Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Acknowledgments
Also Available
About the Author
Copyright
TO LILY, WITH THANKS
FOR ALL THE HELP.
—S.Q.
A CAR BEEPED OUTSIDE OUR HOUSE AT 19 Gentilly Lane. Beep beep. The beep beep of a horn hurts my ears in a way you probably wouldn’t understand, since my sense of hearing is a lot different from yours. I didn’t say better than yours, so don’t be upset. But just between you and me, it is better! I hear sounds humans don’t hear all the time! For example, that drip drip drip, right now, under the kitchen sink? Down in the cupboard with all the cleaning supplies, including some tasty sponges? But never mind the sponges. The point is someone should do something to stop that drip drip drip—except they won’t because they don’t even hear it. There’s going to be a big puddly mess, and soon!
The humans in our family all turned to me: Birdie, Mama, Grammy. “What the heck is that blasted barking about?” Grammy said.
Someone was barking? I listened my hardest, heard no barking. This was a strange day already, and it had hardly even started.
“Maybe he’s upset you’re leaving, Mama,” Birdie said.
Mama bent down, gave me a pat. “Is that it, Bowser? Upset that I’m leaving?”
“Bull pucky,” said Grammy. “How would he even know you’re leaving?”
Whoa! Mistakes were going by so fast I could hardly keep up. Why wouldn’t I know Mama was leaving? Wasn’t that her suitcase, the sturdy metal kind with straps, all packed and standing by the door, her hard hat perched on top? But that wasn’t why I was upset. Not that you could call me upset. I’m known as a pretty steady customer around these parts—these parts being the little bayou town of St. Roch, the nicest little bayou town you’ll ever see, and if you happen to be passing through, stop by! And maybe bring a treat, chewies always welcome if nothing else comes to mind. Although here are some hints: steak tips, sausages, hamburger patties. No cooking necessary—I’m not fussy.
But where were we? Something about … being upset? Me? Why would I—
Beep beep.
That was it! The beeping! My ears! I was just about to let everyone know how I felt about that beeping in no uncertain terms when Mama said, “Well, kiddo,” and wrapped her arms around Birdie, holding her close. “My chariot awaits.”
Chariot? That one blew right by me. Maybe here’s a chance to describe the family, before we’ve really gotten going. If not now, how will I ever squeeze it in later? I’ll try to be quick. How about we start with Mama? Mama’s Birdie’s mom, but she’s not Grammy’s daughter. Grammy’s son was Birdie’s dad, a police captain who got killed down in New Orleans when Birdie was just little, and not too long ago we found out who did it! And even why! Neither of which I can remember at the moment. Mama’s tall and strong, with deep, dark eyes and light brown hair, usually in a ponytail, like now. In these parts we’ve got some farms and ranches, so you get to know ponies. I love how they use their tails to swish away flies, and I’m sure Mama will figure out how to do that with her own ponytail one day. Mama was an oil platform engineer, which must mean she’s pretty smart, and pretty smart means way smarter than any pony, and then some.
Mama’s got powerful hands and so does Grammy, even though Grammy’s half Mama’s size, and kind of old and bony, smelling like stacks of yellowed newspapers down at the town library. Grammy’s eyes are washed-out blue and don’t miss a thing. Birdie’s eyes are also blue, but bright and shining, like the big, blue sky at the nicest time of the nicest day. And is there time to mention Birdie’s smell, all about soap and lemons and these lovely yellow flowers that grow on the edge of the bayou, beautiful flowers although not particularly tasty? Probably not—so back to the little front hall at 19 Gentilly Lane, where those deep brown eyes of Mama’s seemed kind of damp. “Won’t be long, honey,” she said.
“Three months,” Birdie said. “It used to be two.”
“This new company has different rules. But we’ll do lots of Skyping.”
Birdie nodded. Her eyes seemed to dampen, too. She blinked a few times and gave her head a quick shake, like she was trying to blink and shake that dampness away. Uh-oh. Was Birdie unhappy about something? Not on my watch! I squeezed myself in between them, pressing my head against Birdie to let her know that there was nothing to be unhappy about, not with ol’ Bowser in the picture. Birdie’s got great balance, so she didn’t quite fall down, not all the way to the floor, and the next thing I knew Mama and Birdie were laughing—although not Grammy, who might have been shooting a somewhat severe look my way—and the front door was open.
A car waited in the driveway, a man and a woman in front, luggage on the roof rack. Mama gave Grammy a quick hug.
“Don’t work too hard.”
“Hrrmf,” said Grammy.
Mama picked up her suitcase, kissed the top of Birdie’s head. “Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mama.”
“Take good care of Grammy.”
“Ha!” said Grammy.
Mama went out to the car. The trunk popped open. She swung the suitcase inside, got in the backseat. The car drove off. Birdie and Mama waved at each other until it turned the corner and vanished from sight. Then Birdie just stood there, her hand still raised, hanging motionless in the air.
Grammy closed the door and gave Birdie a look. “How about breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“No reason to eat, then.” Grammy checked her watch. “Better get ready for school.”
“No school today, Grammy. We’re on vacation.”
“Again? How’re you gonna learn anything?”
“I’m getting all As,” Birdie said. “With some exceptions.” She headed down the hall, me right behind her at first, and then in the lead, which always feels best.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to bed.”
“Guess again,” said Grammy. “I want you to go open the store.”
“But it’s not even seven o’clock.”
“Time to shake things up.” She handed Birdie the keys.
“Shake things up?”
“According to an article in the paper. The secret of doing business in times like these is disruption.”
“What’s disruption?”
“Shaking things up. I just said. Let’s not go around in circles. Life’s too short.” Then, in a quieter voice, Grammy added, “And hold your head up.”
Our store’s called Gaux Family Fish and Bait. No way you could miss it, on account of the big sign on the roof in the shape of a fish. We stepped onto the porch, me and Birdie, a long porch crowded with nets and buoys and coils of rope, all smelling swampy. Birdie unlocked the door, took a flyswatter off a wall hook, and started swatting a few flies that had gotten inside overnight. Love flyswatting! Birdie does the actual swatting and I race around the floor, pawing at what’s left of the flies when they land.
After that, Birdie dusted off the display cases, full of lures and hooks and knives, and sat on the stool behind the register, gazing at nothing. I sat at her feet and gazed at her.
“Oh, Bowser,” she sa
id after a while. “It’s not that I don’t love Grammy. I do. I love her a whole lot. But …”
But what? I had no clue. My only thought was to put my paw on Birdie’s knee, so that was what I did. Sometimes it helps to have only one thought, competing thoughts usually upsetting your peace of mind. Me, I’m almost always the one-thought type, just another example of my good luck. Birdie’s the luckiest thing that ever happened to me, of course, no need to even mention that, so I won’t. Meanwhile, I was enjoying the view through the back window, which looked right out on the bayou, very still the way it gets early in the morning, and at our charter fishing boat, Bayou Girl, tied to the dock.
“And what’s the point of being here?” Birdie said. “Everyone knows we don’t open till eight thirty, so why—”
There may have been more like that, but I got distracted by a pelican that came swooping down from the sky and dove straight into the bayou, the sharp point of its long beak breaking the surface, and then the whole bird disappearing underwater with hardly even a splash. A moment after that, the pelican bobbed up to the surface, a fish now squirming in that beak. Forget it, my fishy friend! I’d seen this many times: The fish never get away, but instead always fall into that enormous pouch of a pelican mouth, and that’s that. Which was exactly what happened now, except … except what came next was so strange and scary—even though ol’ Bowser is scared of nothin’—that I wasn’t even sure I actually saw it. Did it really happen? An enormous head, darkish gray-brown in color, burst up from below the surface of the bayou, a fish-type head but way bigger, huge and round like the oil barrels you see on the barges. Or even huger! The size of that wide-open mouth! A sort of lopsided mouth, hard to describe. And those teeth—so many, so big, so sharp! Did I mention the little eyes, red hot and icy cold at the same time? The pelican—together with the fish still squirming in its beak—got gulped down in a flash.
“Bowser! Bowser! What are you doing?”
What was I doing? I seemed to be standing up, front paws against the glass, possibly barking the tiniest bit.
Birdie rose, came to the window, gazed out. Now there was nothing to see but a ripple or two, plus a single brown feather drifting on the bayou.
“What’s gotten into you today?” Birdie said. “Imagine if Grammy …”
But I never had to imagine whatever this was, probably not something too good, because the front door opened and a man entered the store. How had he even gotten close without me knowing? Security was my job!
“Hey there,” said this man, a small, wiry dude with a deep tan, smelling very fishy.
Birdie straightened up. “Hi,” she said.
“Your pooch don’t seem to like me a whole lot.”
“Bowser! Cool it!”
Cool it? Cool what? Had some sort of growling started up inside Gaux Family Fish and Bait? That was annoying. If there was any growling to be done, that was the department of yours truly, ol’ Bowser, and nobody but nobody—
“Bowser!”
I got a grip.
The dude glanced around the store. He was dressed like a lot of dudes we see—baggy shorts, faded T, dirty sneaks—and had long, stringy hair and bandy legs. Also, he had that squinty-eyed look that comes from lots of time on the water under the sun’s glare. “Fella name of Snoozy LaChance work here?” he said.
“Yes,” said Birdie.
“When’s he expected?”
Even I knew that was a tough question. There’s no telling with Snoozy. Snoozy’s our assistant at the shop, but he kind of comes and goes. What can I tell you about Snoozy? The second-most interesting thing about him is how quickly he can fall asleep, even quicker than me. The most interesting thing? His tattoos. Snoozy has tattoos of different kinds of fish all over both arms. When he flexes his muscles it’s like the fish are swimming around, except he hardly has any muscles, so the fish don’t move much.
“Um,” Birdie said. “Later.”
“How much later?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Not sure? Heck of a way to run a business.”
I’m the type who likes humans, pretty much each and every one I’ve ever met—except for one or two who didn’t treat Birdie right, and I’m sure they’ll recover from their wounds very soon, except for two real bad guys, one taken care of by a gator and the other by a cottonmouth. But … but … where was I going with this? Oh, right, the wiry dude: I was starting not to like him. At the moment, he was glancing around the store.
“Who’s in charge here?” he said.
“Me,” said Birdie.
“You? You’re a kid.”
The wiry dude got that right. Birdie was a kid—eleven years old, as I well knew because I was her birthday present—and the greatest possible kid in all of bayou country, although I didn’t like the way he said it. I eased my way over in his direction. He had skinny calf muscles, hardly worth sinking your teeth into, but if security’s your job, you can’t be a prima donna. I hope “prima donna” fits here—it’s a favorite expression of Grammy’s. She also likes “dumber than a post” and “don’t bring a spoon to a fork fight,” both a complete mystery to me.
“When he shows up,” the wiry dude said, digging into his back pocket, “tell him to get in touch with me. Pronto.” He laid a card on the counter in front of Birdie, a very unfresh-looking card that smelled of gasoline and bait worms. And whoa! It wasn’t just the card: The dude himself smelled of gasoline and bait worms.
He turned and walked out of the store. Most flip-floppers make a slap-slap sound when they walk, but this dude had a silent walk, silent for a human. I filed that fact away, tried to remember what it was, and almost succeeded! Wow!
Birdie peered at the card without picking it up. “‘Captain Deke Waylon,’” she read. “‘Best sport fishing on the Gulf Coast. Hook ’em every time or the day is free!’” Birdie glanced my way. “Or the day is free? How’s that possible?” She leaned forward, gazed closer at the card. “Wait a minute—here’s an asterisk.” She flipped the card over, held it to the light, then took a magnifying glass from a drawer and examined it again. “Tiniest writing I’ve ever seen, Bowser. I think it says ‘Additional charges apply.’”
Not long after that, Junior Tebbets came into the store. Junior’s a real skinny kid with a Mohawk haircut and an earring in one ear. He’s a pal of Birdie’s, and, therefore, of mine, too—better believe it!—and so are Nola, whose family owns the general store, and Rory, whose dad is the sheriff. Junior’s dad, Wally, runs the food truck that’s usually parked on our side of the Lucinda Street Bridge, the nearest bayou crossing, and lots of times—like now!—Junior shows up with some spare food. What else do you need to know about Junior? For one thing, he’s into music—the drums particularly—and I’ve heard his distant drumming a few times late at night, but Rory said someone called his dad about it and now there’s no more nighttime drumming.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi, Junior.”
“You’re in early today.”
“Yeah.”
“How come?”
Birdie shrugged her shoulders.
“Hungry?” Junior said.
“No.”
“I brought you a po’boy. Shrimp and red pepper, the kind you like.”
“No, thanks.”
“I’ve only taken a couple of little bites.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re kind of prickly today, Birdie.”
“Prickly?”
“That’s what my stepmom always called my dad—prickly. Not talkin’ about my stepmom now, or the one before, but the one before that. It means—”
“I know what prickly means.”
“Okeydokey, artichokey.”
“Okeydokey artichokey?”
“That’s what my new stepmom says when she’s in a good mood, meaning hardly ever.”
Birdie gave Junior not the friendliest sort of look.
“What about Bowser?” Junior said.
“What abou
t him?”
“Any chance he’s hungry?”
Birdie shook her head. “He already had a big bowl of kibble.”
Whoa! Not so fast! Big bowl of kibble? When was that, exactly? I’d certainly had bowls of kibble in my life—none I would really call big, by the way—but they were all faint memories.
“Bowser! Don’t beg.”
“What makes you think he’s begging?”
“Junior! He’s sitting on your feet! His mouth’s wide open! That’s begging!”
“He is drooling a bit,” Junior said.
Oh, no! Drooling? Me? That didn’t sound like the way to go. But how can you stop drooling? I got very confused, and in my confusion might have snatched that po’boy with shrimp and red peppers right out of Junior’s hand and taken care of it in one bite. All I knew for sure was that the po’boy seemed to have vanished and there may have been a shrimpy taste in my mouth.
Oh, and one more thing: Birdie and Junior were staring at me, their eyes wide open. I got the feeling I might be in some sort of trouble, but then came a lovely surprise. Birdie tilted back her head and started laughing. She has the loveliest laugh in the world. She laughed and laughed, and I ran crazily around the store, and then Junior was laughing, too. At the end, Birdie’s laughter turned to tears a bit, which she brushed away with the back of her hand, giving her head a quick little shake.
“Whew,” said Junior. “Back to normal. Maybe now we can talk business.” He took a thick sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Birdie.
Birdie looked it over. “A song?” she said. “What’s all this?”
“Song contest, sponsored by WSBY, the Voice of Bayou Country. All entries must be original songs, and the winner gets five thousand dollars and a free trip to Nashville that includes a meeting with a genuine record producer. Plus a year’s supply of cleaning products from Kroger’s.”
“What kind of cleaning products?”
“I’m not sure. But the point is there’s a deadline for entries.” Junior jabbed at the paper. “We’ve got three weeks to write and record an original song.”
“Who is we?”
“Me on drums, Nola on guitar, you on vocals.”
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