I realize I could act all pissed off and say the last thing I want to do is work during the summer before my senior year, but I’m actually cool with the idea. I mean, I’m already doing “work” for Huey, so we have that relationship going for us, and Justin always said being a stock boy at Huey’s Party Store was the best job in the city. He never explained why or anything, but he said it enough for me to believe him.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Mom moments after Dad has left the kitchen. “Can I go to my room now?” She nods. “Thanks.” I stand and walk away, grateful to get off so easy.

“Just one more thing,” she says. I stop and turn. “If you ever come home in a police car again I’ll make sure you spend the night in jail.”

“Fair enough.” Then I pause. “Why did you kick me? Why’d you stop me from talking about Coach Horton?”

She folds her hands in her lap and looks down, thinking. “I’d rather not talk about it right now.”

Figuring it has something to do with Justin quitting, I go to my room and pass out on my mattress, still fully clothed.

A few hours later I awaken to a spinning ceiling, and I barely make it to the toilet to puke. After a few good hurls of burning, chunky, yellowish gunk, Mom walks in and gives me a wet towel. Then she closes the door and leaves me alone.

The next morning I can still taste the sour vomit. Sitting up in bed, I massage my aching temples with my fingers and stare at the faded wood floor until my vision clears. Troubling questions race through my head. Is it possible that Big Dale, with his massive physique and willingness to slap around his own son in front of other cops, is on the juice as well? The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. This guy has always been a physical specimen, equipped with the kind of muscles you see on bodybuilders. And last night there he was, totally ’roid-raging or whatever, belting his kid on the front porch for the whole street to see.

But I suppose the most disturbing question of all is this: If Big Dale is on the juice, is there a chance he’s supplying his own son with the stuff? Is it a case of an unethical father giving his jock son an unfair edge on the competition? The thought makes me feel sick to my stomach, but it’s out there now and I have to pursue it. And regardless of the outcome, one thing’s for sure: I saw and heard enough last night to know that Big Dale Foster might be nothing more than another failed Blaine father, a species that runs rampant in this town.