulls out a package wrapped in soggy newspaper.

"Here," he wheezes. "Pig out, champion."

He hands the package over, but when I try to take it, he doesn't let go. Our hands are in a tug of war. I look up to see his eyes shiny from hunger. He can't hold my stare and lets the thing go.

He slogs away while I unwrap the package. An eighth of bread, our daily ration.

Under the tarp, my pals rise up to watch me eat my bread. I feel sorry for them, but what can I do? It's not my fault I'm that good at soccer.

"Hey, Dimka!"

He turns just in time to catch the bread I toss.

"Keep it," I say. "I'll win it next time."

JUST THEN someone hollers into my ear, "Got you, criminal!"

It's Butterball, our wisecracking director. A guard is by his side, one of the rougher ones. Butterball never shows up in the yard without a guard, sometimes two. The guard grabs me.

"Setting up illegal soccer games, Arcady?" Butterball bellows. "Cheating poor orphans out of their bread rations?"

"Get lost."

"Hold your tongue, boy! Ready to go back to solitary? No kicking the ball there."

The guard gives my arm a squeeze. Right then, I spot the ball flying our way. Dimka must have kicked it. I duck and the ball thuds against the guard's overcoat, smearing it with mud. My pals take off shrieking from under the tarp, splashing through the puddles. The guard cusses, lets go the scruff of my neck, and charges at them, shouting "Disperse!" and "No assembling in groups!"

The moment the guard lets me go, I make a move, but Butterball is ready for it. He is fat but able.

"Not too fast," he says, reeling me in.

"What do you want?"

He glances over his shoulder then looks back at me and squints his itty-bitty eyes. "Not much. Just show off your soccer skills for some important people tomorrow."

He's a sly one, that director, you can't trust him. He wants me to show off my soccer skills, but it was he who outlawed soccer when someone snitched we were playing for food rations. Strictly forbidden, he said, but it's his fault there's never enough food to fill our bellies. We have to pull through somehow.

"The government inspectors are here tomorrow to check on us. Any small thing that's not to their liking, heads will roll," Butterball whispers, leaning in close. "I know for a fact, the inspectors are all soccer fans. We show you beating one kid after the next, they'll forget all about their inspecting." His itty-bitty eyes dart around. "Just in case, Arcady, I'll line up some mama's boys against you."

Butterball is waiting for me to agree. Let him wait.

He leans in even closer, brushing his clammy nose against my forehead. "I heard of cases," he whispers, "where some inspectors only pretend to be inspectors. They are soccer coaches searching children's homes for new talent. Soccer is big, son. The important thing is to be in the right place at the right time." He shuts one eye and fixes me with the other, this must be a wink. "Trust me, Arcady, you are in the right place."

Butterball would say anything. He's a liar. But catch him telling a lie, what does he care? I've never seen him blush once. I know for definite that if a soccer coach sees me score, nothing will happen. Butterball told us a million times that children like us are not allowed to be team players.

While he keeps on blabbering, I stare at his mouth moving but can't hear a thing. From his mouth a delicious smell flows into my nostrils. Sausage, fried onions, and something else I don't have a name for, goose liver maybe. I go numb from smelling such foods.

Everyone knows Butterball is stealing our food. Take a look at his gut and smell his goose-liver breath. But the truth is, he needs more food than most. Besides us, he has to feed nine in his family, and one still in diapers. Everyone has to get by somehow, but it's harder for him. Tomorrow the inspectors might get wise to his stealing and ship him off to hard labor or worse. Who'd feed his little kids then?

"I'll do it on one condition," I say.

"What is it?"

"Two bread rations for each game I play," I say. "One for me and one for the loser."

Butterball's bald head shines in the rain, a raindrop hangs off the tip of his nose. He grins. "You got yourself a deal, son."

IT'S STILL DARK when the guards drive us out of our bunks and out of the dorm. Shouting and blowing their whistles, they hustle us down the stairs. At the bottom landing, there are more guards with dogs barking and snapping at us as we pass. These dogs are as mean as the guards, but not as dumb.

In the yard, Butterball bellows through a bullhorn, "Fall in, criminals! Fall in! Form lines!" Then he gets mad at the guard. "Put the runts in the front, blockhead!"

Looking for places, we push and shove each other. It's a mess, but the guards straighten us out in no time. Smack first, talk later, that's our guards.

"Children of the enemies of the people!" Butterball booms through the bullhorn. "Do not forget what our humane government has done for you. The government has put a roof over your heads, has given you food, shoes, and medicine. It has given you free education. But what did your parents do? They were accused of crimes against our people. They were punished and left you orphans. Remember, children, you are better off without such parents. When the government inspectors visit us today, show your loyalty and gratitude. No wisecracks. No monkey business. Questions?"

None of us know what he's talking about. Ask what our parents have done, and each one of us would say our mom and dad were good.

THE DOGS BARK when a slick city car rolls into the yard. A loudspeaker fixed to a pole bursts into army march then cuts off. After some hiss and crackle, the march starts over. The car slows through the puddles to keep its polished sides free of mud and stops at the steps where Butterball stands at attention. The driver in police overcoat, fully armed, hops out and swings open the glossy doors. Inspectors in thick woolen coats, fur hats, and good leather shoes heave themselves out. They are laughing at something the driver has said. None of them look at us.

Butterball, beaming with pride, steps up to the car. As each inspector climbs out, Butterball kisses him on one cheek, then again on the other, and after looking into the inspector's eyes with his moist ones, a third time. They must feel disgusted to slobber on each other, but that slobbering makes their greeting official. They always do it.

I know a hundred percent that Butterball lied to me about soccer coaches pretending to be inspectors, but still I scope each one of them closely. Not that I've ever seen a soccer coach in real life, but if I see one I'll know it.

When the last inspector gets out of the car, Butterball leans in for a kiss. The inspector pulls back, frowning. He's not well fed or well dressed. Instead of a thick woolen coat he's got on a paper-thin slicker all crumpled and worn. He is hatless and to his chest he's clutching a beaten-up briefcase. He doesn't let Butterball slobber his face, but loops around him, steps into the puddle and stands there not minding it, staring at us with troubled eyes. He's no soccer coach for definite, but he's nothing like the rest of his pals either.

BUTTERBALL SEATS the inspectors in chairs under the tarp, treating them with hot tea and bagels. The loudspeaker belches out army marches. I play soccer. The inspectors cheer, clap, and call out strategic tips to me. Their tips are lousy, none of them knows a thing about soccer. I win game after game, earning bread for myself and for each kid that I beat, not that they know it. I kept my deal with Butterball a secret.

Instead of choosing mama's boys, Butterball lined up giants against me. On their last lap here, my opponents, some with mustaches, are closer to grown-ups than to boys. They don't come near me as far as goal scoring, but they don't play to score. They play to stop me from scoring. At every turn they slam me into the fence or push me into the mud. I suspect Butterball ordered them to make life harder on me, but I don't blame him. Knowing my skills, he aims to keep soccer interesting for the inspectors. Except that due to his instructions it's not soccer anymore. It's murder.

We keep to one rule: playing to the first goal. As soon as I score, I win. The losing kid is out, I switch sides, and Butterball puts up another. After I beat six kids, I'm worn out, but Butterball puts up the seventh. His name is Akim, a big kid, our biggest. He's not one of my pals, he never even plays soccer. Not that he's playing it now, but he bangs into me and he kicks hard. Akim's line is bodily harm.

While the dumb kid is mauling me, I keep one eye on the hatless inspector, the one who refused to get slobbered. He's sitting with the others, but he's not drinking tea or chomping on bagels. He sits there frowning, looking around as if he's bothered by something. For no reason at all I want to bang in a real kicker for him to enjoy. Why I want to please him I'm not a hundred percent, but I pull all the stops, bent on beating Akim even if they have to carry me out.

The trouble with Akim, he takes plenty of room. Whatever I do I can't get past him. He's all knees and elbows. I bounce off him like a ball off the fence. I try again and again.

Like a wet bull, Akim sinks deep in the mud. I thud the ball between his legs, but he claps his knees together and the ball bounces back to me. I trap the ball with my chest, let it drop, and chip it over. The ball spins, flinging mud. Akim lifts his nose to look, and mud plasters his face. He cusses. When I loop around to grab the ball, he sticks his boot out and trips me. I fall. The inspectors clap and cheer, excited. Akim grins stupidly, looking at Butterball instead of the ball. The ball is stuck in the mud by the fence, a short stop from Akim's goal. If I get there first, I'll score. I fly up and run. Akim chases after me, but he's slow, I get there first. I thud the ball into the fence and spin around to follow it on the rebound. Just then, Akim head-butts me into the fence. The yard goes black. I feel myself sliding down and lean into the fence, gasping and watching crazy spots and lights swirl before my eyes.

"Good game, boys!" hollers Butterball, his fat cheeks wobbling. "Tough as nails, this boy Arcady," he says to the inspectors, proud-like. "No feeling in him."

The loudspeaker hisses, crackles, and goes dead. In the sudden hush, the hatless inspector leaps up, knocking his chair sideways. "How could you be so cruel?" he says to Butterball in a shaky voice. "He's only a child!"

Butterball blinks his itty-bitty eyes. "What?" he says.

"Stop this game at once!" the inspector says and glances in my direction. Our eyes lock for a spell, and I nearly miss the next stupid thing Akim is about to do. He plunges into the puddle where the ball is twirling and, squashing it under his boot, turns to see if he can kick it into my goal from there. I dart after him, slide into a tackle and knock the ball from under his boot. The muddy ball lifts up like a heavy bird, knocks against the pole that holds the silent loudspeaker, and on a rebound whacks the hatless inspector square in the face. The loudspeaker hisses, crackles, and goes back to army marches.

NOT A THING has changed since the inspectors' visit. No heads have rolled. Not even mine for whacking the inspector. I'm owed six bread rations and six to the kids I beat, twelve in all, the seventh game we never did finish. I wait and wait for Butterball to give me the bread, but he is hushed on the subject. When I'm in his range of vision, the moron looks away. It's a good thing I kept the deal we made to myself, otherwise the kids would be counting on extra rations. But I aim to follow through. That goose-liver-breath owes me, if he forgot, he'll need reminding.

One morning, I sneak away from the yard and climb the stairs to the door behind which Butterball sits on his rear all day. The guard leaps up from the chair next to the door. "Whoa, whoa," he cries. "Where do you think you're going?"

"To Butterball?"

"Don't call him that!"

He tries to smack me, but by then I'm kicking the door in. First thing I see is Butterball sitting behind the desk made of steel, his fat arms are up to the elbows in the open drawer, digging for something.

"Hand over the bread, Comrade Director," I say politely. "You owe me."

Butterball looks up, startled. His eyes dart to the window where a tall citizen is standing with his back to the door, looking out into the yard. Butterball screws his eyes at me and flashes a big grin.

"Look who's here, Ivan Ivanych! Our famous soccer champion! We were just about to send for you, Arcady!"

The citizen turns from the window. It is that hatless inspector I whacked with the ball. He's got the same paper-thin, crumpled slicker on and he clutches the same worn briefcase. I'm not even surprised. I knew he'd be back to make me pay for that tackle kick.

I bolt back through the door, but the guard is there. He grabs hold of my ear. "I got him, boss!" he shouts to Butterball, dragging me by the ear back into the room. "We'll show you what's what, criminal!"

"Leave the boy alone!" the inspector cries and steps forward, raising his briefcase like a club.

The guard freezes and looks to Butterball, confused.

"Let go of the ear!" Butterball says.

The guard's mouth drops open. He blinks stupidly and lets go my ear.

"To the door!"

Soldier-like, the guard salutes Butterball and marches in reverse until his back slams the door shut. Then it's quiet.

I take in the situation. Not good. Only two ways out of this mess: the door and the window. The guard is blocking the door, and the inspector is standing in front of the window. I rub my ear, on fire from the guard twisting it, and keep my eyes peeled for either of them to make a sloppy move.

The inspector lowers his briefcase, sighs, and says, "Hello, Arcady."

Hello to you too, moron.

"Don't be rude, Arcady," Butterball says. "Say hello to Ivan Ivanych."

"It's all right," says the inspector. "He doesn't have to."

Something is fishy about this inspector. The way he beams in my direction you'd think he's glad to see me. He doesn't smile, but his eyes make me think of a smile. But don't believe it, the inspector is here for one reason only, to teach me a lesson. I don't care if they lock me in solitary, I'm not afraid of rats. But what if they ship me to one of those camps no one comes back from, or worse. Butterball said I'm finally old enough for the firing squad. They shoot you at twelve nowadays.

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Excerpted from Arcady's Goal by Eugene Yelchin. Copyright © 2014 Eugene Yelchin. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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