“Yup,” I said.
“Fine,” agreed Trev.
“What the?” I said when she and Aidan were both out of sight.
Trev slowly put his thermos into his lunch bag. “What?”
“Why are you so gutsy around Aidan all of a sudden?”
Trev shrugged. “I figured out he’s not so tough.”
“Since when?”
“Since he joined the Roundhouse.” Trev was struggling to keep a straight face.
“He’s taking martial arts?”
“Yep. And he’s awful.” Trev started to laugh. “He tried to break a board and almost broke his hand. He looked like the cartoon character from that ninja iPhone app, hopping around, swearing at the wood for not breaking.”
“How come I didn’t know about this?”
“Since when do you care about what happens in the dojo?”
I ignored the dig. “Do you get to fight him?”
“No.” Trev’s freckles seem to glow with pride. “I get to teach him.”
“I thought you couldn’t teach without getting your second-degree black belt?”
“I need the second dan to become like Sensei.” Trev looked pleased that I’d remembered, making me glad I’d paid attention. “Right now, I’m an assistant instructor.”
“Awesome!” I clapped him on the back. I knew how hard Trev had worked for this — he deserved the recognition. “So you get to boss around all the white belts like Aidan?”
“We’re definitely not supposed to think of it as ‘bossing around,’ but it is pretty fun to watch Aidan learn with the other beginners, who are mostly little kids.”
“I wonder why he’s taken up karate.”
“I overheard his mom say something about self-discipline and knowing her son needed more of it as soon as he started potty training.”
We both laughed as we put away our lunch bags. But when I opened my backpack and saw my gym clothes, I stopped. “What’s this about not going to practice?”
“Oh, yeah. I meant to tell you. Gran’s letting me spend extra hours at the Roundhouse, but I have to take confirmation classes in exchange.”
I banged my head against the locker door. “More karate and Sunday school?”
“Except confirmation classes aren’t just on Sundays,” Trev said. “So, no time for basketball.”
I ran my hand over my hair, trying to flatten it. It sparked with static electricity from rubbing against the locker. “But —”
“We both know that basketball is not my sport.”
“But I thought you were into it — the way you agreed to practice with Willow and me …”
Trev’s eyes narrowed like he was focusing in on a target. “I did that to find out what was going on between you two.”
“You like her!” The words came out so loud, they startled me. “I knew it!”
Trev’s voice rose to match mine. “Me and Willow? No way, man. She’s way too tall for me.”
Another crack about her height. Was Willow right? Did everyone give her a hard time about it? Being tall was tough enough. But it seemed like being a tall girl was even tougher. “What, then?”
Trev raised his hand, and for a minute, I thought he was going to karate chop my head off. “Listen, I was being a, uh, friend.”
“You were?” It was the first time in a long time that he’d referred to me as his friend.
“She’d be good for you. Someone else to talk to. You know, about your disease and stuff.”
What he didn’t say was someone besides him.
“Girls like that sappy stuff,” he added.
“B-but she hates me,” I stammered.
“Geez, Hudson. For someone who analyzes stuff so much, you really have trouble seeing the forest for the trees.”
“What?”
“Something Gran likes to say,” he said. “Probably a religious thing.”
“Okay …” I was confused, again. Time to get back on familiar turf. “But what about basketball?”
“Why do you care about that? It never bothered you that I didn’t play hockey.” He stood up.
“It’s just that —”
Trev and I stopped talking as a group of ninth-grade girls walked past us, shuffling their feet and snapping their gum. I recognized one of them from basketball, but she didn’t even glance my way. As they swung open the side door, they let in a blast of arctic air that made my lungs contract.
I coughed.
Trev shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Hey, I heard the Sabres won in OT last night.”
“Really?” I got up slowly, shaking out the cramp in my leg, shocked that I’d missed the game. I couldn’t believe I’d been surfing the net instead of cheering on my team.
“You didn’t see it?” Trev slammed his locker door. “They’re playing the Bruins tomorrow. We should watch it together.”
“Cool.”
Trev and I bumped knuckles. “I’m going outside,” he said. “Coming with?”
“Nah, I’m going to the library,” I said.
“Catch you later, then.”
And for the first time in a long time, I knew I had a friend. No matter what sport he played.
•••
I walked toward the library, biting the inside of my cheek every time I passed someone in the hallway. After Aidan’s threat of retaliation, I felt like I needed eyes in the back of my head — or helmet, as my old hockey coach used to say.
Here’s what I knew: Trev didn’t need basketball to stand up to Aidan; he had martial arts. But me? I needed help.
Plus, Trev was wrong about me and Willow. But he was right about one thing: I couldn’t see anything straight anymore, forest or trees.
Uncle Vic had given me a lot to think about last night, and I guess I believed him. But after so many years of secrets and half-told stories, I still didn’t have the full picture. Where was my dad now? Did he have alpha-1? Did I?
I sat down at a computer and googled Joseph Novak. Way too many hits without adding another term, like Victor Pickle. I tried Joseph Novak + drugs. I skimmed the results — nothing obvious. I thought for a minute and then tried Joseph Novak + addict. On the third page, I hit on something gold. Not first-place-medal-at-the-Olympics gold, but secret-buried-treasure gold — as in a huge find so totally unexpected, it made you wonder why you’d started searching in the first place.
There it was, laid out in pixels. A low-resolution photograph of a man who looked Eastern European. He had dark eyes, chiseled cheekbones and a small, flat nose that looked exactly like mine. Holding my breath, I double- and then triple-checked the caption: Josip Novak, Odyssey Addiction Treatment Center.
The first name was spelt differently. But Josip could be Croatian for Joseph.
It was definitely him. My dad.
Bile bubbled up my throat.
I clicked on the picture.
An article about new addiction services for homeless people popped up on the screen.
I skimmed the contents, praying to Trev’s God that Josip Novak was one of the counselors and not one of the addicts. But, of course, he wasn’t.
Glancing nervously around the empty library, I quickly shut down the browser and erased the history. The last thing I needed was Aidan — or anyone — finding out that my dad was an addict. And not just a pot-smoking musician or a successful lawyer who snorted cocaine at parties. The stereotypical homeless, down-and-out addict I’d imagined when Uncle Vic had first said the word.
How was that for getting a full picture?
Chapter Nineteen
By the tenth suicide, it felt like a boa constrictor was giving me a hug. But I kept going. I was determined to finish, and I was determined to finish first. I had to do something to prove myself to the coaches. Friday was decision day, just three days away.
As hard as it was, I had to forget about everything — Josip Novak, Victor Pickle, Willow Flores — and concentrate on basketball. With alpha-1 lurking in my genetic makeup, it might be the last sport I ever played.
I leaned over to touch the free-throw line and pivoted quickly. I crossed the baseline less than a second ahead of my closest competitor.
Without celebration, I sprinted straight to the bench. I stopped and bent over but still couldn’t catch my breath. Hands shaking, I searched for my inhaler. Since the last attack, I’d kept my puffer close to my water bottle during every practice. And I knew I’d brought it out of the changeroom, even though Trev hadn’t been around to remind me.
I searched underneath the bench. Behind it. Where the heck was my inhaler?
I concentrated on breathing. With slow, shallow breaths, I could get enough oxygen into my lungs — almost. Trying not to panic, I looked around the gym. Where could it be?
Most of the players were still running, but Aidan was not. He was staring at me. “What’s wrong, Wheezy?” he asked when he caught my eye. “You need another trip to the nurse’s room?”
I searched my brain for a comeback, but there was nothing there except for the urgent plea for air. That’s when I noticed Aidan was hiding something behind his back.
“My puffer,” I said. The words came out too quiet. I started to cough.
“What’s that, Wheezy? Speak up! You’re talking like one of the dwarves.”
Gasping for air, I thought about Trev and imagined Aidan in karate practice, paired against a two-year-old wearing diapers. With a whoop, the toddler flung Aidan over her shoulder.
I pointed at his chest.
“Oh. Are you looking for this?” Aidan pulled his arm out from behind his back and displayed his prize. As he squeezed the inhaler into his palm, it felt like his hands were wrapped around my throat, choking me. “I found this on the floor of the changeroom. Is it yours?”
I lunged forward and grabbed for his hand.
Just in time, Aidan pulled it back out of reach. “You don’t look so good. Should I call the coach?”
The floor wobbled as I glanced across the gym to where the coaches were busy with their clipboards, waiting for everyone to finish running.
I grabbed for my inhaler again, and this time, Aidan let go.
I took a puff. Then another.
“Looks like I saved you from another trip to the nurse’s room, Wheezy.”
I’ve never wanted to hit someone so bad. I wanted to punch him right in the face and send his smirk into oblivion.
I took a deep breath and felt the air fill my lungs. I clenched my fists and narrowed my eyes at the target.
But I didn’t strike.
Here’s what I knew: Aidan wanted me to hit him. But getting into a fight was not going to help me make the team. And neither was ratting him out to Coach Koniuk.
I turned and walked into the changeroom. I sat down and waited until my breathing stabilized. Then I pulled my backpack out of my locker and put my inhaler into one of its deepest pockets. Aidan would never find it there. But I would. If I needed it.
When I went back into the gym, the guys and girls were in separate huddles, getting feedback on the last drill and instructions on the next. I stood just outside the circle surrounding Coach Koniuk and tried to catch up with the plan. Sounded like some type of layup drill.
“Okay.” Coach Koniuk clapped his hands. “Coach Johansen will divide you into teams.”
Coach Johansen called out the names. But he didn’t call mine.
I stood there, in the middle of the gym, while everyone else went to their assigned baskets.
Coach Koniuk turned to me. “Can I talk to you a minute, Hudson?” he asked.
“Sure thing, Coach.” I tried to ignore the fire in my stomach as I followed him to the bench.
“I need to check in with you.” Coach Koniuk folded his arms across his chest. “I need to make sure your asthma isn’t going to stop you from playing competitive basketball.”
The fire flared up into my throat. As I stood there in front of the coach, speechless, I thought about Trev’s comment about alpha-1 and sports. Was it already happening?
“We only have so many spots on the team, and I’ve noticed you struggling —”
“Until last spring I played AAA hockey.” The words tumbled out before I realized I’d cut him off. “Captain of my team. Never missed a shift.”
“Why’d you quit?”
Sweat dripped down the back of my neck. “I-I —”
“Fell in love with basketball?”
“Something like that,” I said because I wasn’t about to tell him that I’d lost my coordination. Or any of the other stuff my hockey coach had said.
“Okay. Well, we’ll see how it goes.” Coach Koniuk scratched his head. “You better get out there. You need to work on your layup.”
“Right. Thanks, Coach.”
“You can join that group.” Coach Koniuk pointed to one of the baskets.
I felt a wave of relief when I saw that Aidan wasn’t there. But then I realized that none of the other guys were there, either. It was a group of girls. Including Willow.
•••
Willow passed me the ball.
I picked it up and dribbled once. I drove toward the net, planting my inside foot. I took one big step and thrust my knee upward. At the top of my jump, I released the ball over my head with a flick of the wrist, just like I’d been taught at summer camp.
Well, not exactly like I’d been taught. I was too far forward. The ball hit the side of the backboard and fell straight back down without even touching the net.
Willow grabbed the rebound and followed me to the back of the line. I gestured for her to go ahead. She ignored me. Didn’t even look me in the eye. We watched as two more players passed into the key, drove for the layup and followed up for the rebound.
Neither of us said anything as we waited for another turn. I thought about apologizing for my “freakin’ giant” comment. I wanted to apologize. But for some reason, I couldn’t.
When the next set of girls were finished the drill, they slotted into line behind us. Willow immediately turned her back to me and started chatting with them.
“Are you going to the Halloween dance?” asked a girl whose name I couldn’t remember. Willow was friendly with all the basketball girls, anyone athletic it seemed, but I didn’t know who her really good friends were. And hadn’t really thought about it. Until now.
“I’m totally going,” giggled another girl, Lucy.
“I probably will, too,” said Willow. “We’ll see.”
“I’m dressing as Jane — you know Jane of the Jungle?” Lucy’s voice bubbled with excitement. “And I’m hoping Liam will be Tarzan!”
“Cute,” Willow said.
Lucy and Liam going to the dance as Tarzan and Jane? It was cute enough to make me gag. There was no way I was going to that stupid dance. Even if someone did invite me, which they never would.
My stomach turned as I stared at the floor. Maybe I was getting the same stomach problems as Uncle Vic. I certainly had the exhaustion.
“What about you, Jas?” Willow asked the other girl.
“Oh, I’m going solo,” gushed Jas, “as the bride of Frankenstein.”
“Maybe you’ll meet your groom at the dance,” suggested Willow.
“Maybe!”
“I heard Jake and Felicity are going as Popeye and Olive Oyl,” giggled Lucy. “Felicity ordered their costumes online!”
“That’s a big commitment.” Willow laughed. “Hope they’re still together then.”
“If not, she’ll just have to find a replacement Popeye,” said Jas. “I’m sure Aidan would fill the costume nicely.”
“Jasmine!” Lucy kept her voice low as a sneaker squeaked across the fl
oor.
Willow chuckled softly.
“I think most people are going to the dance in groups. With friends,” said Lucy. “Not as couples.”
“What about you, Willow? You looking for a date?” asked Jas.
Angling my head slightly, I strained to hear the answer.
“No,” said Willow. “I —”
Coach Johansen clapped his hands. “Willow! Hudson! You’re up!”
My body jerked to attention.
“We need less chatting and more concentration!” yelled Coach Johansen.
Heat seared my face. “Go!” I hissed at Willow.
“I’m open!” Willow said over her shoulder as she ran into the key.
When she was almost three steps from the net, I bounce-passed the ball so it was just in front of her. Willow grabbed it off the paint and drove in for a perfect layup.
I collected the ball while she waited for me under the basket. Her anger was obvious from the curl of her lip. This was my chance to apologize: Sorry for being so stupid. I rehearsed the lines in my head like I was visualizing my next play on the court. There’s nothing wrong with being tall and Tall is awesome, especially for a girl.
But as I jogged toward her, the words evaporated.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped.
“Like what?”
“And don’t talk to me like that, either!”
“Like what?” I repeated as we joined the line again. “I just wanted to —”
This time Willow pushed herself in front of me. “Save it, Hudson.” She squared her shoulders and didn’t say another word. Not to me, anyway. She did ask the person in front of her if they could switch places. So she wouldn’t have to be partners with me again.
I stood there burning with embarrassment and utterly confused. It seemed like I’d done something else I needed to apologize for. But what?
Chapter Twenty
I don’t know how I got through the next few days. But I did. And they were awful.
At home, Mom and Uncle Vic tiptoed around each other. It was like living in a museum. The genetic-counseling appointment was on Monday — Halloween — which really got my imagination going. Did the clinic have a lab that created interspecies hybrids like a human-brained giraffe with bear claws and a shark’s jaw? Could they tweak some genes to make me smarter? Better at basketball?
Inside Hudson Pickle Page 13