Inside Hudson Pickle Read online

  Willow frowned. “His name is Hudson.”

  “I think Wheezy suits him. It’s better than Big Bird,” Aidan said, “even if he is too tall to hang out with the seven dwarves.”

  “Let’s go,” said Trev as he trudged toward the door.

  “Right behind you, Elmo,” Aidan said. “I hope today’s practice is as exciting as the last one.”

  I reached into the pocket of my hoodie and gripped my inhaler. Then I visualized myself boxing out Aidan for every rebound. “I’ll show you exciting,” I muttered under my breath.

  •••

  Practice started with drills, of course. But this time, Coach Koniuk didn’t divide us up by grade — he divided us by height. And we didn’t just share the gym with the girls, we played with them.

  That’s how I ended up paired off with Willow — again. This time for some two-on-two against Aidan, whose partner was a ninth-grade girl who’d started for the senior team last year. I thought we were going to get creamed.

  But I was wrong.

  The game was decided by two points.

  Aidan took a jump shot that bounced off the backboard and rolled around the rim of the net but didn’t drop. I stepped in front of him while he was still admiring his shot and grabbed the rebound before it had a chance to fall. I passed to Willow at the point. Without hesitating, she squared up to the net and let the ball fly, following through with a perfect flick of the wrist. She scored just as Coach Koniuk blew the whistle to end the practice.

  Nothing but net — sweetest shot I’ve ever seen.

  Chapter Seven

  On Saturday, Uncle Vic had an appointment with E. O. Bouchier from the fire department. I begged to go with him. I hadn’t started my Career & Tech project yet, and I needed some information to avoid looking stupid in front of Willow. Not that she was my only motivation. The grade I’d gotten on my last math test was the real kicker. I couldn’t afford to fall behind in any of my other classes. Plus, I was kind of pumped about the whole firefighting thing.

  Uncle Vic didn’t take much convincing — taking me helped him wangle a deal to borrow Mom’s car.

  When we arrived at the station, he introduced me as “the tagalong” and explained why I was with him. E. O. Bouchier took it from there, giving me more information than I could ever cram into my overstuffed brain. I should’ve brought a recorder or, at least, a pen and paper so I could jot down some notes.

  Turns out there’s a lot more to being a firefighter than most people know. They don’t just sit around eating spaghetti dinners at the fire station, waiting for the bell to ring so they can slide down a pole, take a ride in a big truck and save a kitten from a tree.

  For starters, there are many different kinds of firefighters. E. O. (he hates being called Mr. Bouchier) started out working for the National Wildlife Refuge as a fire specialist, which means he was paid to start forest fires and put them out. He even got to ride in helicopters with smoke jumpers, who parachute into remote areas to fight wildfires. He stopped all that “dangerous stuff” when he got married and became a dad. Now he’s just a regular firefighter with the county fire department.

  But he told me about firefighters who get to travel all around the world helping with flood and hurricane response. And other firefighters who work for the coast guard, sailing the seas (okay, mostly the coasts) in fireboats. There are firefighters working in all areas of emergency response: motor-vehicle accidents, train derailments, even hazardous-material incidents and security threats, like suspicious packages that might contain explosives.

  The more E. O. talked, the more firefighting sounded like the career for me. And E. O. did talk — a lot.

  When he was finally done his spiel, which included a tour of the fire station and a short ride in one of the fire trucks, E. O. led us into an office with a plaque on the door that read, E. O. Bouchier, Fire Captain.

  “So, you’re actually the captain?” I asked as E. O. opened the door and waved Uncle Vic in.

  “Yeah. I still assist at the scene of a fire, but more of my time is spent in the station taking statements, doing investigations, writing reports, overseeing staff …”

  “Is it boring?” I asked.

  “It can be, especially the political stuff.” E. O. still stood at the door, blocking me from joining Uncle Vic. “But my family likes it that way.”

  “The investigation part must be kind of cool.”

  “Sometimes. Listen, Hudson, I think you should probably sit this one out. I really need to speak with your uncle. Do you mind having a seat over there?” E. O. pointed to a table littered with magazines, but totally absent of people. Where were all the firefighters? We’d seen a couple under the hood of a truck, one folding hoses and another polishing equipment, but mostly, the place was quiet.

  I was about to ask about this, but Uncle Vic piped up from behind E. O. “The kid stays.”

  “Are you sure? I’m afraid I have to ask you some difficult questions —”

  “I don’t have anything to say that the kid can’t hear.”

  I felt a prickle of irritation at being referred to first as a “tagalong” and now as “the kid,” but the feeling was quickly extinguished by the fact that Uncle Vic was speaking up for me. That he wanted me to stay. It was the opposite of Mom, who always asked me to leave the room or wait outside while she talked to my principal, guidance counselor, Dr. M. … anyone in a position of authority.

  “Okay.” E. O. backed away from the door.

  I quickly sat down next to Uncle Vic before they changed their minds.

  E. O. closed the door behind us and took a seat in front of his computer. “First of all, I have an update on your home.”

  “Let’s hear it,” said Uncle Vic. “When can I go back?”

  “Well …” E. O. swiveled his chair away from the computer so he was facing us directly. “It’s going to be a long time before you can move back into your apartment — if ever.”

  “What?” Uncle Vic straightened up in the chair. “Why?”

  “The house needs so much work, the owners are considering tearing it down.” E. O. paused, letting this information sink in. “But you can go in and get some of your things.”

  “Good,” I said. “Then maybe he’ll stop borrowing my stuff.” As soon as I finished, I realized I’d made a tactical error. If I was going to learn anything from this conversation, I needed them to forget I was there. Why did thoughts fly out of my mouth like that, without a filter? I should have a two-second delay, like the kind they use on live TV so they can bleep out “inappropriate language.”

  Uncle Vic laughed. “Well, maybe we can stop there on the way home … I really need to get my hands on my guitar.”

  E. O. glanced back and forth between us. “Actually, we’ll have to make an appointment, so I can go with you.”

  “An appointment? That seems like a colossal waste of time.” With his fingertips, Uncle Vic tapped the edge of E. O.’s desk to a rhythm only he could hear. “It’s not like I’m unfamiliar with the place. And I’m anxious to pick up my instruments. My equipment.”

  I could almost hear Mom groaning as he said this. Uncle Vic was already taking up more space than we had, and that was without all his music paraphernalia.

  “Well, actually, the place is considered a potential crime scene,” E. O. said. “No one’s allowed in there without supervision.”

  “Crime scene?”

  “That’s why I need to ask you some questions.” E. O. shuffled through the stacks of paper on his desk and pulled out a pencil.

  Uncle Vic exhaled loudly. “Okay, shoot.”

  “First, I need you to tell me your version of events from the night of the fire.”

  “You mean the only version of events?” Uncle Vic chuckled nervously and then repeated what he’d told Mom. Basically that he’d come home, put on the kettle and then fa
llen asleep.

  “And what kind of kettle was it?” E. O. asked.

  Uncle Vic yawned. “The kind that you put on a burner.”

  “A stovetop kettle?” E. O. checked something off on his piece of paper.

  “Yes.” Uncle Vic snapped and pointed his finger. “I got it at the thrift shop.”

  That sounded right — I knew Uncle Vic liked to buy secondhand. Reusing is better than recycling, and all that jazz.

  “Okay.” E. O. took out a diagram of Uncle Vic’s apartment. He put it in front of Uncle Vic and pointed to a box with the word kitchen inside, like he was a coach with a play sheet. “So, the fire started here, and you fell asleep on the sofa, here?” He moved his pencil to the box right next to the kitchen, marked living room.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Just like I told you guys before. The fire department and the police. I haven’t changed my story, and I’m not going to.” Uncle Vic leaned forward. “There’s no reason to.”

  “Well, it’s just that some things don’t add up.” E. O. reached behind his computer and held up a thermos. “Coffee. Want some?”

  “Please,” Uncle Vic replied, to my surprise. I’d heard him complain just this morning that it soured his stomach. I watched him closely as he stifled another yawn. “Got anything strong to go with it?”

  “No.” E. O. filled the mug next to his computer and then pulled another mug off the shelf above him for Uncle Vic.

  “Didn’t think so.” Uncle Vic sniffed. “But you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  “Hudson? You want something?”

  As the steam rose from E. O.’s mug, I wished I could evaporate, too. So much for getting them to forget I was there. “No, thanks.”

  “You sure you don’t want to wait outside?” E. O. tried again.

  “With all due respect,” Uncle Vic said sharply, “let’s just get this over with.”

  E. O. placed his mug next to the keyboard on a scrap of paper covered in dark brown rings. Squinting, I could just make out the words musician, drugs and record scribbled there.

  Drugs. Could that explain it? The bags under Uncle Vic’s eyes? The exhaustion? The erratic behavior? He was like the stereotypical user in one of those antidrug videos they showed at school. Would E. O. question him on it? Did I want him to?

  “Where were you before you came home that night?” asked E. O.

  “I was at a restaurant downtown,” Uncle Vic replied, gripping both hands around the mug of coffee like his life depended on it. “I had a gig with my band. A jazzy set for the dinner crowd. There were lots of people. It should be easy enough to get verification — if you need it.”

  “We have. The owner places you at the restaurant until approximately 7:00 p.m. The band members have corroborated her statement. We have …” E. O. glanced at the paper lying in front of him on the desk. “Sage Aaltomaa stating that you left immediately after the band wrapped up.”

  “Aalto-who? I’ve never heard her use that name before. She’s just Sage.”

  “Yes, well, Ms. Aal — Sage — is on record as saying that this was unusual. That you usually hang around for a few drinks with the band after a gig. Even the late ones.”

  “I was tired.”

  “It was only seven o’clock.”

  “So?”

  E. O. wiped his hands on his shirt, where the words First In, Last Out surrounded the fire department’s logo. “The restaurant is only five minutes from your house, and the 9-1-1 call was placed at 7:58 p.m. We need to account for your whereabouts between those times.”

  “There’s no accounting,” said Uncle Vic. “I came home. I —”

  “Did anyone see you come home?”

  “I live alone.”

  “The homeowners don’t recall seeing you come home. I understand they live upstairs and rent out the basement?”

  “Yes, but it’s not like they’re in the habit of waiting at the window, watching my comings and goings.”

  “Okay.” E. O. tapped the pencil against his lips. “You came home and then?”

  “Took a shower. Put on the kettle. Fell asleep.”

  “According to our drawing here” — E. O. paused, turning the diagram of Uncle Vic’s place so he could see it — “the kitchen is less than five feet from the sofa where you reportedly fell asleep.”

  “Not reportedly. I did fall asleep.”

  “There was a lot of smoke. The detector was beeping. How come you didn’t wake up?”

  “I was really tired. I’ve been feeling that way a lot lately.”

  “It’s true,” I interjected. “I’ve tried to wake him up — it’s tough.” I said this because it was the one thing, of all the things that Uncle Vic had said, that I could verify. Not sure why I felt a need to defend him. But I did.

  Uncle Vic smiled at me, faintly. “Sorry, kid.”

  E. O. kept his eyes fixed on Uncle Vic. “Were drugs involved?”

  And there it was, like a bomb drop in the middle of an open field. I took a sharp breath.

  “Drugs? No.” Uncle Vic coughed. “I’ve never been into drugs. And that’s the god-honest truth.” With his index finger, he crossed an imaginary X over his chest.

  “We have a report that you insisted on collecting something from your room before exiting the building. A small package.” E. O. consulted his notes. “Maybe a pill bottle?”

  “Well, yeah, but it wasn’t drugs. Nothing illegal.” Uncle Vic shifted in his chair. “I just needed some personal items. And my clothes.”

  But Uncle Vic had left the house wearing only underwear. If he’d had time to go into his room, why hadn’t he grabbed a pair of jeans or something? I clamped my mouth shut to stop my surprise from leaking out.

  “I’m not here to lay drug charges — that’s not my jurisdiction,” E. O. replied. “I’m just reporting on the fire, and to be honest, drug use and possession would explain a lot of things.”

  “Doesn’t explain anything because I don’t use ’em, and I don’t store ’em.” Uncle Vic coughed again, louder this time. “Are we done?”

  “Almost.” E. O. took a sip of his coffee and waited for Uncle Vic’s coughing to subside. “The other thing I’m hoping you can help us out with is the lack of ignition material.”

  “Meaning?” Uncle Vic wiped his nose with the back of his hand — a gesture I’d seen cocaine users make in movies. But I couldn’t imagine him doing cocaine. He was always a little out there, but he never seemed high.

  “Meaning that if the kettle was behind the fire, then it would have had to ignite something nearby. Without it, the kettle would have just boiled dry. We couldn’t find anything.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you out.” Uncle Vic rose from his chair. “Maybe there are some things that can’t be explained. All I can tell you is that I didn’t start the fire on purpose — why would I? It’s left me homeless. Without all my stuff.”

  “Okay.” E. O. rifled through the rest of the papers in the file. Was there something else he wanted to ask?

  “Speaking of stuff,” said Uncle Vic, “when did you say I could pick it up?”

  E. O. scrolled through the calendar on his old-fashioned desktop. “How about Friday?”

  “Another week?”

  “That’s the earliest I can get away from the station.” E. O. squinted at the computer screen. “One o’clock?”

  “Could you meet after school?” I asked. “So I can come?”

  E. O. fiddled with the mouse. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea …”

  “I was hoping to see what it looks like,” I insisted. “Maybe you could explain to me what you look for when investigating a fire? You know, for my report.”

  E. O. looked up at me with one eyebrow raised. “Well —”

  Uncle Vic interrupted. “Friday at one doesn’t work for me. How about four thirty?�
��

  “Perfect,” I said before realizing that Uncle Vic had addressed his question to E. O. But it was perfect because we had an early practice after school on Friday, which would be over by then.

  “Uh … okay,” E. O. said hesitantly. He typed a couple words into the computer and then got up from his desk to escort us out. “Thanks for your cooperation, Victor.”

  “And thanks for the information, E. O.” I shook his callused hand. “I can’t wait until Friday.”

  From the grim look on his face and Uncle Vic’s, I knew I was the only one.

  Chapter Eight

  After basketball on Friday, I came out of the school buzzing with adrenaline. Adrenaline mixed with a little bit of meds, unfortunately, since I’d had to use my stupid inhaler once (or twice) during the tryout. Still, it had been a great practice. And not just for me. Trev, too.

  I hustled toward the spot where Uncle Vic and I had agreed to meet. When I turned the corner and didn’t see the car, I slowed down. Planting one foot on the sidewalk, I jumped up and twisted midair, replaying a shot I’d taken over the head of my defender during the full-court scrimmage. I’d been matched against one of the better ninth-grade players — a guy I had pegged as a starter for the senior team. Had Coach Koniuk noticed how I’d beaten him at the line?

  Crouching low to the ground, I pretended to dribble. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the feel of the leather ball on my hand. I faked a pass to the left and then pivoted right. With a pretend pass to my pretend teammate, I executed the perfect give-and-go. When the pretend ball came back to me, I did a spin turn and took one step toward the net for the perfect layup. I opened my eyes, planted my other foot, drove my knee up and was about to release the shot —

  I stopped midmotion.

  “Still pumped from practice, I see.” Willow stood in front of me, blocking the path.

  I straightened up and crossed my arms over my chest, sticking my hands under my pits. I wondered how bad I smelled. I’d changed my shirt and added another layer of antiperspirant, but still … It’s not like our junior high had showers. Not the kind that anyone felt comfortable using, anyway. That would have to wait for the big league: high school.