I check again to make sure I’m ready. Every dog is harnessed. The gangline is carefully laid out so all I have to do is bring the dogs up and clip them in. All the lines are in the right place, set to go.
I pull on my race bib over my anorak, sit on my sleeping bag, kick off my boots, and command my fingers to stop shaking. My leaders, Mustard and Twix, are closest to me on the dropline attached to the dog truck. Mustard burbles a long, involved story. He’s always been a talker. Twix just whines softly.
My two swing dogs, Lizard and Damage, are next. Damage is screaming as if someone is ripping off his toenails. Aeeeiiiya, aeeeiiya, aeeiiya.
Lizard is mumbling to himself underneath the truck. He hates crowds and always hides at events.
In team position are Saga and Aspen. Strange to have two females running together, but they’re buds. Except at hookup, when I have to watch they don’t rip each other’s faces off. I can hear them gearing up to do just that.
“Saga! That’s not nice!”
Last are my wheel dogs, Haze and Sumo. Haze has a polite little howl, as if she’s saying, Excuse me, I think we should be running now.
And Sumo, sweet Sumo. Em’s dog. I shouldn’t have brought this dog. Sumo is a B-string dog. Actually, no. Not even second choice for a race team. He’s too big, for one thing, prime for overheating. He’s sixty-four pounds. No other dog on the team is over fifty-five. And he’s far too powerful. The fact that he’s here just proves how completely nuts I am. If we get in trouble, guaranteed he’s going to be involved somehow.
“Sumo is excited,” Emma says. Her eyes shine; she’s vibrating worse than I am.
“He’s a star,” I say.
Sumo was Em’s only choice for my team. She can’t run the race, but her dog can. I didn’t have the heart not to bring him. My only hope is that he burns out on the first leg and I get to drop him at the Batchawana checkpoint.
Suddenly, the countdown. “Ten, nine, eight . . .”
Get your head in the game. This is happening. Heart thumping, I climb into the sleeping bag and lie down. A few flakes begin to fall and melt on my face.
“. . . three, two, one, go!”
The sound of the horn rips through my brain. I leap up. Get tangled in the lining. Tumble onto the snow with my legs all twisted up. I crawl out, pull on my boots, shove the bag into my sled, and then turn to the dogs.
And trip on my own sled runner. I fall flat.
“Get up, McKenna!” Em says helpfully.
By the time I’ve picked myself up, I see the musher next to me has half his team hooked. How the—
No one can help me. Mushers have to hook up their own teams. Dad watches while pacing the length of the truck. I grab Mustard and scuttle with him to the front of the gangline. I see the musher on the other side of me leading two dogs at once. That’s the trouble with my eyesight lately—I can see what’s to the side of me better than what’s straight ahead.
Focus.
I peer at the tugline snap and clip it on the first try. Then I race toward Twix, who’s got both front feet out reaching for me as far as her line allows. As I’m bringing her, hopping on her back legs, a team comes out of nowhere and runs over my gangline. The musher’s got both feet on his brake, so the points grab my line and drag poor Mustard backwards.
“Your brake!” I screech. “Lift your brake!”
Then he’s gone. So much for my gangline being neatly laid out.
Mustard doesn’t even bat an eye, but now I’m shaking so badly, I can barely clip in Twix. Come on, you’re okay, I tell myself.
The urgency in the air is making my fingers fumble. Somehow I get the team hooked up. The line is all over the place, but I’ve done this a million times. Finally, everyone is set. I pull the snub. “Ready? All right!”
We’re off, flying across the parking lot. Except there are many teams around me also flying across the parking lot. It occurs to me that we’re all going to bottleneck at the one narrow opening of the trailhead. We’re not all going to fit. Epic collision in three, two, one . . .
I jam on the brake, but since there’s not much snow cover, that hardly slows us down. Plus—Sumo.
A sled narrowly misses colliding with us, but we inch ahead. It’s actually a good thing I can’t see details. I just trust my leaders. They navigate the mess of teams around us, and suddenly, we’re on the trail.
Away.
Monday, January 28, 2019
Dear McKenna,
Weird sending a letter, right? But you hardly text anymore. I figured this would get your attention through your dogs! I had to buy one of these race envelopes, so I hope you’re happy. Ha! I miss you, you know? It was so boring at cross-country practice. I had to run with Hannah. But that helped me build my speed trying to get away from her talking about herself.
I’m not sure what I’ve done, but I think you’re mad at me about something.
Still your best friend,
Gabs
Chapter 6
Batchawana Bay, late afternoon
After our encounter with the blind lead dog and the other mushers out on the lake, the team and I are happy to have the trail to ourselves.
I keep thinking we’ll run into the girl again, but we don’t overtake anyone.
The dogs are pumped, just steaming along. I only wish the clouds would cover the sun like they did when we started this morning. The blue sky is streaked with wispy clouds and the sunlight is bouncing off every surface around me. I can hardly see where we’re going. It’s like driving a speeding train with the front window covered in soot. It makes me think of all the amazing things in my life that I’ll miss being able to see clearly, and the sadness flares again.
But I can see the shoreline as we go by. When the lake was freezing, the wind created weird sculptures out of the waves. Clear blue ice has been rolled into little caves with smooth boulders and bridges in one bay, while in another bay, facing in a slightly different direction, the wind has formed sharp shark teeth of ice. Windswept pines daring to grow near the shore are encased in thick white ice from the freezing spray. They look like hunched, spooky snowmen.
Mustard and Twix follow the trail off the lake and through a stand of spruce. After a while, I relax. This is like being out on a training run. I love being out on training runs. We’re totally good.
I’ve been out alone on runs a lot lately. It’s my only solace after school, where pretending nothing’s wrong has become more and more stressful. I think back to last year when my best friend, Gabby, used to come with me, ride in the sled, ready to jump out and help whenever needed. But this season, I noticed I couldn’t see things the way I used to. On the trail, I knew where the turns were, but I couldn’t tell how soon they’d come up. It was disorienting. I started crashing.
And in school, I couldn’t read the board. Even though it didn’t happen suddenly, it felt like it had. The words and numbers kept getting smaller and blurrier week by week. And one day, I just couldn’t see anything on it. I started to sneak in after everyone left the class so I could stand right next to the board to read it. I’ve had to make a rule: Never read in front of anyone.
This past semester, Mom and Dad put my sliding grades down to my worry over Em. In some ways, it was nice to know I could hide in plain sight around them while they were so focused on the one major problem that all of us shared—my sister’s low vision.
But in truth, school had become harder in more ways than just my grades. For instance, a girl I hardly know, Jessica, has the same long blond hair as Gabby. She has the same body shape; she even has the same pink backpack. I was constantly embarrassing myself by calling out to her, mistaking her for Gabs. I couldn’t recognize my best friend anymore. Couldn’t recognize any of my friends unless they were close. They’d get mad at me for ignoring them. People in the halls would wave, and I’d wave back, only to realize they were greeting the person behind me. How mortifying is that? But the frightening part was why.
Now that I’m sure I’ve
got Stargardt disease, I’m even more determined to keep it from Mom. If she knew, she’d force me to get tested. And as soon as I got diagnosed, she’d start treating me the way she treats my sister. And she treats Em like she’s helpless.
Up till now, no one has worried about me, even with Em having it, because at our annual ophthalmologist visits, my eyes have always been clear. Even last year, when the doctor examined my eyes, he said they didn’t have the little white flecks at the backs of the retinas.
If I don’t get tested, and no one knows, then everything can stay the same. And since there’s no treatment, nothing can be done about it anyway.
But hiding it meant more time spent alone. Being too busy to eat lunch with people. Missing the afterschool events committee—I couldn’t help make decorations with those tiny cutouts. Friday nights I couldn’t go to Chloe’s with everyone to watch movies. I blew Gabby off running dogs. I made up excuses why she couldn’t come one day. And the next. And pretty soon, she stopped asking me to do anything with her.
Everyone stopped asking.
An electric jolt goes through me as my team disappears around a corner. I slam the brake. It’s the worst thing to do and far too late. The sled lurches over a hill. It careens down the slope. We jerk to the left. Teeter on the right runner. I slam my weight to the other runner, but it’s not enough. The sled crashes onto its side. I’m left skidding after it on my belly.
“Whoa! Whoa, Mustard. Stop!”
My team flies down the trail as if nothing happened. Every rut jars my body. Every snowball smashes in my face. Ow! And that was a chunk of ice.
I cling to the runner with a clawlike grip. Desperately, I pull myself closer to the sled. The brake won’t work when the sled is sideways. I don’t even bother with it. But the rubber drag reaches to the ground. I grab hold. Press down. Try to control the team. There’s no slowing their crazy charge.
Snow flies off my boots, off my elbows. The sideways runner bites into the hard trail, and a rooster tail of spray follows us. I’ve got it in my mouth, up my nose. I pull myself hand over hand, climbing partly upright to reach for the snow hook in its cradle.
I’m yelling at the dogs to slow down. Of course they think I mean “go faster.” There’s nothing more exciting than a good clean run down a trail with your musher screaming in terror behind you. They live for this.
I finally knock the snow hook down. It bounces close to my face, nearly relocating my front teeth. I grab a prong and manage to dig the points into the trail. They gouge out two long grooves as the team slows down. We finally stop.
I pick myself up. The dogs are looking back at me in surprise. What’s the matter? they seem to ask.
“Never mind me. I’m fine, thanks.”
I take stock of the damage. My anorak is stiff and cold. I fluff it out to dump the snow. I’ve got some impressive road rash up my right arm from my wrist to my elbow. That’s cool. But then I notice something not cool. I madly clutch at my chest and neck. I’ve lost my sunglasses.
“Oh no!” I squint against the glare and spin around, hoping they’re hanging off me by a strap somewhere. No.
“No!” The blinding whiteness of the snow pierces my eyes without the protection of my dark shades. Plus, I have to protect my maculas. The last thing I want is for my vision to get worse. The number-one most important piece of equipment I have, and I’ve already lost it. The first day isn’t even over yet.
Why didn’t I bring two pairs?
I glance behind and see something dark on the trail. Are those my shades? I hesitate, not wanting to leave my team. That’s a rookie move. And it was almost a disaster back at the lake.
But I desperately need those glasses. I sprint toward the dark object. I’m almost on top of it before I see that it’s just a piece of driftwood or something frozen into the trail. I pivot and race back to my dogs. I’m frazzled by the time I grab the sled.
“Gotcha,” I say with relief.
Arooooooo, Mustard replies.
That makes Damage start up again. Aeeeiiiya, aeeeiiya, aeeiiya.
And now the whole team is lunging and screaming to go. Enough resting. More running. It’s too early in the race for them to want to stop for long. Sumo alone is going to rip out that snow hook any minute.
I’ll have to find another pair of shades when we get to the checkpoint. Until then, I’ll just pull my hat lower. Hurriedly, I jump back onto the runners and take a deep breath.
My awesome dogs are leaping in the air, ready for another adventure. The sled is vibrating under me; the power of my speeding train seeps into my blood. I bend and yank the hook, and we blast off.
Who needs a clear windshield anyway?
January 16, 2019
Dear Nana,
We’re writing letters to be sent by sled dogs! Emma is a girl in my class and she has a dog team. But Emma doesn’t run since she’s blind and she can’t do anything. She can’t even butter her toest in food class. The teacher told her to try. I helped her becase I didn’t want her to get in trouble. She’s nice.
Love, Phoebe
PS when we come this summer, can we go horsback riding again? That was fun!
Chapter 7
Batchawana Bay checkpoint
I’m resting with my dogs when the boy and his team come through.
I don’t recognize him from this distance, but then I hear his voice. His is the first team to arrive since I got here, so I assume the volunteers told him what they told me about this nice spot behind the Obadjiwan Conference Center.
We’re blocked from the wind. It whistles across the lake ice, picking up fine particles of snow like grains of sand. Spindrift, pointy and sharp, gets into everything. It’s a relief to be out of its reach and tucked out of the way of the teams coming through.
I wanted quiet for the dogs so they could have uninterrupted rest while we wait for my family with the dog truck. The plan was for us to meet here this afternoon, but my team and I got here faster than anyone thought we would, in just three and a half hours.
Sumo gets up to rearrange his straw to his liking. He paws at it, nosing it this way and that. With a loud sigh, he lies back down. Dramatic.
I take the hint, roll off my sled, and give Sumo another flake of straw. “For a big tough guy, you’re really not that tough, diva.” I run my fingers through his surprisingly soft cheek fur.
The boy’s voice gets louder as he steers his team my way. “Go on, Zest. Haw, haw, haw, haw.” He gives quick, staccato commands to his leaders. His dogs snake their way toward me.
Mustard lifts his head and gives a soft woooo, but most of my dogs don’t even twitch. All of them are curled up in their matching blue fleece jackets with wind-stopper shells. Saga has her head draped over Aspen so that their necks are intertwined. They know well the rhythm of racing. Run. Rest. Run. Rest. And they’re just as serious about their rest as they are about the running.
“Oh, hello again. Mind if we crash here? Looks like my handlers and dog truck haven’t arrived yet.” The boy tosses a bale of straw that he must’ve grabbed when he signed in at the checkpoint off the front of his sled.
“I’m Guy, by the way.” He pronounces his name like geek without the k—the French way.
“Doesn’t that confuse your dogs?” I say. “Having your name rhyme with gee?” I overemphasize the soft g.
“Nah, they’re bilingual.” Guy stomps on his snow hook and then moves up his team unclipping tuglines. “Plus I only talk about myself in the third person when they aren’t around.”
I watch as he spreads the straw among his dogs. His Eurohound sniffs at it suspiciously. The sleek floppy-eared dog is wearing neon-green leg wraps.
“They’ve got hot water inside,” I say, noticing his dog cooler.
“Oh, great. Thanks. And now Guy is wondering if you’re going to share your name or if he’s going to have to guess from the list of female mushers in the race.”
“Your dogs are listening,” I remind him.
&n
bsp; “Touché,” he says. “That’s French too, by the way.”
We look at each other for a beat. “You aren’t really French, are you?”
“What?” He draws himself up, then gives in. “Well, I tried to learn, but it’s hard. My dad should’ve talked French to me more when I was a baby with a moldable brain. Guy’s brain is old now.” He grins at me before kneeling in front of his wheel dogs.
The coal-colored one immediately rolls over on her back, her bootied feet pointing in the air. Guy rubs her belly as he removes the booties. He coos, “Who’s my cuddle pumpkin? Oh, you like that, don’t you, Groot?”
He peels off his hat and leans in to rub his head across her neck, the whole time murmuring in something like baby talk. Guy allows Groot to wrap her front paws around his ears and nibble at his hair.
“Cuddle pumpkin?” I ask.
“She likes it. Don’t judge.”
“Not judging,” I say. Any boy who can act like a goofball with his dogs in front of other people is okay in my book. In fact, it’s sort of the ultimate test of character. “But actually, totally judging the name Groot. So unoriginal.”
“Her litter was born during my movie phase. She’s running with her brother Yoda.” He points to the nearly identical wheel dog beside her. “And that’s another brother of hers, Captain Jack. I might still be in my movie phase, sadly. I feel a Mantis coming on.”
“No!” I laugh. “Well, it’s better than Star Lord. Good bit of self-control there.”
I reach into my sled bag and find the stash of dinners that Mom prepared and froze in Ziplocs. I can’t tell what this one is, but boil-in-bag surprise is my favorite. The meals are exactly where they’re supposed to be, midway up my bag on the left side. If there’s one thing I’ve learned watching Emma live with this condition for the past two years, it’s that organization is key.
Dog Driven Page 3
