I heard voices approach the doors behind me, then come inside.
“Ready to train?”
“Hai, Sensei.”
Brandon Sensei nodded, and I turned, set my feet, and launched into a perfect forward roll.
Aikido. It’s still the best thing ever.
A Girl’s Best Friend
Cynthia Leitich Smith
I click my way from one furry face to the next, looking for a new best friend. The animal shelter website offers plenty of outstanding choices, all eager for forever homes.
A Chihuahua named Micky (male, two years, two months).
A bulldog named Benny (male, four years, zero months).
A German shepherd mix named Jazzy (female, two months).
A Labrador retriever mix named Snickerdoodle (female, three years, six months).
I hear Mama come in. “Sophie, baby, I’m back!”
Normally right now she’d be at rehearsal, singing and playing guitar with her rockabilly punk band, the Screaming Head Colds. That’s why we moved to Austin—the live music capital of the world.
But Mama worked late today at her other job. She’s a combo cook, maid, driver, and personal assistant to Miz Wilson, our landlady. In exchange, we get a serious break on rent. Our apartment is above Miz Wilson’s detached garage. It’s super small, but we love it. From here, we can walk to the public library, the lakefront, and the animal shelter. Mama says my school is one of the best in town.
Setting aside my tablet, I roll onto my tummy to peer through the wedge-shaped window at what we call “the big house” out front. It’s a rainy June. Mama just finished planting daisies and marigolds in the flower boxes beneath the first-floor windows.
It could’ve waited until tomorrow morning, but Miz Wilson wanted it done today—period.
She’s also the one who always says, “No pets allowed—period.”
After her shower, I hear Mama’s footsteps on the creaky hardwood floors of the living room below. Then I hear her climb the bolt-attached wooden ladder to my loft bedroom. “Sophie!”
She asks, “Are you fantasy shopping for dogs again?”
I flip over on my futon and hold up the image of Snickerdoodle on my tablet screen. “I know what our lease says, but how about I ask Miz Wilson to make an exception?”
Mama shakes her dark curls—the dyed faerie-blue strand in front is clipped to one side. “Oh, honey, I don’t think you should push it. We’ve got a sweet deal for this location.”
I put on my pleading expression. For months, I’ve been begging Mama for permission to ask. She laughs. “Talk about puppy-dog eyes! Okay, but be respectful. And try not to get your hopes up. She’s not what you’d call a flexible personality.”
* * *
—
The big house was built in the 1920s and sits atop a high hill, overlooking the city and the state capitol. Like usual, Miz Wilson is perched at the wrought-iron table on the front terrace, drinking ice water and bird-watching.
“Is that a new tattoo on Dr. Ambrose’s shoulder?” she mutters in the shade of the pecan tree. “I can’t imagine how he expects his physics students to take him seriously.”
I suspect Miz Wilson does more neighbor-watching than bird-watching.
I’ve already pulled up the animal shelter website and clicked through Available Pets.
“Excuse me, Miz Wilson?” I begin. “Mind if I have a word with you?”
“Did you bring the rent check?” she asks, lowering her binoculars. It’s how she starts almost every conversation with me, no matter how many days until the money is due.
“No, ma’am,” I reply, inching closer. “I’ve come to ask you an important question.”
Miz Wilson is a handsome, freckled white lady with French tip fingernails. Her husband, Mr. Navarro, was Tejano, big in Democratic politics, and they used to host political action meetings in this house. They used to take long walks, hand in hand, through the neighborhood. They used to call each other “Precious.” You’d never guess any of that, to know her now.
He died last year. Heart attack. Miz Wilson’s three daughters had already moved far away—first for college, then for jobs and families of their own. Two of them got married here, though, and the receptions spilled out onto this terrace.
Mama says Miz Wilson is lonely.
I say it’s harder to make friends when you’re so thoroughly unpleasant.
“Please have a seat,” she says. “Would you like a glass of water?”
She has strong opinions on what courtesy requires. And doesn’t require.
I’m cautiously optimistic. We’ve had our share of chats. She’s a little too nosy about my family, and I’ve had to explain more than once what it means that I’m a Muscogee-Osage girl and a Muscogee (Creek) Nation citizen.
But she did give Mama our bus fare to visit the branch of family in Pawhuska, Oklahoma, last Christmas. Miz Wilson called it “a holiday bonus,” adding, “I believe in fair pay for a job well done.”
I sit and sip, quiet and still.
Miz Wilson doesn’t like chatterboxes or fidgets.
I log back into my phone and put it down on the table so a pic of a dachshund named Sweet Potato (female, four years, seven months) smiles up at us. “She’s the absolute cutest dog at the shelter,” I begin. “I clicked through all two hundred and sixty-eight to make sure and—”
“Sophie Bigheart!” Miz Wilson exclaims. “What on earth is this? You know better!”
“I just thought I’d ask—”
“You thought wrong.” Miz Wilson picks up the screen and gazes at Sweet Potato, and her expression briefly softens. “My husband, Charlie, and I used to have a wiener dog, back when our girls were young. Oh, how he doted on that animal!” Then she slaps my phone back down. “But your apartment is only four hundred square feet. There’s no room for a dog. And rules are rules.”
Mama was right.
Miz Wilson isn’t what you’d call “a flexible personality.”
* * *
—
While Mama and the Screaming Head Colds perform in town, I babysit little kids in the neighborhood. But we always make sure to reserve Monday nights for mother-daughter time.
This week, we’re taking off work tomorrow, too, because it’s my twelfth birthday.
Movie night starts in a few minutes. Up in my loft, I click through New Arrivals.
A boxer mix named Madeline (female, one year, seven months).
A collie mix named Frankie (male, nine months).
A terrier named Teacup (female, five years, four months).
A husky named Snowflake (female, three years, four months).
From downstairs, I can smell buttery popcorn. We plan to watch Miss Congeniality and Miss Congeniality 2, but first, a short film called Red Earth Uprising by a Choctaw filmmaker.
“Come on down, baby girl!” Mama calls. “It’s showtime!”
“Coming!” I’m about to log out when…I can’t help myself. I revisit the link labeled Volunteer. Again. I’ve had it bookmarked for over a week. I’ve read over the page at least twice a day.
Minimum age—12 years old.
“It’s destiny,” I tell myself.
“What’s destiny?” Mama wants to know.
“Just a minute!” The shelter requires an orientation, a six-hour-a-month commitment, and a parent/guardian waiver, and that the same parent/guardian accompanies the young volunteer at all times. I scramble down the ladder to Mama, who’s munching buttered popcorn on our love seat.
I say, “I’m ready to celebrate, and this year I know exactly what I want for my birthday.”
* * *
—
As June melts into July, Mama and I complete our volunteer training and start walking shelter dogs on the hike-and-bike trail around the
lake. We take them on field trips to our neighborhood, too.
Like usual, I ask for Sweet Potato. Like usual, somebody else has already taken her out for the day, but there are plenty of other pooches.
A poodle named Zsa Zsa (female, six years, one month). She dances a jig whenever anyone pays attention to her. What a cutie!
A Great Pyrenees named Giovanni (male, five years, one month). Such majesty, and he’s enormous. The size of a miniature pony.
A Pomeranian mix named Sir Galahad (male, eight years, two months). Whip smart and high energy. He has lots to say, especially to the squirrels.
A rottweiler named Rye (male, four years, two months). A total sweetie! Never mind all the drool in his doggie kisses.
Day after day, dog after dog, in all their panting, pooping, peeing, tail-wagging, “shake,” “beg,” “roll over” glory. “Good dog!” I praise every time we return one to the shelter.
Because it hurts less than saying “Goodbye.”
* * *
—
“That’s two!” Mama exclaims one morning as we climb the outdoor stairs to our apartment. “Rye and Zsa Zsa! Two dogs we’ve personally introduced to their future families.”
Mama and I bump fists. Both sets of new owners adopted right away. Not everyone goes looking for a dog. Some folks meet one when they least expect it and fall in love.
“What’s this?” There’s a sheet of paper taped to our front door.
An eviction notice!
Mama tears it off and turns it over to read the handwritten note. “Miz Wilson claims that we’ve violated a clause of our rental agreement. She’s terminating our lease!”
“Wait, what? What clause?” I want to know.
Shaking her head, Mama says, “No pets allowed. She must’ve spotted us walking one of the shelter dogs and thought it belonged to us, that we’re hiding it here in the apartment.”
* * *
—
Come morning, I wake to Mama’s muffled shouting. “You’re being unreasonable! Open this door and listen to me!”
Peering out my window, I watch Mama pound three times on the double doors to the big house’s kitchen. I glimpse Miz Wilson through the window inside. Then she disappears behind the blinds.
Mama pounds the door again. She tosses her hands into the air and stomps back toward the outdoor stairs to the apartment. Our door opens. Slams shut.
For a few moments, it’s silent.
Then the microwave beeps and I hear the fierce strum of her guitar.
When I join her in the kitchen, Mama pauses her song. “Sorry if I woke you up.”
“What happened?” I move to the counter, pick up a flour tortilla, and layer in black beans, turkey bacon, and shredded cheese. We usually have scrambled eggs.
Mama props her guitar alongside the doorframe. “Miz Wilson is the most pigheaded person I’ve ever met. She won’t listen to reason. She refuses to speak to me at all. She’s blocked my texts and says I’m no longer welcome in her home. She’s demanded we pay our last month’s rent and vacate the premises.”
I open the refrigerator door to check—no eggs. “Should I start packing?”
“I’ve done some research.” At the fold-out table, Mama pours us each a glass of orange juice. “Tenants have rights. But we can’t afford avocados, let alone a lawyer.”
I reach for a second tortilla and make another breakfast taco, this one for my mother.
Once we start in on the dishes, Mama declares, “Sophie, I’ve had it! I’m not particularly fond of her highfalutin attitude on a good day, and now I can’t very well imagine working for that woman after she’s gone and accused us of being liars. After she’s cut off all communication and wants to toss us out onto the street without even giving me a chance to tell her what’s what.”
Miz Wilson isn’t the only one around here with a stubborn streak.
It’s up to me to solve this predicament. I need a bigger power on my side.
Puppy-dog eyes.
* * *
—
That’s the sunny day we finally get to walk Sweet Potato, who I nickname SP. She and I hit it off right away, like we’ve been best friends forever. I suggest to Mama that we treat her to a tour of our neighborhood. Sweet Potato promenades up the sidewalk alongside us, her short legs working double time.
That’s when I spot the reflection off Miz Wilson’s binoculars, pointed in our direction.
Right on schedule.
“I’ll drop off the rent,” I say, once we reach the long walkway up to the portico.
“Oh no, baby!” Mama crosses her arms. “You shouldn’t have to face that grump.”
“Not a problem,” I reply. “I’ll take Sweet Potato for protection.”
Right then, Mama gets a phone call about that night’s band gig.
I take advantage of the distraction to hightail it with SP up the concrete stairs.
At the terrace, Miz Wilson squares her thin shoulders. “Did you bring the rent check?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, setting down the pup. “And I brought this thirsty dog, too. Her name is Sweet Potato, remember? From the shelter website?”
Tail flying every which way, the dachshund rushes over to charm her.
“I…I remember.” Like it has a mind of its own, Miz Wilson’s hand strokes the dog’s smooth, short coat, gliding over droopy ears and a long body. A smile tugs at her lips, but she forces them back into a straight line. Miz Wilson adds, “But you shouldn’t have brought all those dogs home. I simply can’t go bending the rules, willy-nilly.”
Jeepers. How many dogs does she think we have hidden in the apartment?
I set the rent check on the wrought-iron table.
Miz Wilson pours cool water into the spare tumbler and offers it to a grateful Sweet Potato.
“Mama and I didn’t adopt any dogs.” I pull up the shelter’s volunteer page on my phone for Miz Wilson’s inspection. “Look here. We’re helpers. We exercise and socialize the dogs.”
“You didn’t bring home any dogs?” Miz Wilson asks, frowning at the screen.
“That’s right,” I assure her. “But I think Sweet Potato belongs here.” I cross my fingers behind my back. “Not as a pet for me. A pet for you. This could be her forever home.”
Her eyes light up, but…“D-dogs are expensive,” Miz Wilson stammers. “They’re a lot of work.”
She has buckets of money and nothing better to do.
“I’ll pay the adoption fee with babysitting money. I’ll walk the dog and feed her and—”
“My pet, my responsibility,” she replies.
“What if we walk the dog together?” I suggest. It’s a risk. I bet she misses those long walks through the neighborhood with her late husband. But I’m not sure if the thought of having new, different company along the way will make her feel better or worse. On the other hand, anybody could tell she’s been miserable. Maybe this will brighten her days and spirits. I have to try!
“We’d all walk together?” she asks. “The three of us?”
Is she blinking back a tear? “Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“And you’ll feed the dog?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “I can also teach her tricks.”
Miz Wilson tucks in a full-blown smile. Her nod is all business. “I’d have to reimburse you for your time and efforts.”
I try not to bounce in place. I try not to grin. “So, you’re considering it?”
Miz Wilson picks up Sweet Potato and kisses her forehead. Then she tears the rent check to pieces. “I’d best reimburse you for all the pet care you’ll be doing. Like I always say, I believe in fair pay for a job well done. Have your mother write me a new check for two-thirds of that amount.”
So, that would be…what? A third off the rent? I was su
re Mama would accept that as an apology.
Or at least the closest thing to one we were likely to get.
“What are you waiting for, Sophie Bigheart?” Miz Wilson adds. “Run down and tell your mother to get off the phone and bring my car around. I need to fill out the paperwork at the animal shelter. Just remember this here is my dog, not yours. I’ll pay for her upkeep and vet bills.”
Inside, I’m shouting: A dog! A dog! A dog! A dog! And such a happy-making, heart-healing dog, too. Just look at how she’s charmed Miz Wilson. Out loud, I breathe, “Thank you.”
“Nothing to thank me for.” She’s still petting SP, who’s soaking up the love. “You’re the one who found my precious Sweet Potato.”
That’s a tone of voice I’m not used to hearing from Miz Wilson.
I’m so excited it’s like glitter is falling all around us.
I’d better scoot before she changes her mind. But first I ask, “Uh, is it okay if I give you a hug?”
With a friendly wink, she replies, “Don’t you dare.”
Everly’s Otherworldly Dilemma
Ellen Oh
Sweat pooled underneath Everly Young’s helmet before dripping down the back of her neck as she maneuvered her bike around the heavy pedestrian traffic outside the Heights Galleria Mall. She could hear her best friend, Max Bennett, cursing behind her. August in Washington, D.C., was never a pleasant affair. Especially when the tourists flooded the area.
“Flying monkey turds!” Max shouted when Everly braked suddenly for a quartet of mothers pushing their baby strollers. The women took up the entire sidewalk as they chatted together, ignoring the people trying to get around them.
“The Mommy Mafia are taking over the mall,” Max said. “Don’t try to get past them, or they’ll slime you with baby vomit.”
Everly groaned. “We only have a few weeks of summer left. And the movie starts in fifteen minutes. Why won’t they move?”
“And I’m hungry,” Max said.
“You’re always hungry,” Everly retorted.
The Hero Next Door Page 12
