Fadeaway by E. Vickers (sight word readers TXT) 📕

he must have, because there was a sketch of two orcas next to it in his signature thick black lines. Why hadn’t he written back if he’d read it? How long had Luke been waiting for an answer? He looked at the date at the top of the entry.

Since the day he had made the verbal agreement with ASU. The day he’d promised to leave Luke.

A memory came to him, of leaning on his elbows over the back of the sofa, spouting sports facts and searching for the right thing to say as his dad watched a ball game. When a scrappy, brown-haired point guard had gone for the steal, Jake had remembered something he hoped would impress his dad.

“John Stockton has the NBA steals record—3,265. Almost 600 more than the next guy. Can you believe that?”

His dad hadn’t even looked away from the screen. “Stop kicking, Jake. You break the couch, and I’ll break your nose.”

Jake hadn’t even realized he was kicking the base of the sofa. His dad wouldn’t really break his nose. He wasn’t like that. But Jake had stilled his feet anyway. Stared down at them, thinking how unbelievably stupid he was.

Another memory surfaced: standing in the viewing line at his father’s funeral, ten years old and very aware that it was past time for new church shoes. He’d just stepped on the heel to slip out of them when a man knelt down and shook his head. “Leave them on, son. Your mother needs you to be grown up. You’re the man of the house from now on.” Jake had startled at the words, but as he looked over at Luke and his mom, he realized this stranger with the serious face was right. Now that his dad was gone, he had to be enough for both of them. He had to grow up, starting now, starting with these shoes. When he’d finally taken them off that night, his big toes bruised and small toes blistered, he’d wanted to show the man, to see his eyes light up with pride. But it was enough to cover the blisters with Band-Aids and know he could do this.

The man of the house. Jake had heard these words again through the years, always from well-meaning adults with serious faces. It was his cross to bear, and even though it had grown heavy over the years, there had been a certain pride in bearing it.

But now the words bore a different meaning. The man of the house. Destined, then, to follow in his father’s footsteps. Because isn’t that what he’d become? Hadn’t he made Luke feel all the things he’d felt himself—stupid, unseen, unwanted, less—all because he was too lost in his own troubles to reach out?

Luke passed in the hallway just then, looking down at his own shoes, and Jake felt it like a shot through the gut.

“Hey,” he called, trying to think of anything to ask about. Didn’t Luke have club team tryouts coming up? Or was that what he was coming home from?

Luke came back, but stopped when he was only half visible through the doorway. He looked unsure about being even that close. His hair fell, matted and messy, across his forehead. His jersey hung off one shoulder because he was just so small.

“Want me to help you get ready for tryouts?” Jake asked.

“It’s too late,” Luke said, and the look on his face told Jake exactly how it had gone. “Today was the last day. I didn’t make it.” He took a step toward Jake, and Jake was ready to pull his little brother into a hug. But Luke swept The Book of Luke and Jake straight off Jake’s desk and into the trash can. “It’s too late.”

As Luke shuffled off down the hall, Jake felt a tug from the prescription bottle, heard a voice telling him that Luke was right.

It was too late. He’d become like his father.

Still, something inside him fought.

Jake had never had a drop to drink.

He had never even put anything illegal between his lips.

He worked hard at absolutely everything he did.

He had lettered in three sports; had worked all summer, laying shingles and spreading tar; had fought through summer school alone because he refused to give up.

He was not his father.

But then some monster inside him whispered that pills didn’t make him like his father. They helped him be more than his father ever was. After all, he’d never gotten out of control. All the pills did was keep the edge off.

Jake googled the name of the drug on the bottle, and when it turned out to be a different generic name for the very medication he’d been taking—the one he’d been told to take by his surgeon—it felt like a sign.

But there were only thirty in the bottle, and they wouldn’t last long. Not with football season ahead. He’d have to come up with a plan. He’d have to write Luke back later. Because if he could feed this monster, maybe it would leave him alone long enough that he could get back to normal. He’d be there for his brother’s tryouts next time, and the time after that, and always, from that day forward. Luke would have everything he needed.

So Jake took the notebook from the trash and slid it back under his bed. He put the homework away for tomorrow.

As long as he had enough to get him through until he’d really recovered, this would all work out fine.

—

But the pills ran out before he was ready. After one particularly ass-kicking practice, he went looking for at least some ibuprofen in his mom’s medicine cabinet and found a bottle of Norcos left over from her dental work. They weren’t nearly as good as the oxys, but they did something. His knee still wasn’t as strong as it had been, and it still hurt after any workout whatsoever. When the Norcos were gone and Jake called the doctor to see about just one more refill on the