Dive into Danger

CHAPTER ONE

Once a Pudge, Always a Pudge

Sunday

In my dreams, I swim like an orca. Sleek. Powerful. Fearless. Then I wake up.

It’s not that I can’t swim. I do okay in a pool. But toss me into the Pacific Ocean and I panic. There’s no way to tell what’s swimming next to you. A dolphin and a shark look alike until it’s too late to escape. Most people get that, but my dad? Not so much.

There’s a world beyond that basement, he says again and again. And he’s a biologist for the Marine Mammal Center in Sausalito, California. He could literally write a book about the world beyond my world. You could be so much more than you are, he says. But all I can hear is, You’re not good enough. And all I can think is, He’s right.

It’s not his fault. He was born to be a tan, aquatic giant with both brawn and brain. I was born to be Pudge. That’s what he calls me. It started as my mom’s nickname for a fat little toddler, and it stuck—even after she left us. I doubt Dad even remembers my name is Austin.

Most days, I push past his disappointment. He lives upstairs. I live in the basement. He leaves for work at six a.m. I wake up at seven for school. We only chat at dinner—small talk.

How was your day?

Did we get any mail?

If my weight comes up, the peace is shattered, so it doesn’t come up. Silence takes its place.

Better hit the books, he says when things get awkward. So I head down for the night. He thinks homework is hard for me, but it’s not. I may be fat, but I’m not stupid. Forty minutes and all the assignments I didn’t finish at school are done. Then I’m free to play World of Warcraft, my favorite video game—as long as he doesn’t know about it.

Video games are a waste of energy, he says, illusions to distract you from real life. He said the same thing about my art and my mother’s dream of being a singer. I respectfully disagree. Drawing keeps me focused. Every doodle helps me learn. And RPGs—role-playing games—are my life. When I play WoW, I’m the guy he wants me to be.

I haven’t been playing WoW long, but when I sign on to the game from my laptop, I am transformed. I am Hippocrates, an undead zombie priest and healer, reanimated by the power of a banshee queen. And while I’m a beginner now, I have a goal. I want to level up and earn a spot in one of the most prestigious guilds in the game—the Dead Druid Society. I am committed.

I check my friend list and see my best friend Duffy is already logged in. His handsome blood elf character Cyrano is bounding across a tropical landscape, flirting with any player he thinks is a girl.

As I watch, a conversation bubble appears on the colorful play screen.

Cyrano greets Briarrose.

Briarrose runs from my friend. Your loss, he types.

Another bubble opens.

Cyrano greets Silverstar.

Silverstar waves and then mounts her skeletal horse to gallop away.

Not getting much play, I type in a private message. Did you brush those elfin teeth before you hit the game, or are you rocking corn chips?

Duffy types LOL and then Skypes me so we can talk. I gargled with vodka, he says. Does that count, Pudge?

Duffy is only fourteen. He doesn’t drink and neither do I. There’s no way he’s gargled with alcohol. But