“What’s the matter?” I ask. “Afraid of what your little friends here think?”
Now I’ve made him mad and he grabs me by the shirt. “I’m not afraid of anything. And I’m especially not afraid of you and your wimpy dog.”
“So,” I say, forcing my voice to sound calm. “Is it a bet?”
Brad pushes me backward into the pine tree. “Damn right it’s a bet—a bet you’re going to lose!”
“Aw…do you know what you’re doing?” Luke asks later that afternoon. He’s throwing the Frisbee for Streak while I use the rake to bag up my leaf piles for pickup.
“No,” I admit. “But what else was I going to do? I’m going to get ground into Quarter Pounders one way or another. Besides, don’t you think Streak can do it?”
Luke throws the Frisbee again. “After Saturday, I know he can do it. I’m more worried about whether you can do it.”
Annoyed, I set down the rake. “What does that mean?”
“Streak can catch anything as long as it’s a good throw,” he says. “The only reason he didn’t win is because you were throwing them all over the place. Streak couldn’t get to them.”
I’m about to object, but realize he’s right. “Well, what can I do about that? I was nervous.”
“I know. That’s why I’m thinking we’ve got to practice like it’s a contest.”
“You mean with other dogs?”
“Not with other dogs. We just need to mark out a field and time your throws. Maybe that’ll get Streak more used to it, too.”
“You think that’ll help?”
Luke shrugs. “I don’t know. But it’s worth a try.”
Chapter Twelve
As soon as I finish with the leaves, Luke and I walk to a nearby park with Streak. We don’t have any white chalk, but I bring a tape measure and we use sticks to mark off a field more or less like the one at the Fall Fair. For the next hour—and every afternoon that week—we take Streak to the park and practice. Streak and I stand at the baseline. Luke hits the stopwatch function on his watch and yells, “Go!” and then we see how many points we can score in the next sixty seconds.
By the end of our first session, I’m forced to admit that Luke is right. Streak’s not the problem. It’s me. Even pretending that we’re competing, I can feel my nerves hype up, and I almost always throw the first Frisbee way too far. Then I overcompensate and Streak ends up not knowing what to expect. With Luke coaching me, I try to concentrate on throwing the same way every time—just enough to clear the 30-yard line, but straight so Streak can tell where it’s going.
The practice pays off. I find that if I just relax, I can count on five good throws in a minute. Every once in a while I squeeze in six, but usually only when I’ve screwed one up and it’s fallen short. Anyway, by Wednesday Streak and I have twice scored 16.5 points and are consistently hitting between 13 and 15. I’m feeling pretty good about the bet by now, but I know that these practice sessions aren’t the real thing.
And unfortunately, none of this helps me with my Animal Farm paper. Thursday afternoon I still don’t have a clue what I’m going to write about. Luke and I do a short session with Streak, but then I tell Luke I’ve got to buckle down on English.
“You haven’t even started your paper yet?” Luke asks, a look of horror on his face.
“No.”
“Guy, it’s due tomorrow.”
“I know. I know.”
“Do you even know what you’re going to write about?”
“I have some ideas,” I lie.
“I hope they’re fast ideas.”
Back home, Streak and I find Mom home early, cooking spaghetti for dinner. She’s hung Streak’s second-place red ribbon on the wall over the kitchen table. “Were you out practicing?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, sitting down across the table from Grandpa. Streak positions himself next to the oven and looks up at my mom as she sips spaghetti sauce from a wooden spoon.
“I knew that dog would do well!” Grandpa boasts. “He’s got ‘winner’ written all over him.”
Mom looks down at Streak. “And ‘beggar’ too. You aren’t getting any of this sauce, so back off, mister.”
Grandpa and I grin at each other, but Streak is too smart to believe my mom. He keeps staring.
“Guy, will you put the plates out?”
I get up to set the table.
“So when’s the big competition?” Grandpa asks.
“This Saturday, at the Fairgrounds,” I tell him.
“Boy, I would love to see that,” Grandpa says. “If I can get my joints working, maybe I’ll tool on down there.”
After dinner I help my mom with the dishes. Streak finishes licking spaghetti sauce out of the saucepan and follows me to my room, settling down on the rug next to my feet. I sit at my desk for a while, but then flop onto my bed. I want to just lie there and rest for a while, but I’m too anxious about my report. The only good thing about the report is that it keeps me from worrying about Brad and the contest. Of course, pain is pain, no matter where it comes from.
“Why are teachers so obsessed with reports?” I grumble at Streak. “I read the book. Shouldn’t that be enough?”
I decide I need some music to help me think. I sit up and start running my finger across my row of CDs. I’ve got them arranged alphabetically by group and chronologically by date of release.
“Creedence?” I ask myself. “No, too mellow. Led Zeppelin? Too wild. ZZ Top? Too funny.”
Then, for some reason, my finger traces back to the Pink Floyd section and stops. My dad must’ve bought every Pink Floyd CD ever made, but I’ve only listened to a couple of them since he left. I like Dark Side of the Moon and I love The Wall, but a lot of the others I remember only from my dad listening to them. Now, my eye lands on one in particular—Animals.
“I wonder what this one’s like?” I ask Streak. He lifts his eyelids halfway and then re-closes them.
I pop the CD into my stereo, put on my headphones, and lie back down on my bed. I’d put the music on to get my mind off of the report, but now I catch myself really listening to the lyrics. By the middle of the second track, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s already dark outside, so I flip on my desk light. Streak raises his head as I pull out the color sleeve that goes along with the CD. I open it and quickly find what I’m looking for—a complete copy of the lyrics.
I read through them carefully. When I’m finished, I start again. Then I head back to the bed and listen to the lyrics along with the music. As they unfold with David Gilmour’s great guitar licks, it dawns on me. This album isn’t about animals. It’s about Animal Farm! I mean, it’s not exactly the same, but they’re so much alike it can’t be a coincidence. If I have any doubts, the fourth song, “Sheep,” clinches it:
What do you get for pretending the danger’s not real.
Meek and obedient you follow the leader
Down well trodden corridors, into the valley of steel.
What a surprise!
Suddenly all kinds of images are flashing through my brain: Brad Mullen and the pigs from Animal Farm; the obedient students at Big Sky Middle School slogging in straight lines through the school hallways; Principal Goode directing everyone like we don’t have minds of our own.
I leap off my bed, turn on my Mac, and start typing.
The next day, my head feels full of mud. I stagger to school and find Luke sitting on the front steps. Brad and the Parasites strut by and Brad shoots me an I’m-gonna-kick-your-ass look, but fortunately he’s been leaving me alone since our bet. I’m sure he’s saving it up so he can give me a really good beating tomorrow after the contest.
“Aw…you look terrible,” Luke says. “Are you sick?”
“No more than usual,” I tell him. “I only slept a couple of hours last night.”
Luke shakes his head as we push through the school’s front doors. “I told you not to wait until the last second to do that paper.”
“I can�
�t help it,” I say. “I always write reports at the last second.”
“Did you come up with an idea?”
“Sort of, but Mrs. Minneman will probably hate it.”
We walk into English as the other kids are making their way to their seats.
“Hello, Guy,” I hear a familiar voice say, and I’m stunned to find Catherine looking at me. I have to admit that since the Fall Fair I’ve been avoiding her—especially after she stood up to Brad and I didn’t. But the sound of her voice sends familiar flutters through my stomach.
“Oh, uh, hi,” I say, accidentally smacking my thigh into a desk.
“How are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m, uh, okay.”
“How’s Streak doing?”
“He’s good. Real good.”
“You’re entering the contest tomorrow?”
“Yeah, uh, why?” I ask.
“I wanted to make sure, so I can come watch.”
“You’re coming?”
“Sure. The whole school’s going to be there. Everyone knows about your bet.”
The fluttering in my stomach is replaced by punching fists. I glance at Luke, who’s eavesdropping from his desk. He shrugs like he doesn’t know a thing about it.
“They are? I mean, they do?” I ask.
“Yes. If you don’t mind me saying so, the bet’s pretty dumb. But don’t worry. I’m sure you’re going to win—and most people are rooting for you.”
As Mrs. Minneman asks everyone to take their seats, Catherine flashes me a dazzling smile. I sink down into my chair, my skin suddenly feeling as hot as a chrome door handle in July. I again look at Luke.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” he whispers. “I swear. It must have been Brad or the Parasites.”
Whoever spread the news, this is bad. I’m going to be nervous enough just competing against Brad. Now, with the whole school watching…
Mrs. Minneman clears her throat, and Luke and I face forward.
“As you know,” Mrs. Minneman says, “your papers on Animal Farm are due today. Did anyone have any trouble?”
Half a dozen kids grumble, but no one comes right out and admits it.
“Great!” Mrs. Minneman says way too cheerfully. “Then I’d appreciate it if you would all hand them forward.” I reach into my backpack and pull out my notebook.
I remove my paper, which is seven pages long even though Mrs. Minneman only asked for three. On the title page it reads “Animal Farm Middle School, by Guy Martinez.” As I pass the paper forward, I glance at it one last time and see that I misspelled “animal” as “aminal” in the very first sentence. I have no doubt I’ll get another D on it and I wonder again what got into me last night. I’m so tired, I can barely remember. All I recall is listening to the CD over and over, then having this brainstorm to compare the book Animal Farm to the social structure of Big Sky Middle School. Five hours later—at two A.M.—I’d written seven pages.
Geez, I wonder what was in Mom’s spaghetti?
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, the plan is for Luke to come over to my house at nine. Then my mom will drive us to the Fairgrounds for the city Frisbee meet. I get out of bed early to warm up Streak and I only give him a half ration of dog food so he’s not too weighted down for the contest. Grandpa has decided not to come because of his arthritis. Mom gets him squared away with V8 juice and by nine o’clock, we’re ready to go.
There’s only one problem: Luke doesn’t show.
At 9:10 my mom says, “Give him a call. Maybe something came up.”
“I don’t think so,” I tell her. “Luke is always on time.” But I try his number anyway and get the answering machine.
“Well, maybe he thought we were picking him up in front of his house,” Mom suggests. “Come on. Let’s go over there.”
“Mom, I don’t even know where he lives.”
She looks at me. “You don’t? I thought you’d been over there lots of times.”
I shake my head. “No. He always came up with some reason why we shouldn’t.”
“Oh.” My mom doesn’t say anything for a second. Then she walks into the kitchen and I follow. Grandpa is sitting by the window, watching a couple of crows in the backyard.
“Those crows,” he says, “are the smartest birds God ever put his mind into making. Did I ever tell you about the crow that picked the lock on my shed?”
“Dad,” my mother says. “Do you know where Luke’s house is?”
“You mean Daniel’s grandson?”
“That’s the one.”
“Oh, well, they used to live over on Jefferson. The 600 block, I think. Maybe 620?”
My mom gives Grandpa a kiss. “Thanks, Dad. We’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Go get ’em!” Grandpa hollers at Streak and me.
We drive over to Jefferson Street in the Honda. Mom waits in the car while Streak and I go knock on a couple of doors. Finally I find the right house. Grandpa wasn’t far off. The address is 632, a green bungalow set back a little from the street. The lawn is mowed and the leaves are raked, but the paint’s chipping off the wooden siding. I can tell the place needs work.
I go up to the door and press the doorbell. I don’t hear a ring, so I knock real loudly and wait.
Nothing.
I knock again and still there’s no answer.
A woman with gardening gloves appears around the corner. I jump, startled, but Streak prances up to her. “Can I help you with anything?” she asks.
“Uh, yeah. I’m looking for Luke. Is he around?”
The woman’s face grows serious. “Oh, didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?” I ask, confused.
“About Luke’s father. He had a stroke last night and the ambulance came and took him to Community Hospital.”
This is the last thing I expect. Even though I have no idea how old Luke’s parents are, I picture them about my mom’s age. How could his dad have a stroke?
“Uh, is he okay?” I ask.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t heard,” the woman says. “But if you see him, tell him Sophie and her family send their love. And tell him not to worry. We’re looking after the place.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I say, barely listening. “Come on, Streak.”
We walk back to the Honda and climb in.
“What is it?” my mom asks. “Wasn’t that Luke’s house?”
“Yeah,” I say. “His dad’s had a stroke.”
“Oh no. Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. That woman said they took him to Community Hospital.”
We sit there for a moment. Then my mom asks, “What do you want to do?”
I’m a little surprised she asks. I’m used to her just taking charge of situations like this. But I go ahead and bend my brain to the question. My first impulse is to go straight to the hospital. On the other hand, I’ve got a bet with a bully, and if I don’t show up for the contest—well, I don’t even like to think about it. It’s not just Brad I’m going to have to face. It’s the rest of Big Sky Middle School, too.
Streak licks me on the ear from the backseat. I tell my mom, “Let’s go to the hospital.”
As we pull away from the curb, I wonder: Does the FBI have a Witness Protection Program for wimps?
The last time I entered a hospital was when I was five years old and some slasher-movie doctor ripped my tonsils out. What I mostly remember about the experience is eating green Jell-O and getting a new stuffed animal—I think it was a penguin. That’s a long way of saying I have no idea what to do when my mom and I walk through the sliding glass doors and are confronted by a large waiting room and a wraparound counter. The counter is staffed by two busy-looking receptionists or nurses, I can’t tell which.
I ask my mom to go ahead and take Streak home. Grandpa’s house is only about a mile from the hospital and I can easily walk it after I’m done doing whatever it is I’m going to do here.
“Are you sure?” she asks me.
“Okay, honey,” she says, giving my shoulder asqueeze. “Tell Luke that Grandpa and I are thinking about him.”
After my mom leaves, I clear my throat and one of the receptionists looks up at me. “Can I help you?” she asks, making clear that’s the last thing she’s interested in doing.
“Well, I want to…I mean, I’m here to see a friend. His dad’s—”
“Name?” the woman demands.
“Luke Grant,” I tell her.
She punches in the name on the computer. “That’s the patient’s name?”
“No. I don’t know his dad’s name.”
“Well, that won’t help us, will it now?” Snorting impatiently, she flips through some names on the screen. “Grant. Here it is. He’s in neurology. Follow the red lines on the floor.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, though I feel like telling her to get some Preparation H. She needs it way more than Grandpa does.
The red line leads me to an elevator and up to the fourth floor. From there I continue following the line around several corners and through two or three double swinging doors. In no time I’m lost.
I stop at a nurse’s station and a woman much friendlier than the receptionist points me toward the hospital’s south wing.
I head down a short hallway and spot Luke sitting alone on a couch. I take a deep breath and walk up to him.
“Hi.”
Luke looks up. “Guy… What are you doing here? What about…?”
I sit down next to him. “I heard about your dad. Is he okay?”
Luke, the most stable, unflappable kid I’ve ever met, looks like he’s been hit by a tidal wave. His eyes fill with water and tears crawl down his cheeks. I spot a Kleenex box on a nearby table and retrieve it.
He takes one and blows his nose. Then he uses another to wipe off his face.
“Sorry,” he says.
I wave off his apology. “So what’s going on?” I ask him.
“He had a stroke,” Luke says.
“What is that, exactly?”
Dog Sense Page 8
