F. Wilson - Secret Histories

“Oh, right,” he said with a laugh. “Like you don’t back up Miracle Boy every chance you get.”

Kate shrugged. “Your funeral.”

Tom waved and headed for the back door. “These’l taste great on the way to Phil y.”

Jack lowered his voice and did his Wil y Wonka thing again. “Stop. Don’t. Come back.”

But Tom didn’t—at least not right away. As the screen door slammed behind him, Kate grinned at Jack and began a countdown.

“Five … four …”

Jack joined her.

“Three … two …”

They heard a faint, “Oh,no!” from outside, then the screen crashed open and Tom rushed back in, holding his mouth. He ran for the refrigerator, yanked

open the door, and started guzzling milk from the carton. Kate was hysterical, so weak with laughter she was down on her knees, clutching the counter so

she wouldn’t fal over.

But Jack wasn’t laughing. Served Tom right for being in his room last night.

At least he hoped it had been Tom.

Fol owing the old saying about discretion being the better part of valor, Jack had skedaddled before Tom recovered from the pistachios. He didn’t want to

deal with him tonight.

Was it okay to dislike your brother? Real y, real y dislike? He thought of another old saying: You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your

family. They had that right. No way in a mil ion years would he have chosen Tom for a brother.

He reached Steve’s front door and knocked.

“Hi, Mrs. Brussard,” he said as she appeared. “Steve around?”

He was glad Steve’s mom had answered instead of his dad. Maybe he wasn’t a kil er. Maybe he’d real y been trying to protect his three Lodge brothers

from the mysterious and dreaded klazen. Maybe they’d died of natural causes or, as Dad thought, scared themselves to death. But Jack had trouble

buying that. And he feared that Mr. Brussard would take one look at him and realize that Jack suspected the truth.

Mrs. B smiled as she pushed open the door for him. She was short and pudgy with straight brown hair. Steve looked nothing like her.

“He’s down in the basement with that computer. I swear, if he devoted that much time to his homework during the school year he’d be a straight-A

student.”

Jack doubted that. Not with the condition Steve was too often in by the end of the night. But he said nothing about that as he headed for the basement

stairs, hoping he’d find Steve sober for a second night in a row.

No such luck. Steve was slumped on the couch watching that sappy Knots Landing. He looked looped.

“I never noticed before,” he slurred with a sil y grin, “but Michele Lee is cooooool.”

She was pretty good-looking, but …

“I thought you were locked out of the liquor cabinet.”

“I am.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Steve raised an amber plastic vial and rattled its contents. “I was forced to improvise.”

“Pil s? Whose?”

“My mom’s.” He tossed Jack the bottle. “Check it out.”

Jack caught it and examined the label. Under Steve’s mother’s name it read: Valium5mg#30.

“What’s this stuff?”

Steve grinned again. “A tranquilizer. My mother’s had them around forever. Hardly ever uses them.”

“You’re taking a tranquilizer? Are you crazy?”

“Better believe it.” He crossed his eyes and stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth. “Completely nuts.”

Jack tossed the vial back. Steve tried to catch it but was too slow. It sailed right past his hand.

“Don’t you want one? They take the edge off everything and make you feel sooooooo mel owwwwww.”

Jack didn’t get it. Life was too cool to spend in a fog. He didn’t want to miss a thing.

“Maybe I prefer edgy to mel ow.”

Steve’s gaze drifted back to the TV. “Isn’t she beauuuutiful?”

“She’s old enough to be your mother!”

“I wish she was. I’d sit and look at her aaaaaal day.”

“I thought we were final y gonna get some work done on the computer.”

Steve looked up at him with bleary eyes. “Let’s do it.”

“Yeah. Like you could be trusted with a soldering iron right now.”

“Hey, I’m fine.” He held up a hand. “Look. Rock steady.”

It did look steady, but steadiness wasn’t al that mattered.

“Yeah, but touch your pointer to your nose.”

Jack demonstrated.

“Easy.” But when Steve tried he missed by half an inch. “Aw, who cares anyway? I ain’t soldering my nose.”

Jack was losing respect for Steve. He’d been a smart, funny kid until he’d returned from soccer camp. Since then he’d been sprinting down the road to

Loservil e. Maybe he couldn’t help it, maybe something had gone wrong in his brain. Nothing Jack could do about that.

Weezy’s words from this morning echoed back to him: Sowhatareyougoingto do,standbyandwatchhimgodownthetubes?

No, Miss Know-it-al , he thought, I’m not.

But right now, other than ratting him out, Jack didn’t see that he had much choice.

No, that wasn’t true. There were always choices. Steve could choose whether or not to take one of his mother’s pil s, and Jack could choose yes or no

as to getting him some help. He decided on yes. Easy to make a choice. The real problem was figuring out how to help without Steve feeling he’d been

ratted out by a friend.

Jack needed to give this some serious thought. He was sure he’d find a way.

As Steve’s eyelids started to drift closed, Jack shook his head.

Wel now, this was exciting. He’d be better off watching TV at home.

He headed for the stairs.

“Later, man.”

Steve mumbled something that sounded like, “Yeah.”

Upstairs, as he was passing the den, he spotted the black humidor. Mr. Brussard had been holding it when he’d said good-bye to Vasquez. Why? They

hadn’t been smoking.

Did he dare?

No. Too risky.

But he hurried into the den anyway. Quickly he lifted the top and found an oddly shaped little red container about the size of a jewelry box for a ring; it

had six—no, seven sides.

What was in them? What was the “it” that had to be “used” at dawn with your back to the sun?

He had to know.

As he was reaching for it he heard footsteps hurrying down the stairs. Too heavy for Mrs. B—had to be Steve’s dad. With panic tightening his chest,

Jack snatched his hand out of the humidor, replaced the lid, and leaped behind a high-backed upholstered chair.

Immediately he realized what a stupid move he’d made. If Mr. B came in and spotted him, what could he say? That he and Steve were playing hide and

seek?

Yeah, right. That would fly—like a penguin.

Looking around he spotted Mr. Brussard’s stack of stereo electronics. He jumped up and stepped over to it. With his hands behind his back, he stood

before it and pretended to be studying al the neat-looking equipment.

He heard Mr. B come in behind him and stop.

“Jack?”

He turned. “Oh, hi, Mister Brussard. Just looking at your disc player here. I’d love to get my father to buy one, but he’s not al that into music.”

“Real y liked the sound, did you?” His smile looked forced, like he had something else on his mind

“Awesome.”

He picked up the humidor and looked inside.

“Wel , I’d play some for you now, but I’ve got a little work to do. Why don’t you get cracking on that computer. I’m real y looking forward to seeing it in

action.”

“I’ve got to get home.” Jack started for the hal . “We’ve stil got a ways to go.”