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Greasy Johnson’s eleventh birthday was terrible.
It was his mother’s fault. She’d been going on about how big he was1, how proud she was of him 2, how glad she was they’d adopted him—
And Greasy’s world simultaneously shattered and made more sense.
No wonder he already weighed nearly as much as his dad. No wonder the oily hair his nickname derived from was so unlike his mum’s fluffy curls. No wonder his parents didn’t understand him. They weren’t his parents at all.
The Johnsons were taken aback by Greasy’s reaction. They’d thought he knew; they certainly would never have deliberately concealed it. Somehow, it had simply never come up.
They apologized for not telling him sooner; answered his questions about what they knew about his birth parents (nothing); tried to work out how to comfort him and why he was so upset.
Greasy couldn’t explain. His teachers didn’t like him. His neighbors didn’t like him. Half the time he wasn’t sure his friends liked him. Sometimes, Greasy didn’t like himself much either.
But his parents… “We’re your family,” they’d always said. He’d believed them. Family was unconditional, and they were his.
Except, apparently, they weren’t. His actual family had given him away. And if his parents — the only rocks in Greasy Johnson’s life 3— weren’t his parents, nothing could be relied upon.
Three days later, the Antichrist gazed into the souls of his friends and his enemies, and felt an uncomfortable prickle of conscience.
Greasy was sulking in the woods, five days after his birthday, when twigs cracked and he looked up to see his nemesis.
“Hi,” said Adam.
Greasy glared, hands balling into fists, and didn’t say anything. He wasn’t in the mood for a fight. 4
Besides, this was his part of the woods. Greasy wasn’t about to waltz into Adam’s chalk quarry, was he? 5
“You know,” said Adam, sounding oddly hesitant, “it’s not so bad, bein’ adopted…”
Greasy surged angrily to his feet.
“…I am too,” Adam said hastily.
Greasy blinked.
“An’ I was thinkin’,” Adam continued, “it’s nice. Gettin’ to choose your family.”
“To un-choose your family, you mean?” Greasy snapped.
Adam nodded. “Yeah, that’s pretty good too.”
“How?” Greasy demanded, so confused he forgot he was upset.
“It depends.” Adam shrugged. “If my first dad was enough of a devil, I’d be glad for another chance. I mean… for all you know yours could’ve been mean ol’ Americans, an’ you’d never get to play outside.”
That was such a ridiculous notion — Greasy might’ve been intrigued by an article about American football, but he was unquestionably British — that he actually found himself laughing.
Adam laughed too. “Anyway. I reckon, real parents are the ones who chose to be there for us. That’s how we know they’ll stick aroun’. See you later.”
And he turned and vanished among the trees.
Well, Greasy thought, that was weirder than most interactions with Adam Young. Which was saying something.
Then he went home to hug his parents.