Hero–Type by Barry Lyga Read Free Book Online Page A

guess. Gramma Ross lived in Baltimore.
    "What did he decide?"
    A look passed between my parents just then. To this day, I don't know what the hell it meant. It looked like guilt and accusation and anger and resignation all mixed up and mashed into one big dripping wad of emotion.
    "Jesse's too young to make this decision. He's only seven. He's..." Mom hesitated for a second. "We've decided ... your father and I, that is. We've decided he's going to come to California with me."
    That pretty much decided it for me right there. My little brother could be a big pain in the butt a lot of times, but he was still my brother. We were a set. A pair. We were like peanut butter and chocolate, like Batman and Robin, like spaghetti and garlic bread. I took care of him. And he...?
    He made me feel good that I was taking care of him.
    I would just have to get used to California.
    I could see Dad over Mom's shoulder, standing there, his shoulders slumped. He nodded, his face sad. It was like I'd said something already. It was like he could read my decision off of my face.
    "If you go with me, you'll be with me and with Jesse," Mom said, her voice even. And then—because Mom was always fair above all else—she went on: "If you stay here, you'll be in the same school, have the same friends. And your dad will be there to help you when you're becoming a man."
    I barely heard her. I mean, the words went into my ears and into my brain and I understood it all, but it's like it didn't matter. I couldn't stop looking at Dad. I felt so sorry for him. All I could think was
If I go to California, he'll be all alone.
    "I'll stay here with Dad," I heard myself say, and when Dad smiled, I knew I'd done the right thing.
     
    After Mom and Jesse left, we moved into Mrs. Mac's basement apartment and things just ... sucked.
    I started hanging out with the Council more and more, and our pranks really took off. It helped a little bit. It kept me distracted. Sometimes.
    Always only sometimes.
    I realized pretty quickly that I'd made a mistake. Without Mom around to keep him even and read his mind, Dad started having more and more problems communicating. With the hours his job demanded, we saw each other less and less.
    For the first time, I noticed how many pills my dad took each day. I had gotten used to him popping a few before he went to bed, but now that we were sharing the same tiny bathroom, I couldn't avoid the fact that our medicine cabinet had a lot of medicine in it! He's on antidepressants and antianxiety drugs, which ... You'd think they would just cancel each other out, but I guess not, because the doctors at the VA keep prescribing them and he keeps taking them.
    One time Mom called when Dad was out and I got to talk to her without him lurking around and overhearing. I came right out and asked her: "What's wrong with Dad?"
    "The divorce has been tough on him, too," she said diplomatically.
    "Mom, come on." I wanted to say,
Is it about the army?
but I knew better. Dad's time in the army was
taboo.
or, better yet, proscribed. (That's not like getting your medicine at the pharmacy. It's a different word. It's this cool word that Father McKane uses. It means things you can't do. Forbidden. Like how adultery is
proscribed
by the Ten Commandments and all that.)
    But Mom wouldn't spill. Some old, lingering loyalty to her ex-husband? Guilt? I don't know. But in the end, no matter how much I begged, all she would say was "There are a lot of things wrong with your father. The world didn't turn out the way he thought it should. He didn't turn out the way he ... Look, Kevin. Just don't bother him when he's like this, OK?"
    He has good days and bad days, she told me. He's
always
been like that, she told me. You know that.
    I thought a bunch of times about telling him I'd changed my mind. But Mom's place in California was small. How could I force her to make room for me? I had made the decision, right? She'd left it up to me, and that was that. I couldn't go