Mom was too focused on her attack to see the inhaler sitting in my lap. “I can tell that stuff’s been moved around.”
I knew I was defeated. I looked to Uncle Vic for help — nothing. I made a choice. It was time to be honest. “I was looking for my birth certificate.”
“Why?” she demanded. Judging by the sour look on her face, she wasn’t ready for honest.
“I, uh, I need it for a science project,” I said, trying to think as fast as I did on the basketball court. “We’re studying genetics …”
“The truth, Hudson,” Mom said flatly.
“Well, uh —” My tongue felt like it had been pinned down by a champion wrestler.
“I know you don’t want me to interfere, sis.” Uncle Vic spoke slowly, wrapping the cord around the food processor to the rhythm of his words. “But if you don’t give Hudson the information he wants, he’ll find it some other way. He’s a smart kid.”
Mom rubbed her temples. “What information?”
“About my dad.”
“Not now, Hudson.” She looked at me with tired eyes. “Please.”
Something about the way Mom said please, like she was begging for mercy, made me back off. “Then let’s talk about alpha-1.”
She sighed. “I’d rather wait till we’ve seen the genetic counselor.”
“I don’t need a genetic counselor to tell me what I already know.”
Now she looked like she was going to puke. “What?”
“That I can’t be a firefighter.” The words sounded fake as they flew off my tongue — I hadn’t really allowed myself to believe it. “That I’m going to be sick like Uncle Vic. That I might even die —”
“No!” Mom’s eyes flew open, wilder than I’d ever seen them. “No, no, no!”
I’d gone so far, and even though I was shaking with fear and frustration, I figured I might as well finish it off. “Like Darwyn.”
“That’s not true!” Mom’s tired body suddenly came to life. Her back straightened into a stiff line. “What did you say to him, Vic?”
“I thought he knew —”
“You!” Her finger jabbed the air as she pointed. “Both of you! All this jumping to conclusions! It has to stop!”
“But I —”
Mom’s glare shot the words back down my throat. She took a deep breath. “We are all going to see that genetic counselor together to get this straightened out. Get everything out in the open. There is so much you don’t understand …”
“Whose fault is that?” I snapped. “Don’t you think I deserve to know that I’m sick? That I may die —”
She put up her hand like a crossing guard stopping traffic. “Hudson, you are not sick. You —”
“But my brother was sick. My uncle is sick. And you won’t tell me anything about anything …” My voice faded as Uncle Vic grabbed for the box of tissues on top of the fridge.
“It’s just … I …” Mom wrapped her hands around her neck like her head might fall off if she didn’t hold on. “Oh, god, no …”
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, regret jabbing at me like a boxer in one of Trev’s video games.
The tears flowed down her face, collecting in a stream as she let out a sob. “I can’t …”
“I know it’s hard for you, sis.” Uncle Vic spoke softly as he handed her a tissue. “You’ve lost a lot —”
“And I will not lose you!” Mom said to him, jumping up from her seat. “Or you!” She pointed at me with one hand, balling the tissue up against her eyes with the other.
Uncle Vic nodded with understanding. “Maybe it would be better to talk about it later …”
“Yes.” Mom sniffed. “Later. I promise. Okay, Hudson?”
“Okay.” Anything to make her stop crying. To make my heart stop feeling so — tight.
“I have a headache.” Mom put her hands on my shoulders, pushing down on them like she was trying to stop me from growing. “I have to … I’m going to bed.”
When she was gone, Uncle Vic looked around the kitchen and let out a soft whistle. “Hope you’re hungry, kid.”
•••
We let the music on Uncle Vic’s phone distract us from further conversation while we ate the superhealthy (and not totally disgusting) meal he’d prepared. I blocked out all thoughts of firefighting and dying and Joseph Novak by concentrating on Uncle Vic’s interpretation of each tune. He described songs like they were sports plays and musicians like they were professional athletes.
“Want to shoot some hoops?” he asked when we were done.
“In the snow?”
“Sure, why not?” He pushed his stool away from the counter. “I’ll clear up later.”
I glanced out the window. “But it’s dark. And cold.”
“I thought you wanted to practice.”
“But what if I fall and twist an ankle or something?”
“Lighten up, kid.” Uncle Vic grabbed his coat. “It’ll be fun.”
And he was right. It was fun. Fun enough to make me think that basketball on ice, with no penalties for roughing, hooking or tackling, should be an actual sport.
“Next basket wins,” gasped Uncle Vic as he slid away from the net with the ball under his arm. Dribbling was impossible on the snow-covered ice, so we’d been carrying the ball around like a football.
“No fair!” I stood in front of him, guarding the net. “You have possession.”
His laugh turned into a cough. “The sick guy needs a handicap.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said as I tried to poke the ball away from him. Uncle Vic was a much better player than I thought he’d be. Not that either of us would have wanted a scout watching as we lunged and spiraled around the driveway.
“He fakes left,” Uncle Vic said as he faked a pass to some invisible player on the left. “He fakes right.”
I shadowed the ball with my hand. “Just shoot!”
Uncle Vic leaped into the air and spun around. When he’d almost done a complete turn, he let go of the ball. As his feet hit the ice, they shot forward in front of him, and he landed hard on his butt. The ball sailed up into the air and over the backboard.
“Air ball!” I yelled when I saw the grin on his face. I ran toward the back of the net and fell to my knees, sliding the rest of the way to the ball, which had landed in a snowbank. In one swift motion, I grabbed the ball and shot from where I was on the ground.
Swish.
“The kid has done it again, folks!” Uncle Vic continued his commentary, still sprawled out on the icy pavement. “He’s snatched the game away from the favored opponent in the final seconds of the game.”
Laughing, I shook Uncle Vic’s hand and then plopped down next to him. “Good game!” But my smile disappeared when I noticed the dark circles under his eyes. “You look a little beaten up.”
“I’m tired,” Uncle Vic admitted. “Damn genes.”
“Alpha-1?”
“Probably.”
Guilt crept through me like the cold from the ice we sat on. “Is it going to stop you from doing a lot of stuff?”
“It could control your life. If you let it.” Uncle Vic leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “But listen, kid, your mom is right. It’s possible that you don’t have it.”
“Is it?” I didn’t want to hear any lies from Uncle Vic. I didn’t want him to try and make me feel better. And I definitely didn’t want him talking in riddles like some kind of shrink. “What about you? Is it going to stop you from doing stuff?”
“Not really.” Uncle Vic rubbed his hands together. “Smoking is the big thing.”
“You don’t smoke.”
“No, but some of the band members do, and it’s still in the clubs after hours.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Pay attention to where I�
�m hanging out. Maybe start an antismoking campaign. You know the saying, when life hands you lemons …”
“Make lemonade,” I said with a shiver. “I hate lemonade.”
“Me, too.” Uncle Vic stood up and held out his hand. “I think I have frost butt. Let’s get some hot chocolate.”
“Sounds good.”
•••
As we sat at the counter, Uncle Vic told me about a letter-writing campaign he was working on in conjunction with a benefit concert. “Want to help out?” he asked. “It would be great if you could bring it into the school. Get the students involved.”
“Sure,” I said, thinking about Willow. And next thing I knew, I was telling him all about her.
“She’s kind of like Sage,” I said, taking a sip of hot chocolate.
“Pretty then?”
I was about to object — a lie to cover my embarrassment — when Uncle Vic started to cough.
Still hacking, he stood up and grabbed something from the pocket of his jean jacket, which hung, dripping, off the back of the stool. Not even trying to be discreet, he went over to the sink, opened a bottle and shook something out into his hand. He brought his fist to his mouth and then took water directly from the faucet and swallowed. Repeat. He was popping pills — it was as obvious as the fakes my old teammates used to broadcast from the blue line.
“Are those for your cough?” I asked, doubt hanging from every word.
Uncle Vic tapped the pill bottle against his palm, raised his hand to his mouth and threw back his head to swallow another handful. “No.”
“Alpha-1?”
“Not exactly.”
“I thought you didn’t do drugs,” I snapped.
“I don’t.” He turned off the tap. “Not the illicit kind, anyway.”
My temper flared. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Illicit, you know, as in illegal.” Uncle Vic returned to the stool next to me. “Drugs are illegal. I don’t do drugs.”
“Then what is that?” I demanded, with enough force to let him know I was serious. Very serious. I thought about the truth points the avatars collected in Trev’s video game — how many could I collect from Uncle Vic? It was time to put on some real pressure and see.
“Prescription medication.” He set the empty bottle on the counter. “For my stomach.”
I looked closely at Uncle Vic, trying to determine whether he was being straight. I decided to give him a full truth point — he had a bottle plastered with a pharmacy label, after all. Proof. “Is that what you got out of your room the night of the fire? E. O. said it was a small package.”
“Yes.”
“It’s just medicine?” Were his stomach problems so bad that he’d rather risk his life staying in a burning house than go one night without his pills? Surely, he could’ve gotten the prescription filled again the next day. Mom had gotten a new inhaler at the pharmacy in New Jersey when I’d forgotten mine on a trip to see Grandma. Mentally, I took away half the truth point. “From the doctor?”
“Kind of,” he replied sheepishly.
“The truth, Uncle Vic.” I could hear Mom’s tone of voice as the words slipped out of my mouth.
“The doctor gives me a prescription.” He hesitated, measuring me with his eyes like he was determining whether I was a worthy opponent. “But I exceed the maximum dosage, uh” — he cleared his throat — “regularly. So I have to get, uh, creative.”
I peered at him as if my eyes held some kind of lie-detecting power. “You’re in that much pain?”
“A lot of the time. Without the painkillers, I can’t even sleep.” Uncle Vic rubbed one eye with the back of his hand. “They really help.”
Truth point. “So, why don’t you talk to the doctor?”
“I have. I will. Knowing about the alpha-1 stuff will help us get it sorted.”
Another truth point. “You think it’s related?”
Uncle Vic nodded.
Reluctantly, I gave him another truth point. But he was being too secretive to make it to the next level. “What do you mean by ‘creative’?”
“I have my ways.” He held up his hands like he was under arrest. “Probably best if you stay out of it.”
“Illegal, then?”
“Maybe. Sort of.” Uncle Vic cracked his knuckles. “But I do not do street drugs, kid. I never have and I never will. That’s what messed up your dad. I’m not going down that road.”
“But I saw an article. Online. You were arrested for possession.” My mouth was so dry, I could barely get the words out. But I had to — it was now or never. “You and Joseph Novak.”
“Joseph?” Uncle Vic inhaled sharply and then went silent. I waited him out by staring at the countertop, focusing so hard that the dots in the laminate started blending together.
“Okay, here it is,” he finally said, laying his hands on the counter like he was showing me a losing hand of cards. “Your dad did a little of this and a little of that when we were in the band together. Got us all into a bit of trouble. When you were born, he went clean. But the thing with Darwyn? Well, it really messed him up. He got into the hard stuff then, and it was all downhill from there. He gave up custody, and your mom changed your name to Pickle. I haven’t heard from him since.”
My gut knotted as the truth points flew around the room. “Downhill?”
“He became an addict.”
My stomach sank down to my gangly knees. “An addict?” To me, an addict was someone with bad teeth and skin who lived only for his next hit, like the lowlifes they show in the movies. That was my dad?
“I’m sorry, Hudson.”
I sat back, dumbfounded.
Uncle Vic finished off his hot chocolate in one swig. “But listen, kid, what I just said? It stays between you and me. I’ve probably gone too far. Your mom would be furious.”
My mind was rushing to catch up. “But …”
“It’s not my place.” He got up and cleared our empty mugs. “I’m not your parent.” He grabbed the top of my head across the counter and shook it gently, messing my hair the way Mom sometimes did, only different.
I didn’t duck away.
“Although sometimes I wish I was,” he added quietly.
With my hair standing on end, I whispered, “Me, too.”
Chapter Eighteen
“So you can’t be a firefighter.” Trev stuffed his mouth with a forkful of noodles. “What’s the big deal? It’s just a project for Career and Tech. It’s not like they’ll give you a failing grade a decade from now when they find out you’re not doing the job you researched. That you’re a janitor instead.”
He laughed at his own joke.
I did not.
We were sitting in the hallway eating lunch in front of our lockers — Trev’s idea. For some reason, he’d decided to take a break from his gaming buddies. And I was relieved not to be hiding out behind the stacks in the library for a change.
So far, I hadn’t even touched my sandwich. I’d been too busy filling him in on what had happened the night before. I hadn’t meant to spill it all, but Trev had started asking about Willow — again — and I needed something to change the subject. Talking about my lung disease and probable death seemed to have done the trick.
“Ha-ha,” I grumbled, stifling a yawn. I’d been up late, trawling the net for information on alpha-1 and career restrictions. Trev obviously didn’t get how interested I’d become in firefighting. It had started as an accidental choice, but now I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else. But if Trev didn’t get that, I wasn’t about to explain it to him.
Trev closed his thermos. “What about sports?”
I took a bite of ham and cheese. It didn’t taste right. “Huh?”
“Alpha-1 affects the lungs, right?” Trev reached into his lunch bag and pulled out an apple. “And exe
rcise stresses the lungs. So maybe lifestyle management means no sports.”
“Sh —” I dropped my sandwich. “Shoot.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing.” I banged the back of my head against the locker. “There’s nothing I can do until we see that stupid genetic couns —”
I stopped talking when I saw Aidan’s shadow looming over us. “What’s this about genetics?” he snarled. “Are they using your DNA to make a clone of Big Foot? Or is that experiment still in the rat phase?”
“There’s only one rat around here, Aidan,” Trev said as he polished his apple with his shirt.
“That’s not a very Zen-like thing to say, Mr. Kung Fu,” Aidan sneered.
“What do you want, Aidan?” Trev asked.
The metal edge of the locker dug into my spine as I hunched over. Was Trev actually standing up to Aidan?
Aidan looked surprised as well. “You two coming to practice tonight?”
Trev and I spoke at the same time, only I said yes and Trev said no.
“See you at practice then, Wheezy. I’ll look for you hiding out behind your girlfriend. It’s really too bad that Willow’s too tall for a real man to want her.”
I was too mad to speak. Did Aidan know what I’d said to Willow?
Trev threw his apple core into the bin on the other side of the hall — a three-point shot. “A real man like you?” he asked with a chuckle.
“Be careful, little boy.” Aidan dragged a knuckle along the lockers above our heads as he walked away.
“Whatever.”
Why was Trev suddenly acting like a superhero?
“And as for you, Wheezy” — Aidan turned and punched a fist into his open palm — “you better watch your back. I haven’t forgotten about that trip.”
“Do you boys have somewhere to be?” The lunch monitor had appeared around a corner. She bounced as she walked, moving through the halls quickly.
“I do.” Aidan flashed a grin and turned on his heel. “Somewhere far away from this fairy tale.” Humming “hi-ho, hi-ho,” he walked away, arms swinging.
“Everything okay?” The lunch monitor peered at Trev and me over the top of her glasses.
Inside Hudson Pickle Page 12