Inside Hudson Pickle Read online

  “I was thinking we could practice together,” she said as she twirled the ball on her finger. “Sometime after school, when there’s no tryouts.”

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” I said, examining the lines on the gym floor as if I’d never seen them before.

  “How about Friday?”

  “Friday?”

  “And maybe a few more times before Coach picks the teams.” Willow hugged the ball to her chest. “Sound good?”

  “But you’re not worried about getting cut.”

  “I’m not worried, but you are and I want to help.”

  “Why?”

  Willow laughed. “We’re partners and —”

  Coach blew the whistle. Willow continued talking, but I didn’t hear what she said.

  “We’re going to start with some box-out drills,” Coach Koniuk announced. “I want the seventh-grade guys and gals to work with Coach Johansen. Eights and nines, you’re with me.”

  Aidan suddenly appeared next to us. “Sorry, Wheezy. It looks like Snow White’s coming with me.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but my voice had suddenly gone AWOL.

  Aidan hooked his arm around Willow’s elbow. “I’ll be your new dwarf.” He flexed his bicep. “Mighty.”

  “Dopey’s more like it,” said Willow.

  I wanted to blow a whistle on the play. Call a technical foul. Something. Anything. But instead I turned and followed Coach Johansen to the far end of the gym.

  As I waited in line for my turn to enter the play, I watched Aidan and Willow out of the corner of my eye.

  He goofed around.

  She smiled.

  I tried to look away.

  She grabbed a rebound.

  He raised his arms in victory.

  I cursed under my breath and told myself to focus on my side of the gym.

  He stole the ball.

  She shot it over the head of her defender.

  I bobbled a pass.

  Someone called her name.

  He hooted and hollered.

  I missed an easy layup.

  She caught me staring. Smiled at me. I smiled back.

  He caught me smiling. Raised his fist. I burned with anger.

  The entire practice was like that — horrible. The more Aidan flirted, the better Willow played. The angrier I got, the more I screwed up.

  Coach Johansen yelled at me to pay attention. I focused — too hard, too determined — and was called for charging.

  Finally, Coach Koniuk blew the whistle. “That’s it, folks. Ten suicide sprints. Go!”

  I didn’t join the stampede to the baseline. Instead, I went over to the bench to get my inhaler. There was a sharp pain in my chest that had nothing to do with asthma. But I took a puff anyway — the thing was almost out of gas. Like me.

  Aidan was running next to Willow, trying to egg her into some type of race. “Nine!” he yelled.

  Her hair swung back and forth as she ran.

  I shook the inhaler and took another puff. Nothing.

  Coach Koniuk stared at me.

  “Ten!” Aidan did a victory dance at baseline. “First place!”

  I jogged to the baseline.

  “And Wheezy hasn’t even started!” Aidan strutted toward the bench. Toward me.

  I squatted to touch the line. As Aidan passed behind me, I stuck out my foot like I was anchoring myself for the sprint. Except I wasn’t. I was aiming for something else: payback. For the time he’d tripped Trev in the hallway. For all the lousy nicknames. For flirting with Willow …

  It was the best timing I’d had all practice.

  With his nose in the air, Aidan didn’t see my foot. I’d like to say he went flying over it and landed flat on his face — but he didn’t. Instead, it was his shoulder that hit the ground. Hard.

  Aidan rolled over onto his back, held up his wrist and rotated it in the air. “Geez, Wheezy! I think it’s broken.”

  “Here’s hoping,” I muttered as I pulled myself into a sitting position.

  Coach hustled over. “What happened?”

  Aidan jumped to his feet, still clasping his wrist as if it were about to fall off. “Hudson tried to trip me,” he announced.

  Everyone had stopped running.

  I rubbed my ankle where it had connected with Aidan’s foot. Tried? I hadn’t just tried. I had succeeded. And some part of my stupid brain wanted to brag about it. Who cared if it wrecked my chances of making the team? I wasn’t going to make it anyway. “I didn’t try to —”

  Willow’s voice emerged from the circle of sweaty players that surrounded us. “It was an accident,” she said. “I saw the whole thing.”

  Coach Koniuk looked up at Aidan and then down at me. “Hudson?”

  Willow stood off to one side. I could see her face from the corner of my eye — it flashed with warning, like a billboard ad: Don’t be an idiot.

  I slowly nodded at Coach Koniuk. “Accident,” I said, gritting my teeth.

  Aidan narrowed his eyes at me.

  “You’re both okay,” Coach said. It was not a question — it was a command.

  “Yeah, sure.” I stood up and tested my ankle with my weight.

  “You know me, Coach.” Aidan released his wrist and pounded his chest. “Tough as nails.”

  Coach Koniuk glanced at the crowd. “Okay, then, what are you all staring at? Finish your sprints and then hit the changeroom!”

  “Yes, Coach!” The chorus filled the gym.

  “You’re going to pay for this, Wheezy,” Aidan muttered under his breath.

  “Aidan. Hudson. Go get some ice.” Coach pointed in the direction of the nurse’s office. “Just to be safe.”

  “Roger, Coach.” Aidan saluted him and immediately started marching out of the gym. “Hi-ho! Hi-ho! Off to the nurse we go …”

  Willow grabbed my arm as I turned to follow Aidan. “Ignore him!” she hissed.

  I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  For two days, I nursed my ankle, avoided Aidan outside the basketball court and tried to banish all thoughts of Willow from my mind. I succeeded — mostly — until Friday.

  “I can’t practice after school today,” I told her as she slid into her seat for Career & Tech. “There’s something else that I, uh, have to do.”

  Willow raised her eyebrows. “Something more important than making the team?”

  Once again, I couldn’t figure out whether she was joking or serious. I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t interested (in basketball). And I didn’t want to tell her I was going to the doctor after school. So, instead, I blurted out, “How about this weekend?”

  Willow smiled. “It’s a date,” she said, just as Ms. Lavender stood up to introduce yet another guest speaker.

  A date?

  I didn’t hear much of what the dairy farmer had to say. I was too busy worrying about spending time alone with Willow. How was I going to stop myself from rattling on like an idiot again?

  By the time the bell rang, I’d figured my way out of the date. I leaned over toward Willow’s desk and said, “Tomorrow? Two o’clock? Meet at the Y?”

  “Great!”

  “I’ll bring Trev, too,” I said, even though Trev didn’t know anything about it. Yet.

  “Okay.” Willow’s voice changed slightly, like she’d agreed to have lettuce and tomato on a burger because it was healthy. Not because she liked it that way.

  •••

  Mom was waiting for me in the parking lot behind the gym. The engine was running as I hopped into the front seat and strapped on my belt.

  “Let’s go,” I grumbled, annoyed that she was dragging me in to see the pediatric respirologist. At what height did I no longer qualify as a little
kid? I just hoped we were seeing Dr. M. because of Uncle Vic’s diagnosis and not because Mom had somehow found out how much I’d been using my inhaler. “I want to get this over with.”

  When she didn’t acknowledge me, I realized she was on the phone, which put me on high alert.

  Mom on the phone was very unusual — like a point guard doing a slam dunk. She carried her phone everywhere, an ancient thing that you had to flip open, but I hardly ever saw her use it. Ditto for the home phone and computer.

  The heater blasted my face as I slouched down in the seat and waited for her to get off the phone. I thought about Uncle Vic’s smartphone and wondered whether he had programmed it yet. Was Sage still sending him cryptic texts?

  I hadn’t seen Uncle Vic since his fight with Mom. Her story was that he was busy with an important tree-hugging event. My bet was she didn’t have a clue where he was.

  “Ready?” Mom folded the phone and slipped it into her purse.

  I yanked my hat forward to cover my face. “Who was that?”

  “Grandma.”

  I lifted my head in surprise. Grandma called us every couple weeks from New Jersey, mostly to complain that we never called her. She always had some new ache or pain to tell us about, and she always called on the landline. “What did she want?”

  “Actually, I called her.”

  “Why?”

  “I just needed to ask her some things.”

  “Things?”

  “About our family medical history.”

  “Straight up, Mom,” I said, frustrated by all the secrecy. “Are we going to see Dr. M. because I’ve had a few small asthma attacks? Or because I might have Uncle Vic’s tripsy thing?”

  Mom shivered, squared her shoulders and started the car. “Hudson, just be patient.”

  “Fine.”

  We drove to the hospital in silence. I didn’t even bother to turn on the radio. I knew if I asked, she would say no.

  •••

  “Alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency is an autosomal recessive disease,” said Dr. M. “Do you know what that means, Hudson?”

  Mom squirmed in her seat.

  “We learned about it in science,” I answered, trying to fast-forward to what really mattered — did I have the tripsy or not? “It means you get one gene from your dad and one gene from your mom, right?”

  “Something like that. The gene involved in alpha-1 is supposed to produce a protein. Most of us have two working copies of the gene, so we make more than enough protein to protect our lungs and other organs.” Dr. M. scribbled on some paper as she talked, putting capital As next to lowercase ones until a pattern emerged. “Some people have only one working copy of the gene, but they’re still okay because the liver can make enough protein with just one. But if you get two genes that don’t work, your body can’t make the alpha-1 antitrypsin protein at all.”

  “So my uncle got two busted-up copies of the tripsy gene, one from Grandma and one from Grandpa?” Our science lesson about Mendel’s peas, the one I’d failed, was fresh in my mind thanks to the alpha-1 website I’d skimmed through.

  “Probably, but —”

  “Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves?” Mom rubbed her forehead. “We don’t have the results of Vic’s genetic test yet. I just wanted to mention it to you, so you have all the information. Are we all set with the peak flow meter?”

  “Yes.” Dr. M. smiled her familiar smile, letting it spread across her face to show she had enough patience for both me and Mom. “Any more questions, Hudson?”

  “Do I actually have to carry that around with me?” I pointed to the peak flow meter perched on the desk between us, a familiar contraption that looked like a cross between an inhaler and a test tube.

  “We need to make sure we are managing the asthmatic symptoms appropriately. Like I said, the increased reactivity could have been triggered by your recent viral infection, the change in temperature, your growth spurt or a combination of those factors. If that’s the case, the attacks should start to decrease, as long as you stay healthy. But it’s also possible that we’ll have to put you back on medication to avoid overuse of quick-relief inhalers.”

  “But I really don’t want to take it to school.”

  “Please, just be cooperative, Hudson. You heard Dr. M. It’s also possible you’re reacting to some dust mites in the gym or something.” Mom shuddered.

  “So, what if I am? It’s not like I’m going to quit basketball,” I barked back. I was angry at her for ambushing me at my own appointment — making it about my recent attacks and Uncle Vic’s tripsy thing. And then, to make matters worse, she’d shut Dr. M. down before I could get any good information.

  “Let’s wait till we have all the answers, Hudson.” Mom turned to Dr. M. “Can I speak to you for a moment in private?”

  “But … I …” Frustration blocked my words. I couldn’t speak fast enough, or loud enough, to keep myself in the game.

  “Please,” Mom added, talking over my protest.

  Anger turned to rage. When was she going to stop shutting me out? When would I be old enough to have a say in my health? And at what age would she start being honest with me about our family?

  Dr. M. checked her watch. “I have another appointment in five minutes.”

  “It’ll just take a moment,” Mom replied.

  Dr. M. closed my file. “Hudson, do you mind stepping into the waiting room?”

  “Fine.” I slammed my hands against the desk and pushed back my chair. It caught on the carpet and went crashing backward.

  “Hudson?”

  Without answering, I turned on my heel and stormed through the door, leaving the chair in its place. Abandoned — exactly the way I felt.

  •••

  I paced through the waiting room, too geared up to sit down. When I got close to Dr. M.’s closed door, I hesitated, trying to make out the voices from behind the thick wood.

  The receptionist watched closely, probably suspicious of all the noise I’d made when the chair fell. She’d asked if I was okay, offered me some water and finally decided to leave me alone after I snapped at her. But she still had an eye on me.

  I clenched and unclenched my fists as I walked, not caring if I wore a hole in the carpet with my heavy feet. I heard the words Darwyn and died and affected and Hudson — my name and my brother’s were the easiest to pick out because they were repeated over and over again.

  A mom and her son came into the waiting room, full of smiles and affection as they sat down to read a book together.

  My mind raced as I tried to put things together with the pieces I had. It was like trying to complete one of the puzzles Uncle Vic used to pick up at the thrift store.

  Darwyn.

  Died.

  Affected.

  Why were they talking about Darwyn? He didn’t have asthma. As far as I knew.

  Finally, Mom came out and thanked the secretary.

  We walked down the hall in silence.

  When we got into the elevator, I exploded. “Enough secrets!”

  I didn’t look her in the eye — I couldn’t — but her image reflected back at me in the mirrored elevator walls. “What does all this have to do with Darwyn?”

  Mom gripped the handle next to the elevator buttons like it was the only thing holding her up. “Hudson —”

  “Tell me!”

  “Your brother died of liver disease.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Which is also associated with alpha-1.”

  “He had the same thing as Uncle Vic?”

  The elevator door opened. Mom grabbed my shoulder. “We don’t know yet —”

  “If Uncle Vic isn’t the only one affected …” The facts spun through my brain, faster and faster, like a hamster on a wheel. “Then it must run in the family.”

  “Hudson —”

/>   “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  The elevator door closed. We were still inside.

  “We cannot jump to conclusions,” Mom said, squeezing my arm. “We have to wait and see what the genetic counselor …”

  I stopped listening as Mom rattled on about genetic tests and lifestyle management.

  Alpha-1 affected the liver and lungs. Uncle Vic, Darwyn and now … me.

  The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

  I had asthma. A lung condition. And it wasn’t going to go away.

  Because I had alpha-1, too.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I stood in Trev’s front hallway, waiting for him to get his stuff together.

  Gran handed him his skullcap. “Remember. I’m picking you up at three.”

  “Okay, Gran.” Trev grabbed his bag.

  “I like seeing you boys.” Gran pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Together.”

  “See ya, Gran,” I said as I opened the door.

  “Bye!” Her hand flapped up and down as she waved.

  Trev pulled the door shut behind him.

  “She’s picking you up at three?” I asked as we walked down his driveway. I wasn’t surprised that Trev was bowing out early. What surprised me was how easily he’d agreed to come with me. Still, it didn’t leave a lot of time for practice.

  “There’s this thing at the church.”

  I made a face. “Can’t you get out of it?”

  “No,” Trev snapped.

  We walked the rest of the way to the YMCA in silence.

  I kind of wanted to tell him about my argument with Mom and the tripsy and all that, but it was mostly too confusing to explain. Besides, Trev didn’t worry about stuff the way I did. Or at least he didn’t talk about it.

  Willow was waiting in the gym when we arrived.

  “Sorry we’re late,” I said.

  “No problem. I was a bit early.” She took a ball from the rack next to her and shot it from the three-point line.