Nearby, a P.E. teacher shouts, “Go!” and the first round of contestants in the three-legged race starts bounding toward the finish line. Luke ignores them. “The problem is that Streak really needs this experience if he’s going to do well in the city meet.”
“What are you talking about? What city meet?”
The crowd is screaming encouragement to the three-legged racers and Luke has to shout for me to hear him. “I told you about the city meet!”
“No, you didn’t! What is it?”
“The City Frisbee Dog Championship. It’s sponsored by Gulp Pet Foods Company. It’s a national thing. If Streak wins there, he can go on to the regional competition in Missoula the following weekend. If he finishes in the top two there, he qualifies for State.”
“You didn’t say anything about that!”
“Maybe I thought you knew.”
“How would I know that?” I ask him, exasperated.
As the cheering dies down, Luke asks, “Well, are you going to enter Streak or should we go home?”
After a pause, I bend down to rub Streak’s chest. I tell Luke, “Streak is definitely going to catch some Frisbees today.”
Chapter Ten
The Frisbee-throwing contest is scheduled for noon—high noon, I think—and there are a lot more entrants than Luke had predicted. I count at least twenty other students with their dogs gathered around the throwing area. Almost everyone else at the fair has gathered near the football field, and there’s no question this is going to be the day’s most popular event.
“Terrific,” I mutter, feeling the pressure crank up a couple of hundred atmospheres. Streak paces excitedly, straining on his leash to say hello to every person around him and sniff every mongrel in sight. I scan the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Catherine.
“Isn’t this great?” Luke says, stopping to pet a little dog that looks like a rug with legs. He informs me it’s called a corgi and then starts rattling off trivia about every other breed around us. They range from smaller poodles and terriers to big dogs like Labs and German shepherds. I have a hard time absorbing what Luke is telling me. I just keep glancing over at Brad and Shep, my stomach twisting tighter than a tourniquet.
Principal Goode makes his way through the crowd and holds up a portable megaphone, which gives off a deafening squeal the first time he talks into it. Half the people shove fingers into their ears. Streak lets out a loud howl, and several other dogs join in. Principal Goode turns down the volume and tries again.
“Welcome, everyone. All the contestants for the Frisbee competition, please gather around while I explain the rules.” A couple more kid-dog teams make their way to my vicinity and we listen above the chatter of the crowd.
Principal Goode reels off the rules and they’re pretty simple. From the throwing spot, there are four lines, 10, 20, 30, and 40 yards away. Dogs earn 1, 2, 3, or 5 points, depending on which line they clear, plus a half-point bonus if they leap into the air to make the catch. Each of us has a minute to throw the Frisbee. The more successful catches we complete, the higher the score. If two dogs tie, there will be a “throw-off” at the end of the competition.
Each team draws a number to determine the position it will compete in. Of course Streak and I end up with the highest number, which means we’re going dead last. As the crowd clears away to give the dogs and throwers room, I feel every blood vessel in my body throb and I breathe in and out like a steam engine.
“Aw…relax, Guy,” Luke tells me. “When it’s your turn, just throw it like we’ve been practicing it and Streak’ll do the rest.”
“Any other advice?” I ask him.
“Yeah. Don’t even worry about the 40-yard mark. Nobody throws it that far. Last year a few people tried because that’s worth 5 points. But when they threw too hard, the Frisbee veered off and they didn’t get anything. Also, longer throws take more time, so you won’t get as many in. Just throw shorter, like we’ve been doing, and you’ll score a lot higher.”
“Okay,” I say, noticing that Luke is tugging on his earlobe, stretching it out like Play-Doh.
Principal Goode announces the first team, a poodle that belongs to some seventh-grade girl I don’t recognize. I figure the dog doesn’t have a chance, but it does pretty well. The girl keeps lobbing the Frisbee out there and the poodle runs them down. He catches most of them with his feet on the ground, though, and misses one entirely. Also, the girl doesn’t throw the Frisbee farther than 15 or 20 yards, so she and her dog end up scoring only 5 points on four catches.
Next is an Irish setter owned by an eighth-grade boy in my social studies class named Norbert van der Wolf. When Principal Goode yells, “Go!” Norbert flings the Frisbee beyond the 30-yard line and, running hard, the setter snags it. The problem is that as soon as the dog makes the catch, she races off into the crowd. When Norbert finally chases her down, the whistle has already blown.
The dogs and their owners keep competing one by one. Just before Brad and Shep’s turn, a sixth-grade boy and his ugly-looking mutt run onto the field.
“That’s a blue heeler,” Luke tells me. “See, he’s got that compact body and mottled-looking fur.”
Whatever he is, man, can that dog jump. When the boy throws the Frisbee, the dog tears after it and just goes airborne, earning bonus points right and left.
“I bet he’s five feet off the ground,” Luke says with a whistle.
“Parker Boyd,” the principal announces when the round is over. “Now in the lead with 11.5 points.”
My mood grows bleak. As Grandpa would say, against these dogs Streak and I have about as much chance as a fly in a frog farm. Then Brad is up. He puffs out his chest like he always does, but he moves jerkily and his eyes dart quickly from place to place. That surprises me. I didn’t think bullies like Brad got nervous. Before he begins, he bends down and whispers something to Shep that I can’t hear—probably something like “You’d better win or I’m going to kick your ass.”
Then, Principal Goode shouts, “Ready… Set… Go!”
Brad flings the Frisbee, easily clearing the 30-yard line. Shep’s a big dog—more than twice Streak’s size—but he moves amazingly fast. He bounds after the disc and leaps into the air after it. An easy 3.5 points.
Shep brings back the Frisbee and Brad rips it out of his mouth and throws again. Shep nabs the next throw for another 3.5 points, but then he misses one altogether. Brad curses and yells, “Shep, get back here!” The dog picks up the fallen disc and bounds back. Brad grabs it out of his mouth and tosses it again, but the miss must have rattled him. Instead of sailing straight, the Frisbee curves left and short. Shep makes the adjustment and dashes after it for two more points.
“Ten seconds to go!” Principal Goode yells and Brad’s face scrunches up like a prune. He winds up for the throw and sails a mammoth toss beyond the 40-yard mark. The crowd hushes as Shep races after the Frisbee. It’s a long throw, and I’m not sure Shep is going to reach it. With a last dive, though, he catches it just before it hits the ground. He loses the half a bonus point, but the crowd bursts into applause. With 14 points, Brad and Shep have just blasted into the lead.
Brad struts by me with Shep. “Beat that, Calf Crap,” he boasts.
After Brad is out of hearing distance, I look at Luke. “I thought no one reached the 40-yard line.”
“Aw…well, maybe every once in a while. But it’s no problem, Guy. Fifteen points will do it. That’s only five good throws. They don’t even all have to reach the 30-yard line.”
“I don’t know, Luke,” I say. “I think this is harder than it looks. What if Streak just heads off into the crowd like that Irish setter?”
“He won’t.”
I don’t share his confidence. By the time it’s our turn, twenty other dogs have competed. Brad is still in first place, but all eyes focus on Streak and me.
“Competing last today,” Principal Goode yells, “are Guy Martinez and his dog, Steak.”
The crowd erupts into laughter.
“It’s Streak, not Steak,” I tell the principal.
“Oops!” Principal Goode says to more laughter. “Guy Martinez and his dog Streak. Are you both ready?”
The answer is no. I’ll never be ready for this, but I nod at the starter anyway and whisper to Streak, “Just do your best, buddy.”
Out of the corner of my eye I notice Brad and Shep watching from the front of the crowd, but I force them from my mind. I unclip Streak’s leash and he darts out a few feet and starts sniffing the ground, probably for the scents of other dogs. I give my special two-note whistle, though, and he snaps his brown eyes back to me, waiting for the first throw.
Principal Goode yells, “Ready… Set… Go!”
I pull my arm back and heave the Frisbee way too hard. Streak darts after it, but it veers right and hits the ground before he can get within ten feet of it. My heart sinks as he picks it up and gallops back to me.
“Just relax,” Luke shouts, but I’m already sure I’ve blown it. And if my first throw doesn’t seal it, the second one definitely does.
Overcompensating for the first throw, I throw the second one way too soft. Streak is already out to the 30-yard line before he realizes that the Frisbee has barely cleared the 10. He whips around and races back toward it, but he’s got no chance. The disc hits the turf before he even comes close.
“So much for the contest,” I tell myself.
But then a surprising thing happens. With the pressure off, I relax and throw the next one perfectly. It sails beyond the 30-yard line with just enough “float” in it for Streak to leap up and nab it.
Finally we’re on the board, I think.
My fourth throw is like the third and Streak seizes it at least four feet off the ground.
“Fifteen seconds!” Principal Goode yells.
My heart picks up speed and I throw the Frisbee again. It’s not the best throw. The disc angles to the right so it’s a bit short, but Streak easily adjusts and snags it midair. As he comes racing back to me with the Frisbee in his mouth, we have 9.5 points—and, remarkably, enough time for a sixth throw.
When Principal Goode yells “Five seconds!” I suddenly realize that if I go for a long one, I could actually beat Brad.
“Go, Guy!” I hear Luke yell. Other students take up the chant.
I pull my arm back, adrenaline slamming through me, and I heave it as hard as I can.
“Oh no!” I gasp. Because I’ve thrown it so hard, the disc goes too high. Streak tears after it, but what I see—and he doesn’t—is that it’s going to stall. Still, I think, it’s got a chance. I’ve thrown it hard enough that it looks like it’s just past the 40-yard mark. If it falls the right way and Streak can grab it…
The crowd hushes and Streak slows, staring up at the Frisbee, waiting for it to come down.
“Come on,” I shout at the Frisbee.
The disc starts falling toward earth, but as I feared, it slips back toward me. Streak isn’t expecting this, but he rushes after it.
“Jump, Streak! Jump!” I yell.
He lunges and the crowd gasps. Streak grabs the disc inches off the ground and then tumbles through the grass. All around me, students and adults go crazy, but it’s not enough. The last catch is two points short. Brad and Shep win it, 14 points to 12.5.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning a chill fills Grandpa’s house. Fall is here, I think, forcing myself from my cocoon of a bed. I dress, eat a quick bowl of cereal, and head outside. Overnight a leaf blizzard has struck and Grandpa has already informed me that I’m the clean-up crew.
I’ve never actually raked leaves before. In California we had one sycamore that lost its leaves every year, but it wasn’t really enough to worry about. This morning, though, fallen leaves come up almost to my shins. I go to the shed and find a pair of gloves and a rake and dig in. I discover I kind of like doing it. I may not be able to control anything else in my life, but I can at least rake those leaves into submission. Besides, Streak has a great time diving into the leaf piles and tossing them into the air with his nose.
Raking also gives me a chance to think—and I’ve got a lot to figure out. I still haven’t thought of a good topic for my paper on Animal Farm. I mean, the book isn’t all that complicated:
1. People boss animals around.
2. Animals kick people off farm.
3. Pigs boss other animals around.
4. Pigs take place of people.
5. Everything’s just as lousy as before.
What can I add to that? I don’t know how Luke, Catherine, and the other kids come up with things to say about books.
“Well,” I tell myself, adding to a big leaf pile near the front door, “the paper’s not due for a week. I’ll think of something.”
Of course, I’ve got an even bigger problem than the paper—Brad. I kind of wish Streak had won the contest yesterday, but I’m glad he didn’t, too. It probably would have made Brad madder than ever. On the other hand, I’m not sure that finishing second will make any difference.
I pause with the rake in my hand and straighten up. Maybe, I think, Streak and I earned his respect with our performance yesterday and he’ll quit using me as a spittoon.
Then I mutter, “Yeah, dream on,” and continue dragging the rake across the lawn.
Even after all the leaves are piled neatly around Grandpa’s house, I’m still no closer to a solution. No matter how I look at it, I come up with only two options: either Brad is going to pound me to pulp sooner, or he’s going to do it later.
The next morning I get to school as close to the bell as I can, but Brad finds me anyway. He doesn’t shove me against the school wall. Instead he grinds me into a ponderosa pine. I try to appreciate the change of pace.
“Well, Butt Wipe,” Brad growls. “Have a nice weekend?
” I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t. “You need to work on your sarcasm.”
Brad flicks me painfully in the forehead with his middle finger. “You’re…not…very…funny…” he growls, tapping out a new word with each flick.
I wince. “What do you want?”
“What I want is to know what the hell you thought you were doing Saturday? Did you think that wimpy dog of yours could beat me and Shep?”
This is the kind of comment I’m expecting, and my impulse is to chicken out and do my usual groveling. But all of a sudden I’m sick of this whole B.S. I’m sick of Brad. I’m sick of Big Sky Middle School. I’m fed up with this whole stinking place. Instead of cowering, I surprise myself.
I look Brad in the eyes. “You’re damned right I thought Streak and I could beat you. I still do. You just got lucky last weekend.”
Brad blinks and I can tell I’ve caught him off guard. He doesn’t know whether to pulverize me with glee or try to defend his dog’s honor. As his brain clunks and grinds searching for a response, I debate whether I should retreat and make a last stab at saving my skin. But I realize I’ve come too far already and decide bolder is better.
“In fact,” I tell him, “I’ll make you a bet.”
Brad and the Parasites laugh. “A bet? What do you have to bet?”
“Let go of me and I’ll tell you.”
Clunk. Sputter. Whir. Brad’s walnut-sized brain commands him to release me. “Okay, Calf Crap, what do you want to bet?”
I straighten my shirt. I’ve got one more chance to chicken out, but I let it go. Instead, I hear myself asking, “Are you entering Shep in the city Frisbee contest next Saturday?”
Brad’s eyes narrow. “Yeah. So what?”
“Well, I’m entering Streak, too.”
I see Brad’s eyes flash, but before he can say anything, I tell him, “My bet is that Streak and I beat you.”
Brad laughs. “No way. We’re going to kick your pansy California butts.”
“You willing to back that up?” I ask, trying to sound confident.
Just then Luke shows up. “Guy,” he says, tugging on his ear. “You ready to go to English?�
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“In a minute,” I tell him. “I’m making a bet with Brad.”
Luke looks at me with alarm, then at Brad.
“What’re you starin’ at?” Brad growls at Luke. Then to me he says, “What’s the bet?”
“Here it is. If Streak beats Shep, you have to leave Luke and me alone. No more morning wall sessions. No more snide remarks. It’s hands off—forever.”
“That’s easy,” Brad says. “Because you’re going to lose. So what do I get when Shep wins and I get done grinding you into buffalo burger?”
“What you get,” I tell him, thinking as fast as I can, “is a chance to graduate from Big Sky Middle School.”
Brad snorts. “Yeah, that’s a real good bet. Who says I even want to graduate?”
“Look around,” I say. “This place is full of losers and you’ve already been here two extra years. You want to spend the rest of your life here?”
Brad glances at Clyde and Harold and I can hear the gears thudding and grinding in his cranium again. He jabs his finger into my chest. “So what? What can you do about it?”
“I can get you through math,” I tell him.
Luke looks at me like one of those TV surgeons whose patient is slipping away on the operating table. I can tell he wants to save me, but he just doesn’t know how.
“How can you get me through math?” Brad demands. Then his eyes light up. “You got answers to the tests?”
I shake my head. “No answers. But I can explain things to you so you can get them.”
“He can,” Luke volunteers. “He’s helping me, too.”
Brad’s excitement fades and he spits on the ground. “Yeah, like no one’s tried to do that before. Man, you’re full of it. I don’t give a crap about math, anyway.”
I shrug. “It’s up to you. That’s the only class you need to get out of here. You want to stay here till they kick you out? You want to drop out and work at Burger Bite the rest of your life?”
I can tell I’m getting to him, but I also know that it’s not cool for a bully to want to do well in school—especially in front of his flunkies. So I play my last card.
Dog Sense Page 7
