Page 61 of Patrick

CHAPTER 18

TRICK

“Ihave to get back to the game,” Coach Winnick says. I think he’s looking at me.

“We’re going to win this one. I wish I could be out there kicking B.C.’s ass.”

“We’ll take care of B.C. You take care of yourself, Trick.” Coach gives me a thumbs up, though it appears he has three or more thumbs.

He leaves, and Doc says, “Time for you to go home.” Dad and Doc help me off the exam table, and when I land on my feet, I feel a strong need to puke. I close my eyes before the dizziness overwhelms me.

Doc takes my chin and pushes my head up to face him. I reluctantly open my eyes.

“How’s the nausea?”

“Peachy.” I close my eyes again. I shouldn’t have mentioned food.

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad is your headache?”

My head screams ten, but I know better and try to concentrate to give him the right answer.

“Eight.”

Mom makes a distraught noise, and I open my eyes, looking straight at her. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” I smile, and even though she’s blurry, I resist the urge to blink her into focus.

“I’ll call you tomorrow, and we can set up our next check-up,” Doc says to me. But listening is hard, and I close my eyes again as an irresistible urge to fall asleep overwhelms me.

“Let’s get you home,” Dad says.

My only thought is Fifi as they half carry me. What about Fifi?

“What was that, honey?” Mom says as she holds me on one side with Dad on the other.

Shit. I said her name out loud. To my parents.

“Nothing,” Daniel says. “He’s talking trash.”

When did Daniel get here? He takes Mom’s place, and between him and Dad, I make it out the back exit of the rink. Leaving Fifi behind.

“That was nice of Coach Winnick to contact his professors and get extensions on his assignments.”

I’m listening in and out of my sleepy haze in the back seat with Daniel and Kathleen. I have the window open for the fresh air and in case I need to puke. Though my stomach seems to be settling down.

I open my eyes to see where we are—almost home, passing through the center of Rye. My sight is clear now, but the pounding in my head is still there, making it hard to focus.

I don’t complain. No point, and I don’t want to worry Mom or Kathleen.

Fifi pops into my head again, and I zip the urge to text her to ask if she can send me notes—or better yet, hand deliver them. Maybe tomorrow. Then I remember Dad took my phone. Shit.

Turning to Daniel, I consider asking to borrow his phone, but he looks like he wants to slap me.

“What are you mad about? It wasn’t my fault someone pushed me into the brawl. Save your dirty looks for Vincent.”

He snorts and shakes his head. He looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t and turns away instead. I close my eyes. The strain on my head to figure out my kid brother is more than I can handle right now.

The next morning, the smell of bacon wakes me, and I smile. Then on a big lungful of the greasy scent, I dare to open my eyes, hoping that the blurriness is gone. When I look around at my old bedroom-turned-office, I smile again, and this time it sticks.

Getting up, I dress, taking my time and appreciating the fact that my headache has receded to a dull throb. When I walk into the kitchen, breakfast is at full tilt with everyone there, seated at the table in their places.