When he sees me, he leaps to his feet and exclaims, “Guy! Come on in.” He’s about the first person I’ve met here who doesn’t try to shake my hand, and that scores him some points.
“Pull up a seat,” he says, closing the door behind me. I cautiously sit down.
He sits in a chair opposite me and somehow manages to cross his long legs into what looks like a stable, if not exactly comfortable, position.
“Welcome to Big Sky,” he begins. “I’m Mr. Doolebaum.”
“I know.”
He chuckles to himself. “I suppose you do. I kind of stick out around here, don’t I? I hope I didn’t scare you by calling you into the office like this, but you’ve been here over a month now, and I like to sit down and meet with all of the students near the beginning of the year—especially the new kids.”
I nod, but don’t say anything.
“So, you’re from California. How are you liking Montana so far?” he asks.
“It’s got its high points.”
This time he laughs out loud. “And its low ones, too, I’ll bet. You know, I’m not from around here either. I moved out from New York about twenty years ago. I came to Montana for the mountains and wilderness, and I got along fine with them. The people took more time. Man,” he said, grasping his ponytail, “you should have seen the way people looked at me with this. Eventually, though, we all got used to each other.”
I smile politely, wondering where exactly this male bonding is supposed to be heading.
“How are your classes? You like them okay? Any problem spots?”
“They’re fine,” I tell him. “I probably need to work harder in English.”
He gives a small wave of his hand. “Yeah, well, we’ve all got one of those. What about the kids? You doing alright with them?” he asks me.
“They’re okay,” I say. “Most of them.”
Another laugh. Then Mr. D grows more serious. “You might not think it, but kids around here face the same issues they do in California. Drugs. Alcoholic parents. Bullying.”
Aha, I think. So that’s it. The main topic of the day is Brad Mullen.
But then Mr. D catches me off guard.
“Divorce is one of the biggest things kids have to go through,” he continues. “Right here in Coffee, almost half of all children have experienced divorce in their families.”
Immediately my defenses go on alert, and I realize this conversation may not be about bullying after all.
Mr. D uncrosses his legs and looks over at a folder on his desk. “It says here your own folks are divorced.”
I groan inside. I can’t believe he’s brought this up.
“I don’t know,” I tell him.
This seems to confuse him. “You mean, they’re still together?”
“No, but I don’t know if they’re divorced or not.”
“Oh yeah, right.” Mr. D shifts a little and again tries a sideways approach. “My own parents split up when I was about your age,” he tells me. “It was one of the hardest things I ever had to go through.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mr. D doesn’t know it yet, but battle lines have just been drawn. I’ve been through this kind of conversation a dozen times before, and he’s no match for me. As he talks, I quickly close the iron gates to my castle. My archers move into position and my catapults are loaded. In case all that fails, the burning oil is poised, just waiting to pour down on anyone trying to scale the walls.
Mr. D, though, marches forward, probably thinking he’s launching the cleverest assault in the history of counselor-student relationships.
“I was really mad at my folks for a long time,” he tells me. “Really angry, you know?”
In my mind, I catch a brief glimpse of myself in our kitchen the year before in California. My mom is standing nearby and I’m screaming at her. “Why? Why did he leave? What did you do to him?”
But my lips stay pressed together. To Mr. Doolebaum, I just nod and mutter, “Mmm-hmmm.”
“Even now,” he continues, “I sometimes wonder if I ever really got over the whole thing.” Mr. D pauses. “Do you ever feel angry at your parents, Guy?”
Something tries to climb up out of me, but I stab it back down with my sword. “Nope,” I tell him.
“Do you ever blame yourself for what happened? A lot of kids do. I think that I did.”
My castle walls start to tremble as I remember the weeks after my father left. I walked from room to room in our house, looking for clues to why he had gone, wondering if I had done something wrong to force him away. But I steady myself and order the catapults to fire.
“No,” I tell Mr. Doolebaum. “I’ve never thought that.”
“Oh. Well, many kids do, and it isn’t their fault. It’s usually the adults who create the problem and, unfortunately, the kids get caught in the crossfire.”
I don’t react.
Mr. Doolebaum looks at me and falls silent for a moment. I think he is finally realizing that his invading hordes have met their match. He forces another smile.
“Well,” he says. “It would be understandable if you did…feel like that. And if you ever want to talk about it or anything else, I hope you feel free to just drop by.”
The bell rings, signaling the end of the period.
“Remember, Guy. It doesn’t matter what it is—difficulty with classes, Brad Mullen, whatever. Just know I’m here for you.”
I nod and quickly stand up. As I exit the office, though, I suddenly feel a little wobbly and reach my hand out to a nearby counter. Nobody seems to notice and the moment passes. Taking a deep breath, I head off to my next class.
The following Monday, Brad Mullen gets caught trying to shove a sixth-grader into the cafeteria dishwasher and earns four solid days of morning and afternoon detention. This is undoubtedly a real drag for the sixth-grader, but for Luke and me, it’s like winning the lottery. Our prize is four glorious days without having to look over our shoulders and we decide to make the most of it. After school every day, we head straight to my house. We practice throwing the Frisbee for Streak and I’ve got to admit Luke is right. Streak is a natural and soon catches the Frisbee like he’s been doing it his whole life.
After the second day, Grandpa even comes out to watch. While we throw, Grandpa eats grapes and reminisces about dogs he used to have. It seems like he’s had four or five thousand of them, all with names like T-Bone and Lollipop and Moonshine, but Luke and I don’t mind hearing about them. Grandpa looks especially happy watching Streak chase after the Frisbee, and I realize he must have been pretty lonely living in this house since Grandma died.
When we’re done working with Streak on the Frisbee, we go inside to do our math homework together. I whip through advanced algebra and geometry from my new class and then attempt to guide Luke through his basic algebra and geometry problems. As usual, it’s slow going and I lose my patience more than once.
“Luke,” I shout at him one afternoon, “x-squared is not the same thing as two times x!”
“Oh, right. I forgot. It’s just that when x equals two, it ends up being the same thing.”
“Uhhhh,” I moan, letting my head roll back on my shoulders.
Fortunately, Luke doesn’t seem to mind when I act like a jerk. After that, whenever I get ready to blow my lid, I call out “Frisbee break!” and we play with Streak for a while.
When Luke goes home, I put on my headphones and daydream about Catherine for a while. Then, I dive back into Animal Farm. By chapter five, I can see where the book is going. The animals have kicked the people off the farm, but now the pigs are turning into the masters, just like the people were. It’s a strange book and isn’t nearly as fun as playing a video game, but something besides passing English keeps me reading. It’s not really like anything else I’ve read. Once or twice, I even find myself thinking about it as I walk to school and talking about it with Luke while we’re playing Frisbee.
I wonder if my dad ever read it?
Unfortunatel
y, Brad’s four days of detention end far too quickly. On the Friday before the Fall Fair, I find myself in a familiar position—shoved up against the school wall with Brad breathing toxic fumes into my face.
“Where’ve you been, Chicken Gizzard?” he demands.
My instinct is to grovel as usual, but I’ve been anticipating this moment all week and am ready to try something different.
“Hey, Brad,” I say. “I hear you’ve got a Frisbee dog.”
I feel his grip on my collar loosen. “Yeah, what about it?”
“Well, uh, I hear he’s pretty good.”
Brad presses me against the wall again. “Shep’s not pretty good. He’s the best.”
“Are you competing tomorrow?”
“Damn right I am. And I’m going to win! What do you care, Scrotum Head?”
I pause long enough to appreciate Brad’s latest name for me—and give myself one last chance to back out—but decide to go for it. “Well,” I tell him, “I’m entering my dog in the contest, too.”
Brad doesn’t know how to react to this information, and I figure it can go two ways. It can either tick him off so much that he pounds me into fungus food right then and there, or he can see the contest as another opportunity to humiliate me, which is what I’m counting on.
Luckily, Brad goes for Option B. His mouth spreads into an ugly sneer and he looks back at Clyde and Harold. “Did you hear that? This butt wipe thinks he can beat me and Shep in the Frisbee contest!”
The Parasites guffaw like village idiots as the morning bell goes off. Brad lets go of me and says, “See you tomorrow, loser.”
A few minutes later, in English class, Mrs. Minneman hands out our assignment. We’ve finished reading Animal Farm and have to write a paper on it. I figured it was coming, but now I groan along with a couple of the other English-challenged kids.
“The first draft of your paper is due next Friday,” Mrs. Minneman explains, “and I’m going to give you a lot of leeway on what to write. Maybe you want to compare the book to real events in the world. Perhaps you’d like to compare the story to other works of literature. Some of you may want to analyze one of the main characters and his role in the book. I’m going to leave this up to you, but feel free to come discuss ideas with me.”
“That’s a big help,” I grumble to Luke. “What am I going to write about?”
“I know what I’m going to write about,” says Luke. “I’m going to compare Animal Farm to what happened in the former Soviet Union.”
Sometimes I can’t believe this kid. “How’d you come up with that?”
Luke shrugs. “Aw…I don’t know. I just thought of it. It’s not that original.”
It is to me. I have to admit that sometimes I still think of Luke as pretty simple, but he keeps coming up with these surprising ideas. I look over at Catherine and wonder what she’s going to write about. It’ll probably be something brilliant, too.
Chapter Nine
The Saturday of the Fall Fair, Luke arrives at my house around nine. Grandpa’s still in bed, but my mom has finished her morning reading-and-coffee ritual and is getting ready for work.
“Hi, Luke,” my mother says, running some water over last night’s dishes in the sink. “You all set for the Fall Fair?”
“Yes, Mrs. Martinez. Streak is going to do great.”
Mom laughs. “I’m sure he will, the way you two have been working him. I’m sorry I won’t be able to come watch today. Since I’m the new girl in town, I get the weekend shift down at the shop.”
“We’ll bring you back the blue ribbon,” Luke says with a smile. I can tell he believes it.
As we go out to get Streak, I secretly admit that I’m glad my mom has to work. I’m nervous enough as it is, and not just about Brad. I’m sure most of the other kids will be there, including Catherine. I don’t want to make a fool out of myself.
Luke and I arrive at Big Sky about ten o’clock and the schoolyards are already hoppin’. The Fall Fair is a much bigger deal than I expected. A lot of tables are hocking homemade baked goods, crafts, pencils, T-shirts with school logos—anything that can make a buck. Raffle tickets are being sold for everything from backpacks to movie passes to a trip to Spokane, and vendors are peddling hot dogs, cotton candy, and soft drinks.
Streak strains at his leash, pulling me toward a stand where a man is making some sort of strange-looking sandwich with something that looks like pita bread. Several people eagerly stand in line, their money ready.
“What are those?” I ask Luke.
“Haven’t you ever had Indian Tacos?” he asks.
“I didn’t know Indians made tacos,” I say. “I thought tacos came from Mexico.”
“Not these.”
“What are they made of?”
“I don’t know exactly. Fried bread stuffed with beans and a lot of spicy stuff. They’re good—but you’d better wait till after the contest to eat one.”
“Why?”
“Aw…they can sit kind of heavy in your gut. Once I ate one and—”
I hold up my hand. “Luke, I don’t want to hear about it.”
Country music blares as we take a quick cruise of the booths and exhibits—or, rather, Streak takes us on a quick cruise. Before long, his quivering nose leads us to a fenced-off area full of sheep, goats, and cows.
“Hey, what are these doing here?” I ask.
“Why wouldn’t they be here? It’s a fair,” Luke says.
When comprehension still fails to register on my face, he continues, “A lot of kids around here raise animals. The judges give out awards for the best ones.”
I shake my head. “I never saw sheep and cows at my school in California.”
“In case you forgot, you’re in Montana now.”
As Streak sniffs a cage full of strange-looking rabbits with especially long ears, the familiar voice of Principal Goode cuts into the sound system. He welcomes everybody to the Fall Fair and urges us to spend as much money as possible. Then he announces the first of the day’s events—the three-legged race.
“Aw…you want to do that?” Luke asks.
I shake my head. “No way. I’ll go watch, though.”
We walk over to the starting line for the three-legged race. A crowd has already gathered and I glance around for Brad Mullen and the Parasites. Instead, we run into Catherine.
“Hello, Guy,” she says. “Hi, Luke.”
I’ve never heard Catherine say my name before and it kind of throws me.
“Hi, Catherine,” Luke says.
“Oh, uh, hi,” I mumble, my tongue feeling like a beached whale. “Is this your dog?” Catherine asks, kneeling down.
I’m about to tell her that Streak isn’t much of a petting dog, but he steps right up to her and lets her rub his chest and ears.
Luke answers for me. “Yep. That’s Streak.”
“Oh, goood boy,” Catherine croons. “What is he, Border collie and what else?”
I’m amazed at how much everyone seems to know about animals around here. “Uh, I’m not sure. He’s kind of a mutt.”
“I think he’s got some Australian cattle dog in him,” Luke says.
“Oh, I can see that now,” Catherine says. “Oooh, what a good dog. Are you entering him in the Frisbee contest?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Luke and I have been practicing.”
“Practicing what?” Brad Mullen barges between us. His big German shepherd jumps all over Streak. I start to reach for my dog, but he knows what to do. He rolls over in a submissive posture and then, his ears laid back, begins to lick Brad’s dog on the face.
Brad sneers. “Butt-wipe owner, butt-wipe dog, huh?”
Clyde Crookshank and Harold Dicks snort behind him.
I feel myself turning red and am looking for a way to slink off, but Catherine stands up and brushes off the knees of her pants. “Brad,” she says, “don’t you ever get tired of trying to prove how much testosterone you have?”
Brad hesitates for a moment. T
hen he blusters, “At least I have more than you do.”
Luke, Catherine, and I crack up. “Thank goodness for that,” Catherine says.
Now it’s Brad’s turn to blush. To top it off, Streak stands up and walks behind Brad. Before I can stop him, he shoves his nose forward and gives Brad a massive butt sniff.
Brad yelps and spins around, kicking wildly, but Streak is way too quick. He dodges around Brad, tangling him up in his leash. Again I try to grab Streak, but it’s too late. Brad takes one step and crashes into the grass.
All around us, people burst into laughter—even the Parasites. Shep lets out a playful bark and dives into the fray, licking Brad on the face.
“Get away, dammit!” Brad swears, trying to shove Shep away while still kicking at Streak. I untangle them and pull off my dog.
“I’ve got to go,” says Catherine, still grinning. “Good luck, you two. I’m sure Streak will do great.”
She walks off, leaving my heart slam dancing inside my chest. Brad leaps up, ready to spit nails. Unfortunately, I know that it’s my hide the nails are going to fly into. He reaches forward to grab me, but spots Principal Goode glaring at him. Shaking with rage, he pretends to flick something off of my shirt and says under his breath, “You are dead meat, California. First my dog is going to kick your dog’s ass. Then I’m going to kick yours.”
He spits a big glop of tobacco juice at the ground and snarls, “Have a nice day.”
“Whew,” I sigh as Brad drags his German shepherd away. “Is Fall Fair always this much fun?”
“Aw…we’ve had it, Guy,” Luke says. “Brad’s going to kill us both.”
Luke isn’t usually so pessimistic, but I have no doubt he’s right. “I know, but seeing him crash into the lawn was worth anything else that happens today.”
“You think maybe we should just skip the Frisbee contest?”
I admit I’m thinking the same thing. I must have been temporarily insane deciding to go up against Brad in the contest, and now with Streak’s butt-sniff move, I’m pretty much doomed. On the other hand, it also means I’ve got nothing to lose. If we enter the contest, Brad’s going to beat me to a pulp, win or lose. If we don’t enter, he’s still going to beat me to a pulp.
Dog Sense Page 6
