happen. Almost married her, but she turned me down. Said she was gonna die young and didn’t want to break my heart. Broke it anyway, though.”
Uncle Dune looks so sad, I can’t believe I’d never heard of this lost love of his. But at the same time I can, since he almost never talks about himself. It’s especially surprising, because I’ve always known Uncle Rod as the ladies’ man and Uncle Jet’s had the same girlfriend he’s been stringing along saying they might make things permanent for almost two decades now. But Uncle Dune has never shown any interest in the opposite sex. I’ve always seen him as somewhat monklike. Now that I think of it, him nursing a broken heart makes a hell of a lot more sense.
“All right,” Uncle Jet says, taking control once more. “Enough chitchat. I vote Lennie heads home and—”
“No!” I burst out. “You’re not getting rid of me! I don’t care if all our options suck, I’m wishing for something—anything—to try and make some of this better.”
“Then go home and do it!” Uncle Jet bellows back at me, loud enough to blow my hair back.
Normally, I’d back down. Going against Uncle Jet is like trying to stand upright during a hurricane. But normal’s gone and may never be back again. Besides which, I’m pissed, too.
“Stop trying to get rid of me! I’m sorry I’m not Michaela. I’m sorry I fuck everything up. I’ll stay out of your way. Okay? I’ll stay so far away you won’t even know I’m here.”
Uncle Jet sucks in another lungful of air and just as I’m ready for him to shout it back out at me, he deflates instead. “Lennie,” he says, suddenly uncharacteristically quiet, “I don’t wanna get rid of you. It’s only that I can’t stand the idea of something happening to you.” I look at him then and notice how tired he looks. No, not simply tired. Beaten. Exhausted. Worn out. “None of us can,” Uncle Jet adds, and Uncle Rod and Uncle Dune nod in affirmation.
“Oh,” I say, wondering when my uncles started giving a shit about me and then wondering if maybe they have all along . . . in their own kind of rough way. It occurs to me that they might not know how I feel either, and even though it goes against everything I’ve been raised to believe, I confess, “Well, I’m worried about you guys too.”
If I was expecting my uncles to get all misty eyed, I should have thought again. Instead, they look offended. Like, majorly insulted. “We can handle ourselves, Lennie,” Uncle Rod informs me, while puffing his chest out.
Realizing there’s no way I’m gonna win this fight, I give in. “Okay, fine. I’ll go home. But if I think of a way to wish us all outta this, I’m gonna do it.”
I wouldn’t blame them for forbidding me to do so, for coming up with all kinds of threats. It’s not like I’ve done one damn thing that’s shown even the tiniest shred of good judgment.
Uncle Dune’s oversized hands raise up and I prepare myself to be forcibly locked away somewhere, probably near poor Zinkowski, where neither of us can do any more damage. But instead he grabs hold of Uncle Jet and pulls him away. “You gotta do what you gotta do, Lennie,” he says, which sounds like a condemnation, until he adds, “And we trust you to figure out what the best move is.”
Uncle Rod leans in and hands me his little plastic sports bottle with a few fingers of shine sloshing around the bottom. He’s always carried it on him, for as long as I’ve known him. I guess so he could grant wishes anytime, anywhere. “You might as well have this now, in case you gotta wish your way outta anything.”
It’s as close to “I’m proud of you” as I’ll ever get. Hell, it’s better than I’m proud of you, ’cause that’s for something you’ve already done, but this, this is them having confidence that they’ll have reason to be proud of me at some point down the road. It’s enough to make me want to forget Uncle Dune’s idea about turning back time, because in that version of my life I might never have this moment.
I shove the bottle into the front pocket of my hoodie. “Thanks,” I say in a shaky voice. “I’m gonna . . .” I stop, realizing I have no idea what I’m gonna do.