She cleared her throat. “I’m Sudipta. My cat is—”
“Hold on. What is your name?”
Lucy’s head snapped toward the voice. It belonged to a boy with blond hair and wide-set blue eyes who was sitting a few desks down.
“Um. Su-dip-ta,” she repeated.
“That’s an unusual name,” the boy said—sort of unkindly, Lucy thought.
She turned her gaze back to Sudipta and raised an eyebrow as if to say, What a jerk! Lucy wanted to show her support; she knew Sudipta was a little sensitive about her name. Some people thought “Sudipta” was hard to remember or pronounce, and they would tease her about it. Once, Sudipta had complained to Lucy, “Ugh! Seriously? It’s no harder than, like, Samantha.”
“For now we’re talking one at a time,” Grace cut in.
Sudipta glanced at her gratefully, then continued, telling the group about how her family had rescued McGonagall as a kitten, seven years ago. Lucy’s turn came next, and she showed everyone the picture from Kimchi’s last birthday. She’d put a pointy party hat on Kimchi’s head, then captured the exact moment when he was licking frosting off his muzzle.
“Store-bought frosting has lots of artificial ingredients,” the blue-eyed boy interrupted. Again. “You shouldn’t feed it to a dog….” He looked around anxiously, as if there were a dog in peril from frosting at that very moment.
“William.”
Everybody looked over at Mr. Mendoza. He speaks!
“Please wait your turn, same as in class,” he said.
Lucy raised her chin. “Well, for your information, it wasn’t store bought. I made the frosting myself from natural peanut butter and coconut oil, which are safe for dogs.”
William didn’t acknowledge this. He just stared at his desk.
Who was this guy? Did he think Lucy was stupid? He probably didn’t even know you could make frosting for dogs—clearly she knew a lot more about dogs than he did.
“Okay, um, next?” Tarek said, breaking the awkward silence.
The rest of the club members introduced themselves. There were twelve students in all, and Lucy diligently recorded each person’s name and their pet’s name in her notepad. Most kids owned a dog or a cat, but one boy had a turtle, and one girl had a goldfish, because—Lucy wrote this down—“My parents won’t let me get a piranha.”
When William spoke, Lucy locked eyes with Sudipta and purposely tried to ignore what he was saying. She did catch that he had a golden retriever. “I call her Polly, which is short for Polynomial,” he said.
Lucy couldn’t help rolling her eyes. She leaned over and whispered in Sudipta’s ear, “That’s an unusual name for a dog.” Sudipta snorted again.
After the introductions, Grace and Tarek led a brainstorming session for the fund-raiser. When a seventh grader suggested a bake sale and the group agreed, Lucy was both pleased and disappointed—that had been her idea, and she wished she’d suggested it first. They set the bake sale date for the Saturday after next, then divided up the tasks: baking, making posters to hang up around school, buying napkins and paper plates.
Lucy volunteered to bake. She loved baking and had some seriously killer recipes up her sleeve—including one for dog treats, which Kimchi went wild for. Not wanting to miss another chance to voice an idea, Lucy raised her hand.
“What if we also sold pet treats?” she said. “I know how to make dog treats, and I bet people would buy them.”
“That’s a great idea,” Grace said.
Murmurs of agreement came from the other club members, and Lucy smiled, sitting up taller. She glanced at William. He didn’t even seem to be paying attention; he’d taken out his phone and was tapping on the screen.
Whatever. She knew the club would make a fortune selling her tasty creations. And she’d show William just how amazing—and perfectly safe—her homemade dog treats were.
The whole place smelled really good. (Not quite as good as bulgogi night—that’s my favorite.) When my humans heat up food, the scent reaches every part of the house. Sometimes I can even smell it when I’m outside.
It’s enough to drive a dog crazy.
I sat in one place and kept my eyes on Lucy for so long, I almost turned into a statue. (Yes, I know what a statue is. There’s one in the park where we go for walks, a woman wearing a blindfold and holding up two food bowls tied together. Statues are useful. They make good places to, you know, raise your leg.)
Anyway. There I was, fixed on watching Lucy, sitting patiently like a good boy, the goodest boy. A little quiver, a little drool—otherwise, I might as well have been a statue.
That, my friends, is focus.
Lucy was mixing up foods and heating them. I heard her tell Alpha Mom what she was making: cookies for humans and treats for dogs. When Lucy makes food, she hardly ever drops or spills anything. That’s why I was concentrating so hard: I had to be alert for the rare times that something hit the floor.
It’s my job to clean it up. I can’t let the team down.
Lucy made a batch of dog treats first. Nothing fell, not a single crumb. I couldn’t help whining, just once.
“Do they smell good, Kimchi?” she asked.
I barked. Yes! They smell delicious! But don’t you think I should taste one, just to be sure?
Humans are appallingly inefficient communicators—their language has SO MANY WORDS. Dogs can cram a whole lot of meaning into a single bark.
“These are still hot. I’ll give you one when they cool down.” She put the tray full of treats on the table.
The table.
The treats. Were on. The table.
I wasn’t allowed on the table. Alpha Mom had made that very, very clear during my first week here. It was confusing, because the table had chairs around it. The chairs’ obvious function was to provide aid in reaching the table, but Alpha Mom seemed oblivious to this. The way humans live is often confusing. Usually you have to just roll with it.
Now, further confusion. The treats were dog treats. Lucy had made them before. Considering I am the only dog in the household, it was totally reasonable for me to assume that the treats were mine.
Lucy left the kitchen in search of tape and ribbon—something about wrapping things to make them look nice. I hesitated for a moment.
Climbing on the table: bad.
Saving Lucy the trouble of feeding me the treats: good.
The moment was a short one.
A quick jump onto one of the chairs. An easy step from there to the tabletop. The tray of treats right in front of me.
Ouch. Hot. But tasty. If you crunch them up—like this—really fast—keep things moving in your mouth—then they won’t burn you—
Gobble gobble—crunch crunch gulp—
“KIMCHI!”
Oops.
Rats.
I jumped down quickly. The table thing, right? I should have dragged the tray off the table—would that have been better?
“KIMCHI, NO! All of them? You ate ALL of them?”
She said it like it was a bad thing.
(Later it turned out that she was right, sort of. But I’m getting ahead of myself.)
“Kimchi, how could you?” she wailed.
What followed was a loud and unhappy conversation between the three of us. Lucy and Alpha Mom talked, while I contributed a whine or two.
“…don’t have enough for another batch—”
“—have to make a run for supplies—”
“—never thought he would. He’s usually so good—”
And then I got gated. Shut out of the kitchen. Prevented from doing my job. That was bad enough, but worse was that Lucy smelled upset.
I hate it when she’s sad, or angry, or scared. I always know right away because she smells different. I can’t describe what’s different; my abili
ty to distinguish smells is so much better than humans’ that their language doesn’t have the right words. Maybe it would be like trying to describe music to someone who has never heard music before. Try it and you’ll see what I mean about smells.
Anyway. Lucy didn’t smell right, and I wanted to go to her, to give her a nuzzle or a snuggle. But nope—I was gated.
Things couldn’t get any worse, right? Wrong. A little while later, I threw up the treats. Yeah, maybe I ate a few too many. I’ll admit I’m not always the best judge of portion size.
Throwing up is a good thing. It makes your stomach feel better. But no matter how many times it happens, Lucy and Alpha Mom refuse to understand this.
Sheesh.
CALM DOWN, EVERYONE.
IT’S JUST VOMIT.
* * *
—
On Saturday morning, Mom drove Lucy and Kimchi to the middle school, with Kimchi’s head out the car window the whole way. Every Saturday, there was a farmers’ market in the school parking lot. Mr. Mendoza had gotten permission to situate the bake sale nearby, so hopefully the foot traffic from the market would mean lots of customers.
When Lucy stepped out of the car with Kimchi and waved good-bye to Mom, the bake sale was already almost completely set up.
There was a long table with chairs lined up behind it, balloons tied to each end, and a big poster-board sign in front: ANIMAL WELFARE CLUB BAKE SALE!
Lucy hurried toward the group. As she got closer, she saw a golden retriever and a black Pomeranian leashed to the school’s flagpole. And the dog owners weren’t the only people who had brought their pets. Keisha’s goldfish was in its bowl on one end of the table; Jason sat in the grass feeding his turtle a banana; and Romeo, Tarek’s python, slithered around in its portable aquarium.
Tarek had explained at the last meeting that bringing pets to the bake sale was a marketing strategy. Kids who came over to look at the animals might buy a baked good or two. Lucy had written Marketing! in her notepad and circled it. If she wanted to become club president someday, these were the types of things she had to learn.
Lucy rushed up to Grace. “Sorry I’m late.”
“That’s okay,” Grace said. “Is this Kimchi? He’s so cute!” She knelt, and Kimchi sniffed her hand.
“Where should I set up my stuff?”
Grace stood and pointed toward the table. “There’s room on the left side. We bought plastic platters at the dollar store, so just grab one and lay out your cookies on it. Take this”—she handed Lucy an index card—“and write down the name of your baked goods and how much they are, and tape it to the table in front of your platter. We can help you with pricing if you’re not sure.”
Lucy walked to the flagpole and let Kimchi say hello to the other dogs. From the first club meeting, she knew the golden belonged to William, and the Pom was Grace’s. After a minute of butt-sniffing, Kimchi lay down next to the golden like they had been BFFs for years, and Lucy was slightly dismayed. But then she shook her head. Just because their dogs liked each other didn’t mean she had to like William. She secured Kimchi’s leash to the pole, then went to the table, just a few yards away.
“There you are!” Sudipta said. Squares of her mom’s famous coconut cake were already piled high on a platter. No sign of McGonagall, though—she was strictly a house cat, preferring fluffy pillows, regular meals, and central air-conditioning to the outdoors.
Lucy scooted a chair up to the table. “Kimchi was sooo bad last night,” she said. She told Sudipta about the snarfing-and-barfing episode.
Sudipta snorted.
“It was not funny,” Lucy said, but she started laughing too.
Just then, William appeared on her other side. The table was full, so there was nowhere else to move. Great, Lucy thought. Why do I have to be next to him?
“Hi,” he mumbled, then ducked his head, almost as if he didn’t want her to say hi back.
“Hello,” Lucy answered cautiously.
William sat on a chair and wrote Lemon Bars on an index card. Lucy took a plastic platter and arranged her cookies on it. Then she stacked the dog treats, which she had stayed up late rebaking, on another platter.
When she happened to glance toward William again, she noticed him writing a price on his index card: $1.13.
“One dollar and thirteen cents?” Lucy blurted.
“Yes,” he said, his eyes on the card as he retraced the dollar sign.
She waited for him to continue, but when he didn’t, she asked, “Why? You should price them at a whole number, like one dollar.”
William taped the index card in front of his lemon bars. “But I did all the calculations,” he said. “Cost of the ingredients, an hour and a half of labor, and how much profit I want to make.”
“Labor!” Lucy exclaimed. “How did you—”
“Minimum wage,” he said. He peeled the index card off the table, straightened it, and pressed it down again.
Lucy was torn between being interested in his answer and annoyed that he had interrupted her. She tried one more time. “If the price is a round number, it’ll be easier for people to pay,” she said.
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said. “I already worked it out, and numbers don’t lie.”
Lucy frowned. “I think we should do what’s best for the club,” she said. “That’s the main thing, right?” She was done being patient with weird William.
He shrugged. “It’s already on the card.”
Exasperated, Lucy rolled her eyes and muttered, “So make another one. That’s stupid.”
Sudipta’s eyes widened in surprise, and Lucy instantly regretted her rude words. She felt her cheeks flush, but she couldn’t bring herself to apologize. After all, William had been impolite to her in the past and not said sorry.
Luckily, it seemed as though he might not have heard her. He was looking over his shoulder, toward the flagpole.
“Ooh, lemon bars! I’ll take two.”
A woman had approached the table. William placed two bars on a napkin and handed them to her. “One dollar and thirteen cents?” the woman said with a chuckle. She gave him three dollars. “Just keep the change.” Then she walked away without even looking at Lucy’s offerings.
Lucy bristled and sank an inch lower in her chair. It was going to be a long morning.
I liked Polly the second I smelled her.
Same as with humans, with certain dogs you just know.
My human, I communicated to Polly by staring at Lucy.
Mine, she replied by looking at the boy next to Lucy.
That’s how it goes when dogs talk. A lot of body language.
Did you drive here in a car? I asked.
We walked, she said. Our dwelling is close.
I love getting out of the house.
Me too. The sunshine feels most excellent.
Like a lot of big dogs, Polly was super chill. I hate to say it, but smaller dogs are often kind of twitchy. Don’t get me wrong—I’m a small dog myself and have plenty of friends my size. Maybe we have to be more careful about meeting new folks precisely because we’re smaller, and, well, some of us get a little hyper about it.
The Pom, for example. I knew she belonged to the girl that Lucy had talked to when we first got here—I’d smelled her scent on the girl’s hand.
What’s your story, then? I asked her.
She flipped onto her back and wriggled in the grass. Grass is the best! she declared. Then she had a sneezing fit. Then: Isn’t grass the best? Grass, grass, grass!
Not as hyper as some small dogs I’ve met. But definitely a few treats short of a full box, if you get my meaning.
After a couple minutes, I caught a whiff of the wrong kind of Lucy smell. She was sitting at the table, staring at Polly’s boy. I whined a little.
What’s going o
n? Polly asked.
Lucy smells upset.
I didn’t want to tell her that the cause seemed to be her human. Then Polly got to her feet. Her ears were up; she was clearly focused on her boy.
William is all right when he can depend on routine, she said. At home or at school. But when things are new or unfamiliar, sometimes he needs me. This is school, I know, but it’s not a school day.
She watched her boy closely for another minute. When he looked back at her, his expression was serious but loving, and my instinct told me he was a good person. I wondered what he’d done to make Lucy so annoyed with him.
Then a woman walked up to the table, and the boy turned around again.
Polly lay down. Looks like he’s okay now.
What happens when he’s not? I asked.
You know. The usual. Except, like, more. He used to get upset and stay that way for ages. Now, when he starts to smell upset, I go to him and put my paws on his shoulders, and I push him down gently, so we end up on the floor together and have a cuddle. Afterward, he usually smells okay again.
What makes him upset?
Sometimes other people. Sometimes just himself—he gets frustrated. But he loves animals, so I’m lucky there. He thinks I’m the greatest.
I knew exactly what she meant.
Meanwhile, the Pom had been flouncing in circles, winding her leash around the pole we were tied to. She’d run out of leash, but she kept tugging in the same direction, instead of reversing, which would have untangled her.
Finally she quit struggling and slumped over, tuckered out, with her face smooshed against the pole.
She gave a whimper: Aw, jeez, not again. Little help, please?
* * *
—
On Tuesday afternoon, rain lashed against the windows of Mr. Mendoza’s classroom. Lucy opened her Animal Welfare Club notepad and wrote the date neatly in the top-right corner of a fresh page.
“First things first,” Grace said. “Thank you guys so much for an amazing bake sale. We crushed it!”
“Our grand total is…,” Tarek began. “Can I get a drumroll, please?”
Totally Middle School Page 9
