I’d been doing tons of homework and studying to get caught up. To play school sports, you needed to have good marks (and make the team). I tried not to think about that (making the team).
Career day was Saturday, so I’d started working on my display board. Again, I needed a good mark, but I also kept hoping Uncle Vic’s version of lifestyle management was wrong. If he could be a musician and hang out with smokers, surely I could be a firefighter and hang out in a fire station, with only the occasional visit to an actual fire, right?
I’d almost convinced myself — until I read the recruitment manual.
I needed some information to beef up the corner of the board labeled Firefighter Qualifications. I put down my bold black permanent marker and searched my desk for the envelope of papers E. O. had given me. I found the recruitment manual and started flipping through it.
I’d already read most of it, but at the end, I found a section I hadn’t seen before. The list of disqualifying medical conditions caught my attention immediately. I skimmed through it, expecting to see alpha-1, but praying I wouldn’t. It was kind of like knowing an opposing team was going to win, but hoping for an upset.
What I didn’t expect was this: Unacceptable medical conditions include reactive-airway disease requiring bronchodilators, corticosteroids or anti-inflammatory therapy.
Right away, I knew what this was — a fancy way of saying asthma. I could almost hear Dr. M.’s voice in my head saying the words bronchodilator and airway disease. Heart racing, I read through it again, looking for an exception for childhood asthma. Instead, it said this: The applicant must be without symptoms or medication for two years.
Anger flared in me like a newly lit match. I might be able to fool Mom, but there was no way I was going to fool a recruitment officer. My asthma alone was enough to prevent me from becoming a firefighter.
With a burst of adrenaline, I threw the manual toward the window. The thunk it made as it hit the frame and rebounded onto the bed did not make me feel any better.
I picked up the tri-fold foam display board Mom had gotten at the office-supply store and jumped to my feet. I raised it above my head and smashed it over the corner of the desk.
It cracked down the middle but didn’t break.
I hit it against the desk again, full force, snapping it in half. I slammed the two pieces against each other and threw them to the ground.
Still didn’t feel any better.
I grabbed the inhaler hidden behind my bedpost. “Stop telling me what I can and can’t do!” I yelled as I threw it across the room, this time hitting my target.
The inhaler exploded as it hit the double-paned window, the metal cartridge separating from the plastic case.
“Is everything okay, Hudson?” The sound of Mom’s anxious voice seeped through the door.
A grunt escaped from somewhere in the back of my throat. “Leave me alone!”
“Honey? Can I come in?”
Each of her words burned into me like disinfectant on an open wound. “I said, leave me alone!”
“I want to help.”
It used to be that when I got mad at Mom, I imagined my dad. In my imagination, he was perfect — and everything Mom was not. But now that I knew he was an addict …
“No!” I yelled at the door, kicking my bed to emphasize the point.
“But —”
“Just go away!”
I thought about confronting Mom with what I knew about Josip Novak. But the memory of the meltdown she’d had the night she’d skipped Uncle Vic’s dinner (and the quiet sobbing I’d heard from her bedroom several times since) kept me quiet. Besides that, I was busy trying not to think about him. I had enough to deal with already.
After a few minutes, I heard her footsteps fade down the hall.
Like someone had just pulled the plug, the energy drained out of me and I slumped into bed. Kicking the manual onto the floor, I slunk under the covers. And that’s where I stayed for the rest of the night.
Chapter Twenty-One
Our last practice went on forever, and everything about it was weird. There were no girls there, just the guys. We didn’t do suicide sprints to warm up, just laps around the gym. And we didn’t do any drills, just multiple games of one-on-one. Each coach had a list of who was supposed to play who, and they walked around making notes on their clipboards during every matchup.
The pairings weren’t random. The final cuts were still being decided, and everyone knew it. We were all out to play our top game.
With only six baskets in the gym, we couldn’t all play at once, so there was time to catch my breath between games.
At first, I tried to guess the meaning behind each matchup — like when they started me out against a ninth grader who I’d pegged for starting center. I decided it was because I was the only guy tall enough to block his jump shot — which I did, but only occasionally, and not nearly enough to win or even keep it close.
After a while, I stopped thinking and just played. It was my last practice, and I wanted to make it a good one. So I found a rhythm and stayed there, no matter who I was paired against. I concentrated on getting my shots, driving to the net and making sure I boxed out my opponent — limiting them to one shot and taking things one rebound at a time.
I won some and lost some, and I didn’t use my inhaler once.
At the end of the practice, the coaches let us play full-court five-on-five while they consulted over their clipboards.
Finally, Coach Koniuk blew the whistle. “Okay, guys, bring it in!”
“The moment of truth,” Aidan said, passing me on the way to the bench. “It’s been fun playing with you, Wheezy!”
“I want to thank you all for your hard work during tryouts.” Coach Koniuk rubbed his hands together. “We had a difficult decision to make. I wish we could keep every one of you.”
“Quit it with the sappy stuff, Coach!” Aidan yelled. “Just tell us who made the team.”
Coach Koniuk shot Aidan a look like the one I’d seen Gran give Trev when he took too many sausages at dinner.
“Coach Johansen will post the junior team, and I will post the senior team. The list will be up on the wall when you’re done getting changed. For those of you who didn’t make it, I hope to see you out again next year.”
Coach Koniuk didn’t look up from his clipboard, but I was certain he was talking to me.
“And for those of you who did make the team,” Coach Johansen added, “let’s make this a championship year for the Cougars!”
There was a chorus of “Yeahs!” before everyone dashed to the changeroom. I grabbed my backpack off the bench and trailed along behind.
Inside the changeroom, a few of the ninth graders were laughing and talking about their plans for the weekend, clearly certain they’d made the team. The eighth graders concentrated on getting changed as quickly as possible. I assumed they were anxious to know if they’d be on the junior team or the senior team. The seventh graders were mixed. Some looked terrified, some looked relaxed, but all of them were getting changed fast. Except me.
I took my time. I wasn’t anxious to relive the experience of being cut.
When I finally exited the changeroom, there was a wall of guys surrounding the list. Over the tops of their heads, I squinted at the list for the junior team. Mentally detaching myself from the yapping around me, I ran down the list of names.
Trevor Bach was there.
But not Hudson Pickle.
I did a one-eighty and forced myself to walk toward the exit, even though I wanted to run. With every step, I ranted in my head: I will not lose my cool. I will not lose my cool.
Basketball was a stupid sport.
What was the point of running up and down the court, over and over, trying to get a stupid ball in a stupid net? Ditto for hockey.
Anyway, sick people like
me probably shouldn’t play sports. And firefighting? Who needed a career when you were destined to die young?
I will not lose my cool. I will not lose my cool.
As I pushed open the gym door, my eyes started to water. I quickly wiped my face and tried to convince myself that I was allergic to the janitor’s pine-scented cleaner. I didn’t want anyone to think I was crying.
I had prepared myself. I had told myself to expect this. But I was still shocked. I couldn’t really believe it was happening.
I will not lose my cool.
And Trev hadn’t even shown up for the last few practices!
How did he make the team, but not me?
I will not lose my cool.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“So, what are you going to do?” Trev asked as we stood next to our display boards.
Career day was almost half over, but this was the first time we’d talked. The area around his display had been crowded all morning. He’d set up his laptop with an interactive game-creator program. It let you do some very basic programming, which everyone thought was totally cool, even the parents and teachers (although they pretended to be more interested in his flowchart outlining the pathway to becoming a video-game developer).
Only Mom, Uncle Vic and Ms. Lavender had come to see my taped-up poster. It showed the steps to becoming a firefighter but nothing else (no pictures, no charts, no nothing).
I honestly didn’t care that Trev’s display was more popular. It was like asking people to pick between watching the New York Knicks or a junior boys’ basketball game. No contest. Plus, the last thing I wanted to talk about was firefighting.
The second-last thing I wanted to talk about was basketball, but I knew that’s what Trev was asking about. I gritted my teeth against the anger still smoldering in my stomach from the day before. “I already told you. I’m starting karate.”
I’d spent all night convincing myself that martial arts would be fun. I never wanted to try out for anything ever again, and karate was the obvious answer, especially since Trev was going to be there. But still … I loved competitive team sports. It was hard to imagine my life without them. “What are you going to do?” I asked him.
Trev shrugged. “Coach must’ve thought I was sick for those last few practices. I’ll talk to him on Monday. Free up a spot for someone else.” He looked over at his booth. It was getting busy again. “Maybe it will be you.”
“Maybe,” I grumbled before intentionally changing the subject. “Are your parents coming today?”
“No,” said Trev. “But Gran is.”
He didn’t sound upset, but I felt bad for him anyway. Trev’s parents probably hadn’t even set foot inside our new school. Had they ever watched one of his karate bouts? Maybe that’s why he had taken it so hard when I’d chosen hockey over the martial arts tournament.
“I’ll watch for her,” I said as Trev went to help someone with his program.
“Hudson!”
I spun around and ended up face-to-face with E. O. “What are you doing here?”
“My daughter goes to this school, remember?” E. O.’s thumbs were tucked through the belt loops of his jeans — it was startling to see him wearing something that wasn’t plastered with the fire department logo. “So I thought I’d come see your display. I didn’t realize that there’d be so many businesses and community groups with stands, too. It’s open to the public, right? I guess that’s why they hold it on a Saturday.”
I wanted to add, And because there’s nothing better to do in Bluster on the weekend. Instead, I just said, “Oh.”
“Your presentation’s a little …” E. O. scratched his head. “Uninspiring? I’m surprised — I was expecting big things. You seemed really keen.”
“That’s because I’m not exactly inspired.”
“Maybe I didn’t give you enough information. Those manuals are pretty dry.” He studied the board. “I’ve got some stuff in the truck that might help. Be right back.”
I paced back and forth in front of my display as I waited for E. O. I’d spent all morning avoiding people: Trev, Willow, Aidan, Coach Koniuk, all the other students, all the other teachers … and now I had to deal with E. O. When would this day be over? When would junior high be over?
I heard E. O. return before I saw him. He was kicking a box across the floor ahead of him and lugging some type of uniform behind him. He made a shuffling, scratchy sound, like a hockey player dragging his equipment up a flight of stairs.
I ran to help. “You keep this stuff in your truck?”
“I did a school presentation yesterday,” he said, nodding to the box of pamphlets.
I picked up the box and led the way back to my display. E. O. followed, carrying the uniform — all fifty pounds of it. Heads turned from every direction, something E. O. was obviously used to and comfortable with. Unlike me.
For the rest of the afternoon, the area around my poster was the place to be. E. O. stayed and explained to people that a firefighter’s uniform was also called personal protective equipment or structural turnouts (because the pants get left tucked into the boots, so firefighters can step right into the uniform). He let people try it on, including a couple grown-ups. It was amazing how psyched everyone was about it, especially my classmates’ younger brothers and sisters.
The only ones who weren’t impressed were his daughter (who I didn’t recognize) and son (who I did recognize — he played in the high school hockey league). They left early, after E. O. called his wife to pick them up.
When career day was over, I helped E. O. take the stuff back to his truck.
“Need a lift?” he asked as I took his helmet off my head.
“No, thanks,” I said. “My friend’s gran is coming to get us.”
“Okay …” E. O.’s hand was on the handle of the truck door, but for some reason he wasn’t getting in.
“Thanks again,” I said.
“No need to thank me. Like I said, education is part of my mandate. Seeing all the local businesses and professional organizations in attendance made me realize that we should’ve been here anyway. We’re just so short-staffed.”
“Are you any closer to finishing the investigation on Uncle Vic’s place?”
“Yes!” E. O.’s eyes lit up. “And actually, I’m the one who should be thanking you, Hudson. That dish towel you found under the stove was all we needed to close the case.”
“It was?”
“Yeah. The kettle must have boiled dry on the stove with that greasy towel right next to the element. It just took a little spark to land on the towel and … BOOM!” E. O. flung his arms up in the air. “So, the investigation is complete, and the insurance company has its report. They’re not going after your uncle.”
“How did the cloth end up under the stove?” Suspicion pecked at the corners of my brain like a bad habit. Was it still possible that Uncle Vic had been negligent?
“We don’t know for sure, but there are lots of possible explanations — all of them part of a plausible accident scenario.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what a plausible accident scenario was, but if it was good enough for E. O., it was good enough for me. I was done doubting Uncle Vic.
“You did a great job putting it together, Hudson. You may have what it takes to join our team one day,” said E. O.
I swallowed hard. “I can’t be a firefighter.”
His mouth dropped open. “Why?”
“You can’t be a firefighter if you have asthma,” I said drily. “It’s in the manual.”
“But people can grow out of asthma,” said E. O. “I did.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
It took me a minute to take this in. “But my asthma doesn’t seem to be going away.” I kicked at some ice that was clinging to the mud flaps of E. O.’s pickup. “And I also have this t
hing called alpha-1.”
“Oh?” E. O. scrunched his eyebrows together. “And you’re sure this is something that will stop you from firefighting?”
“Yeah. Well, I dunno.” I shrugged. “I’m still sorting it out. But it seems like my lungs need to stay away from smoke. Even more than most people’s.”
“Well, if smoke exposure is the problem, there are other careers in emergency services.”
“Like what?”
“Like police officer, paramedic, SWAT team member, coast guard, bomb diffuser …”
An involuntary smile spread across my face as I listened to E. O. ramble off all the jobs that used the same set of skills and strengths that a firefighter needed.
“Wow,” I said when he’d finished. “That’s quite a lot.”
“Well, I can tell you even more, when the time is right.” He held out his hand and I shook it. “You let me know if there is anything I can do to help. Ever,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“You’re a good kid.” E. O. nodded. “We need people like you.”
•••
I walked into the gym rubbing my hands to get the feeling back in my frozen fingertips. Everyone was packing up. I headed toward Trev’s booth with my head down. As I passed by Willow’s display board, I heard her laugh. For some reason, I stopped. I felt like I was in the zone — the way I get when I’m playing a sport by instinct and not letting my brain interfere.
As I waited for her to finish talking, I looked at her display board. It wasn’t graphic or interactive like Trev’s, but it was much brighter than mine. Kind of like Willow herself — full of information (some of it a little confusing) and pretty and cheerful and fun.
“What do you want, Hudson?” Willow said when the girl she’d been talking to finally walked away.
Ignoring the frostiness in her voice, I said, “Great job. Your display makes mail delivery sound like a good career.”
Inside Hudson Pickle Page 14