Both Can Be True

by Jules Machias

  The familiar lines of his face morph from surprise to confusion and then alarm.

  “Hi! I’m Ash.” Ashley sticks out her hand.

  Dad shakes it, looking at me with one eyebrow up. “I’m Luke,” he tells her. “Actually, make that Mr. Sanders. Daniel, what are you doing here? Whose dog is that?”

  “This is Ch—” Oh crap. “Uh, it’s sort of a long story. Can we come in?”

  Dad glances into his apartment, then turns to me with an expression I can’t read. “Yeah,” he says like he wants to say no. He steps aside and we go in.

  I stop dead. A woman with pale skin and long dark hair and dark eyes is on the couch, holding a tissue and a mostly empty glass of water. Like she’s been there awhile. Her eyes are puffy like she has allergies. The TV is paused on Mad Men. Dad’s favorite show.

  “Daniel, this is Grace. Grace, this is my son Daniel. And—sorry, what was it? Ashley?”

  “Just Ash. It’s nice to meet you both.”

  Oops. I assumed Ash was short for Ashley.

  “How’d you get here?” Dad asks me. “Did your mom bring you?”

  “We biked,” I croak. My throat is a desert. Not just from running out of water on the ride.

  Dad looks alarmed. “On busy roads? With a dog? How’d you—”

  “We took back roads through neighborhoods,” Ash says. “Totally safe, don’t worry.”

  “But that’s—what is that, fifteen miles?” Dad tilts his head at me. “I think I need an explanation. Please.”

  My heart starts unraveling. When Mitch or I mess up, Mom’s like a school principal, all disciplinarian, ready to get us back in line. Dad’s not like that. He wants to know where we’re coming from, what we were thinking that made us do whatever we did. If we can’t see how what we did could’ve turned out badly, he explains it, patiently. It works so much better than Mom’s methods of taking away our phones or giving us extra chores or whatever.

  I want to melt into that. To connect. To know he cares, even though he’s gone.

  Nothing comes out my mouth. I stare at Grace. She’s pretty. Like prettier than Mom. Young-looking. Asking Dad with her eyes why his kid is staring at her like she has three heads.

  Dad glances at her and then back to me. “It’s not what it looks like,” he says in a low voice, too quiet for her to hear. “She’s my coworker. She’s having a rough time with her kid and needed somebody to talk to. That’s all.”

  My eyes move to the box of tissues on the coffee table. To the crumpled tissue in Grace’s hand. I look at her eyes again. Not puffy like allergies. Puffy like tears. Her nose is faintly red.

  But they’re watching Mad Men. On Dad’s couch.

  Grace stands and brushes off her black jeans. “I need to be getting back,” she says to Dad. “I’m sure Mason has the sitter tearing her hair out by now. Thanks again, Luke.” She picks up a set of keys on the table by the door. She nods at me and Ash, then steps out and closes the door behind her.

  I watch Dad’s face as the door closes. Is that disappointment? Frustration?

  He looks at the dog in my arms. “So. You biked fifteen miles here and you brought a dog. I suspect I’m about to be asked a big question.”

  “Tina found her,” I say. “Um—the lady at the kennel. A vet tech. Who works there.” My brain is scrambled eggs. “Um, the dog was in the woods at the—behind the kennel. There’s like a patch of woods back there past the field.” My throat’s doing the thing it does right before I start crying. Maybe if I talk faster I can stay ahead of it. “She’s a stray. The dog I mean. And Tina’s daughter got in a car wreck, so Tina had to leave and I said I’d—I would—” I push Chewbarka into Ash’s arms. “I gotta pee,” I blurt, and stumble down the hall. I close the bathroom door as Ash launches into the story we came up with.

  The flood of tears that comes out my face is like the blorp of Mitchell debating. Like barfing. Like an earthquake. It’s fast and intense and it’s hard to keep it quiet. I sit on the edge of the tub, pull a towel off the hook, and shove my face in it to muffle the sounds.

  The towel smells like Dad’s aftershave.

  I throw it into the tub and finish my stupid meltdown with my fist jammed against my teeth. It doesn’t take long to finish crying. But as soon as the last sob shakes its way out, guilt hits like a truck.

  I lost it again. At a really freaking bad time to lose it.

  I press my forehead to my knees and close my eyes and fantasize about living without being ashamed of this. Without constantly needing to apologize for feeling too hard. Without beating myself up every single day for having Big Huge Hairy Heinous Feelings. I wish so hard that people could cry whenever we need to and then get on with the day. Like sneezing or burping or getting the hiccups. A bodily function.

  Maybe that’s how it is in some other universe. Where dogs are in charge instead of humans. Dogs just feel what they feel. They’re straightforward. They don’t bother with guilt for being scared during thunderstorms or peeing when they can’t help it or stealing every last bit of your heart.

  I splash cold water on my face. It occurs to me that when I see Mom later today, it’s going to feel like lying to not tell her about Grace.

  But there’s no way to tell her about Grace without telling her I came here. No way to tell her I came here without bringing up the dog. No way to explain the dog without disastrous consequences. For Chewbarka. For Tina. For me.

  There’s no way to make this easier.

  Except . . . well. Ash is here.

  Ash who cares about this messed-up dog as much as I do. Ash who doesn’t mind my meltdowns. Ash who’s patient and funny and smart and kind and fiery and the best sort of surprise.

  I’m not alone. She’s here with me.

  It sucks that she’s gone through so much. All the bullying, being sick, her parents splitting up, having to move—it’s so much.

  But she’s okay. She went through all that and she’s okay. Maybe not as happy as she could be, maybe with a little less faith in humanity. But she can still laugh and draw snores and joke about mutant zebra-platypus dogs and help me with Chewbarka.

  She’s brave enough and strong enough to keep going, even after all that.

  I dry my face on Dad’s aftershave towel, hang it up, and leave the bathroom.

  15

  Bargain

  Ash

  I want so bad to follow Daniel down the hall, since he’s obvs two seconds from meltdown, but here I am holding this dog with Mr. Sanders looking at me all kinds of confused and upset and somebody’s got to start explaining, so here we go.

  I tell him the story we came up with. While I talk, I try to yank myself out of dude mode and back into girl, because I don’t know, maybe that will help since Daniel said his dad wanted a daughter? But it feels so wrong after the gas station. Like those few minutes wearing Daniel’s hoodie flipped the switch for good, and now I’m wearing someone else’s ill-fitting clothes, someone else’s broken-in shoes. I feel wrong in my skin.

  When I finish explaining and ask if he’d maybe be willing to take the dog just till Tina gets back, Mr. Sanders looks at the closed bathroom door like he’s more worried about Daniel. “Did he try to call Tina?”

  “He’s been trying to reach her on social. No answer. I guess she’s pretty preoccupied with her daughter and all.” I glance at the wall in the living room, covered in framed prints of Daniel’s photos from his The_Ugly_Twinn account.

  Mr. Sanders starts to say something. But then he changes his mind. “Did he take the dog to a shelter to see if she has a microchip?”

  “Oh. Um. I don’t think so?” Shoot shoot shoot. Should’ve said yes.

  He looks at me sort of the way Daniel did the other day. Like he’s really seeing me. He has the same eye shape as Daniel, deep-set and intense, but his mouth is grim where Daniel’s seems ready to quirk into a sad smile at any second. Maybe it’s just grim because his kid busted him with another woman. He has the hangdog face of that dude who plays
the Hulk when he’s not Hulked out. Guilty and sorta sick. Like he’s done something he’s not proud of.

  The bathroom door opens. Daniel comes down the hall looking like he ate something from the back of the fridge that should’ve been chucked a few weeks ago.

  “Are you okay?” Mr. Sanders asks him.

  “Fine,” Daniel says, not meeting his eyes. He was definitely crying in there.

  “There’s a shelter ten minutes away,” Mr. Sanders says. “With any luck, the dog’s chipped and we can solve this right now.”

  Daniel takes Chewbarka from me, looking miserable.

  In the back of Mr. Sanders’s car, which has the same funky mold-in-the-AC smell Mom’s car has, Daniel holds Chewbarka and looks out the window. He buries his nose in the fur at the back of her neck. She shifts in his arms like he’s holding her too tight.

  I reach out and take his hand. He folds his fingers through mine but doesn’t look at me.

  The shelter smells like bleach and pee and stressed-out dog. Chewbarka clearly hates it. She tries to claw her way up Daniel’s neck and leaves a big red scratch on his skin. I try to take her from him, but she’s not having it.

  The gray-haired Black lady at the front desk looks wiped out, like she’s cared about homeless animals too hard for too long. Mr. Sanders explains the situation to her, or at least the fake situation. He takes a struggling Chewbarka from Daniel as he talks.

  “All right, let’s see him.” The lady beckons for Mr. Sanders to hand her over.

  “Her,” Daniel corrects. “She’s a girl.”

  “Oh—I’m so sorry, sweetie. You’re a girl! Yes, you are!” The lady cuddles Chewy and ruffles her ears. I feel a little sick. I wish people would apologize like that for misgendering me. Instead, if Mom corrects them, they usually get all flustered and defensive.

  Daniel hugs his ribs and looks through the glass doors at the rows of cages full of abandoned dogs. I don’t need to be a mind reader to know his heart is breaking as much as mine at the thought of all those animals who are gonna wind up dead because humans suck.

  The shelter lady puts a thing that looks like a grocery-store scanner on the back of Chewbarka’s neck. The scanner beeps. “Name’s Chewbarka,” the shelter lady says. “Belongs to a guy named Mark McBrenner.” She sits back in her creaky desk chair and scribbles the phone number and address from the scanner on a Post-it.

  “There you go,” Mr. Sanders tells Daniel. “Problem solved.”

  The woman holds out the Post-it. Mr. Sanders reaches for it, but Daniel plucks it from her hand. “I’ll call them,” he says quickly.

  Mr. Sanders looks at him suspiciously, but doesn’t press it. He thanks the lady and we leave. “Are you two hungry? We can stop there.” He points at the McDonald’s across the street.

  Daniel gets into the back of the car without answering. His silence says everything.

  “I’m not really hungry either,” I lie. I’m upset about how that went down too, but . . . that was a heckin’ long bike ride and I’ve worked up an appetite.

  Once we’re all in the car, Mr. Sanders turns to face us, looking pained. “Daniel . . . if you need to talk about anything, I’m here. Okay? I hope you know that.”

  “Here isn’t at home with us. Where you belong.” Daniel sounds like he’s about to cry again. Guy-me wants to jump in and stab his sadness with a lightsaber. Girl-me wants to cuddle the heck out of him and tell him it’s okay to be sad when your parent is disappointing you.

  Guy-me is definitely winning right now. My shoulders are up. Everything is tense.

  “Let me see the Post-it, please,” Mr. Sanders says. “We’ll drop off the dog.”

  “What? I said I’d take care of it!”

  “We can do it now.”

  “But I want to do it!” Daniel sputters. His eyes are wide, his hands gripping Chewbarka so tightly I hope he’s not hurting her. “I’m the one who’s been taking care of her. I want to bring her back myself!”

  He’s not the only one reeling. I have no idea what we’d tell that Mark McBrenner dude. He thinks his dog is dead.

  Daniel’s dad frowns. “How exactly do you plan to do that? On your bike?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’m saving you a trip. I don’t understand why you’re getting so worked up.”

  “It’s not about the dog!” Tears leak from Daniel’s eyes. He wipes his nose like he’s angry with himself. “You ignore us for two months, and suddenly you want to be a dad and help me?”

  Mr. Sanders lets a moment go by. Then he takes out his wallet and gives me a twenty. “Ash, would you mind going to McDonald’s and getting us a couple burgers for lunch? Or whatever you want. I’m sure you’ll both feel better after some food.”

  “Uh, sure.” I’m totally being invited out. “Daniel . . . are you okay?”

  He nods curtly without looking at me. I want to take Chewbarka, but I can’t go in the restaurant with her, so I get out of the car. “Good luck,” I murmur before closing the door.

  I don’t think Daniel can talk his way out of this one.

  16

  Chewbarka’s Person

  Daniel

  My heart sinks as the door closes behind Ash. She’s on my side. I want her here. But I don’t want her to see this meltdown.

  Dad faces the front, exhales, and grips the steering wheel. He’s still wearing his wedding ring. He turns to face me. “What you’ve done today is not safe. You’re not biking home alone.”

  “I’m not alone. Ash is with me.”

  “I’m calling your mother.” He reaches for his phone.

  “Do you want me to tell her about Grace?” I blurt.

  Dad pauses. He presses his lips together.

  “I actually did want to see you.” I smear at my face with my sleeve. “I didn’t come here just to ask about the dog. But please don’t tell Mom about her. She’ll get mad at me for being ‘irrational’ or whatever.” My drippy state isn’t helping my case. “I can get Chewbarka back to her owner. I don’t need your help.”

  Dad takes another deep breath. I feel like a burden. “How’s school going?”

  I blink at the sudden subject change. “What?”

  “You got some bad quiz scores this week. You look exhausted. Have you really only had that dog since Friday?”

  “You look at GradeFolder?”

  “Every day.”

  “Instead of, I don’t know, actually talking to us?”

  “I called you every day the first week I was in the apartment. You answered your phone exactly once and gave me one-word answers.”

  I hug Chewbarka.

  “You’ve always hated talking on the phone. But that’s not what was going on. Was it?”

  “I didn’t . . .” I didn’t know what to say. It seemed mundane to discuss my day-to-day life. To tell him about getting a typical B-plus on a science quiz. About doing my math homework. Missing Frankie. And if I couldn’t talk about the boring stuff, how could I talk about the important stuff?

  “I’m concerned about you,” Dad says. “I want you to be happy. I can see that you’re not.”

  “Then come home.” I sound petulant. “Mitchell’s a mess without you. He needs you around.” It’s easier than saying I need him too.

  “We told you, this move knocks forty minutes off my commute each way. It’s practical.”

  “Do you think we can’t put two and two together? Are you that hard up for free time that you literally abandoned your family?”

  He closes his eyes. “Let’s not be dramatic. Nobody’s abandoning anyone.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me and Mitch the truth? That you guys are getting a divorce?”

  “Who said anything about a divorce?”

  “Maybe Mom will when she finds out about Grace.”

  Dad rubs his forehead the same way Mom does when she’s stressed. I wonder which of them picked up the habit from the other, or if they’ve both always done it. “Okay,” Dad says. “Fine. Sort out the d
og situation on your own, since you clearly don’t want my help. But I’m not letting you two bike back home. It’s too far. I’ll drive you.”

  “Our bikes and the trailer won’t fit in your car.”

  “The trailer’s collapsible. We’ll put the back seats down. You can sit up front holding the dog. Ash is a little smaller, so she can squeeze in the back with the bikes. We’ll manage.”

  I pull my knees up and curl around Chewbarka.

  “I’m sorry you feel like I’m letting you down,” Dad says. “Believe it or not, I’m human. Sometimes I unintentionally hurt or upset the people I love.”

  I’m sorry you feel bad that I hurt you is not an actual apology. “Then stop.”

  “The circumstances are complicated. It’s not that easy.”

  “It looks easy from here.” All he has to do is come home. Give up his new apartment, give up whatever’s happening with Grace. Then we could be a family again. I want to say that, but I don’t want to tip him into not letting me handle Chewbarka on my own. “I know it’s complicated,” I concede. “I feel like everything is way too complicated.”

  “Well.” Dad’s shoulders slump. “It’s not a fun lesson to learn. But yeah. Everything is generally way too complicated. It only gets more so as you grow up.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  “Complicated isn’t always bad.” He nods at Ash hurrying across the road with a McDonald’s bag. “Are things simple and straightforward with her?”

  “They’re—” I don’t know. They are and they aren’t.

  Ash reaches us and stands looking at me and Dad in the car like she’s not sure if she’s interrupting. Dad rolls down the window. “Come on, get in.”

  She opens the back door and sits next to me. Chewbarka sniffs the scent of burgers and fries floating from the bag. “I got Quarter Pounders,” Ash says. “And two large fries. I didn’t get drinks because you didn’t say to. Is that okay?”