Notes from a Liar and Her Dog

by Gennifer Choldenko

  I smile at this. Harrison thinks he can fix anything. He thinks he’s Superman, behind all that hair.

  “What am I going to write?” I ask as I scratch Pistachio under his chin. He lifts his head so I can do a better job and rests his little jaw on my hand.

  “My dad will help us with the pie,” Harrison says, which doesn’t answer my question.

  He hands me a paper and one of his pencils. “Now get busy!” He shakes his finger at me. Harrison is never like this at school.

  I take the pencil and look at it. It’s all nicked up with teeth marks, but the end is sharpened to a fine point, just the way Harrison likes it.

  Harrison has a big stack of poster board. He runs his fingers over each piece, looking for bumps, creases, and wrinkles. Harrison is very particular about paper. When he settles on the piece he wants, he cuts the board in half with a razor blade and a ruler.

  “It has to be real skinny,” he explains to me. “Because I’m going to do a giraffe.”

  “What if I just write I’m sorry really tall to fill up the inside?”

  Harrison’s eyebrows slide up his brow. “I’m sorry is not enough,” he says.

  I sigh and begin writing while Harrison blocks in his giraffe. I love to watch him do this. He starts out by drawing a bunch of circles and squares that don’t look like a giraffe at all, but when he puts them all together they look exactly like a giraffe. It’s magic the way Harrison draws.

  I settle down and try to write something that Harrison will think is okay. I do the best I can. “Okay, I’m done.”

  “Good,” he says. “I need your help.”

  Harrison doesn’t let me help with his drawings very often. And when he does, I get the easy parts, like filling in bricks or blades of grass or sky. Even so, I can’t do as well as he does. But I love when he asks me to help. He doesn’t care if I do it perfect, either. He says drawings don’t look right if they’re too perfect.

  Now we are both lying on our bellies, drawing. Pistachio is curled up against my foot. Harrison is working on a leg and I’m doing clouds. I try to make them all light and swirly the way Harrison showed me, but mine don’t swirl right. They look heavy enough to fall out of the sky and knock the giraffe out cold.

  After we’ve been working for a while, Mr. Emerson knocks on the door frame. It’s open, but he still knocks. Something about this reminds me of how much I like the Emersons and then I get a little panicky inside. I shouldn’t get attached and I know it. If you get attached, then it hurts too much when you have to move away.

  “Come in,” Harrison says.

  “I’m taking banana nut bread out of the oven in ten minutes. You want to take a break and get a piece while it’s hot?”

  My mouth waters. I’m about to say yes, when Harrison says, “Not now. We’re busy.” I rap Harrison with my pencil. He ignores me.

  “You guys sure have been quiet up here. What are you working on?”

  “We’re making a giraffe card. And could you help with the pie?” Harrison squints through his crazy hair.

  His father just finished baking banana nut bread. He’s not going to want to bake a pie. “Maybe we could just bring her some banana bread,” I suggest.

  “Oh no,” Harrison says. He pushes his hair out of his face. “It’s got to be pie. When you make a mistake you have to give pie.”

  “Pie?” Mr. Emerson asks. He straightens up. His eyes get bright. He looks the way my father does when he runs his hand over his golf clubs. This surprises me. Then I remember, Mr. Emerson loves to cook.

  “A mistake pie,” Harrison says.

  “Oh, I know.” Mr. Emerson sits down on the brown beanbag chair in Harrison’s room. “Humble pie.”

  “Yeah.” Harrison smiles. “That’s the one. What flavor is that?”

  “Well, gee, guys.” Mr. Emerson strokes his upper lip. “I don’t know if there is a flavor for humble pie. What are we sorry for? Maybe we should start with that.”

  “Will you read what you wrote?” Harrison asks me.

  I shake my head no. I pretend to be shy, but this isn’t it. I hate when Mr. Emerson finds out I messed up on something. I just hate it.

  Harrison’s tongue pokes at his cheek. He scratches his head. “We’ve got to get an adult opinion. We’ve got to, Ant. My dad will tell us if it’s okay.”

  I sigh loud and long and roll my eyes. Pistachio groans and walks stiff legged over to Mr. Emerson, waggling his short tail. I read: “I am very sorry. I won’t ever bring Pistachio to the zoo again. I didn’t want him to get hurt. I only brought him because I was looking after him, but I guess this backfired. I know you want me to be honest and I will try. Just like George Washington. Except I don’t know if he was honest or not. You know, that story about how he chopped down the cherry tree and then someone asked him and he said he couldn’t lie that yes he did chop the tree down. I heard that is a big fat lie. I heard somebody made that all up. I think they’re right, too, because why would George Washington chop down a cherry tree? Even back then there must have been way more fun things to do.”

  14

  HUMBLE PIE

  The card is too tall to fit into Harrison’s locker, so Harrison bends it over a little, without making a crease, and slides it in that way. The pie we made is French apple and it fits fine on the shelf once Harrison moves his history book. The pie smells great. It has made his whole locker smell like cinnamon and brown sugar. I am unhappy that we have to give the whole thing away, but Harrison says not to be a baby about it. “This is serious, Ant. Kigali might not get fed without me.”

  I feel like telling him this is ridiculous and he knows it. But the giraffe Harrison drew is so beautiful, it looks like if you touch it, you’ll feel giraffe hair instead of paper. One look at that drawing and anyone can tell how much Harrison loves Kigali already. Harrison can fall in love faster than anyone I know.

  After lunch we find Just Carol searching for marker tops in the supply closet next to the office. She is so busy, she doesn’t see us. Harrison and I stand there looking at each other, until she notices us.

  “Well, hello,” Just Carol says as her thumb clicks a red top on a red marker.

  We stand awkwardly with the pie and the card. Harrison nudges me with his elbow.

  “We have something to give you,” I say. I hand her the pie. Harrison turns the card so she can see it.

  Just Carol sets the pie down on a stack of green paper and stares at the card. She sucks air in, the way people do when they think you’re about to do something dangerous.

  “Oh, Harrison, it’s beautiful! Absolutely exquisite. Did you do this all from your head?”

  Harrison nods.

  “You are amazing!” Just Carol shakes her head. “What a delicate hand. Unbelievable! It looks just like Kigali, too. Though you did take a couple of years off her, which was kind of you. When I’m old, I’m gonna get you to do my portrait.” Just Carol rumples Harrison’s already-rumpled hair. “I hope you’re going to let me display this. Please say you will,” Just Carol asks. She is all bubbly, her green eyes clear and full.

  Normally, Harrison hates having his work tacked to a bulletin board or put in a glass case. I don’t know why. He likes when people say nice things about his work, but it embarrasses him, too. He’s funny that way. But now he is nodding, although his face is bright red, the color of the marker in Just Carol’s hand. When I see this, I remember how once I saw him write Mrs. Carol Emerson under a picture he drew of Just Carol.

  “Could we go back to the zoo with you? Ant’s sorry. Aren’t you, Ant? She helped with the card, too. Read what she wrote,” Harrison mumbles. I can hardly understand him. The end-of-lunch bell rings loud in my ear.

  “Yes,” I say, “I am sorry.” This sounds fake, as if I’m reading a line in a book.

  Just Carol’s mouth forms a grim line.

  Harrison clears his throat. “Have a piece of pie,” he says, more clearly this time.

  She ignores the pie, as if this is my c
ontribution and she doesn’t want any part of it. “Harrison, I’ll take you to the zoo, but I can’t take Ant.”

  I pucker my lips together and raise my eyes at Harrison. He nods toward Just Carol, like I’m supposed to say something.

  “I made a mistake. I’m sorry.” I point to the inside where I’ve written my bit. She reads it. Her expression doesn’t change. There are a lot of kids in the hall now, hurrying to their classrooms. Just Carol looks as if she’s finished talking.

  “Mistakes happen,” I say, loud so she’ll hear over the noise of kids talking, “to everyone.”

  Just Carol closes the card. “Come on back to room 10. We’ll talk for a minute,” Just Carol says. Her eyes avoid me. She gathers her stack of green paper and three boxes of markers and fast walks down the corridor to the empty room 10. She sets her supplies and the card down and sits on the table. I like that she does this, because I know Mr. Borgdorf wouldn’t. My mom wouldn’t, either. “Chairs are for sitting. Tables are for working,” she always says.

  “What concerns me,” Just Carol says when we are sitting down, too, “isn’t the mistake, it’s the deception. You hid that dog in your pocket.”

  “I always keep him in my pocket. How was I supposed to know it was against the rules to bring a dog to the zoo?”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  I look over at Harrison. He’s biting his bottom lip. He runs his finger over initials carved into the desk. Something about the way he does this reminds me how much this means to him. “Well, I didn’t tell you just in case it was against the rules,” I say.

  “Just in case,” Just Carol says.

  “Uh-huh.” I try to look earnest.

  “See, this is just the problem.” Just Carol raps the eraser end of a yellow pencil on the desk. “I’m always in the position of trying to figure out whether or not you’re telling the truth. And I will not be put in that position. You either tell me the truth, or I won’t have anything to do with you.”

  “She will,” Harrison mumbles.

  Just Carol looks at Harrison for a long time. I don’t think she wants to hurt his feelings any more than I do. “If, and I do mean if, you want to continue with Zoo Teens, you need to do two things.” She raises two fingers. “One, you need to promise me that you will never lie or try to deceive me again. No direct lies—not even small ones. No indirect lies or deceptions like hiding Pistachio in your pocket. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I nod.

  “And two, you need to straighten out that vet problem.”

  “What vet problem?”

  “Come on, Ant.” Just Carol folds her arms in front of her and sets her elbows on the desk. Her green eyes won’t let me go. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  “How can I straighten it out? I don’t have the money to pay!”

  “I’m sure we can work that out. But we’ll need to talk to your mom about it.”

  “My mom? Why do we have to bring her into this?”

  “Because what you did was illegal. And she is the person responsible for you.”

  I look over at Harrison. He’s nodding his head.

  I take a deep breath. I suppose with Just Carol, I could maybe try the truth, kind of like an experiment. Maybe. But not with my mom. Please, not with my mom. Lies are the only way I can handle her.

  I feel trapped. It’s stuffy in this classroom and full of a dusty, chalky smell, which makes me cough. I want to get out.

  “Look, Ant, your mom is going to find out about the vet one way or another. It will be better if you tell her.”

  “Better than what?” I ask, staring at the chalkboard, which has a list of things Columbus brought to America. Nutmeg, silk, cinnamon, salt, it says.

  “Better than if she finds out from someone else.”

  I glare at Harrison. “See! I tell her one thing and she blabs it to everyone.”

  “I don’t mean I’m going to report this or tell your mom anything. I’m not. All I’m saying is, if you want to continue with the zoo program, this is what you need to do. If you don’t, it’s up to you how you want to deal with the vet. But I suspect that eventually the vet will track you down …” She cocks her head. “Or the police.”

  “But they might not,” I say. I look around the room. Anywhere but at Just Carol. My eyes rest on a projector with its cord rolled in a neat stack of O’s.

  “That’s true, but if you do it again, the odds are you’ll be found.”

  “Who says I’m going to do it again?”

  “I’m hoping you don’t. But I see the way you love that dog, and I suspect that if he gets sick again, you’ll take him to the vet.”

  “I’ll go to a different vet, that’s all.” I look out the window as a group of fourth-grade girls walk by.

  “There aren’t that many vets. And who knows if the next one will insist on payment when services are rendered. That’s typically the way it works, you know.”

  She has me now. I’ve thought of this before. I’ve wondered what I would do if I had to take Pistachio in again. There are four other veterinary hospitals, but they are a long way away.

  Harrison has a pencil in his hand. He has erased half of a car somebody else drew on the desk. Now he is redrawing it, much better this time.

  “So if we tell her about the last time, what does that have to do with the next time?”

  “I don’t want to promise anything, Ant. But I will talk to your mom about working out a way for you to take Pistachio to the vet when he needs to go.” She looks over at Harrison. “Do we have a deal?”

  I say nothing. The late bell rings. “I’ll be at your house tonight, okay, Ant?”

  Harrison kicks me under the desk.

  I look out to the now quiet hall. The lights are buzzing in this room. It sounds like a thousand tiny grasshoppers are trapped inside. But I am nodding. I am.

  15

  JUST CAROL

  I watch out the window for Just Carol. Pistachio sits in my lap. I told my mom Just Carol was coming, but I didn’t exactly explain why. “She wants to talk to you about the zoo program,” I said. “Oh,” my mother replied, and that was it. She’s preoccupied today. I don’t know why.

  I try to imagine what will happen when Just Carol gets here. Part of me wants my mother to behave badly in front of Just Carol. I think Just Carol will like me better if my mother is mean. No one would love Cinderella if she didn’t have a mean stepmom. The other part of me wants Just Carol to wave a wand over my mother and change her into the mom I want. A mom who says, “You know, I’m sorry. If I had let you take Pistachio to the vet in the first place, none of this would have happened.” I think about my real mother. This is exactly what she would say.

  I sit there fretting and watching the driveway. My tummy gurgles, the way it does when I get upset. Then, without thinking about it, I do something I almost never do. I dial the number on the kitchen bulletin board. The one beside “Don/Atlanta Office.”

  My dad will be mad, but right now, I don’t care. I mean, if Elizabeth can call him, why can’t I? This way he can talk to Just Carol on the phone, and my mom won’t have to know anything about it. When Just Carol comes, I’ll just hand her the phone and she won’t have to see my mom at all. My dad doesn’t get so upset about stuff like this. Once when I was little, I bit Felicia Johnston’s arm because she cut a big handful of Elizabeth’s hair, and when my dad found out, he was almost proud of what I’d done.

  I wind the phone cord around my finger and wait for the call to connect. “Leebson Insurance,” the receptionist says.

  “Could I speak to Don MacPherson, please?”

  “I’m sorry, Don MacPherson is no longer with the company. Could someone else in our sales department help you?”

  “What?”

  “Mr. MacPherson no longer works for Leebson.”

  My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

  “Miss? Hello?” The receptionist asks, “Can someone else help you?”

 
“No,” I say. I hang up the phone. Pistachio squirms against me. It takes me a while to realize I’m holding him too tight.

  The receptionist is wrong. That’s all there is to it. I stand staring stupidly at “Don/Atlanta Office” written in my mother’s neat handwriting. Then, my feet walk up the stairs to Elizabeth’s room. I’m not quite sure why they do this except that I know Elizabeth hates moving as much as I do. It’s the one thing we agree on, Elizabeth and me.

  Elizabeth has scooted her chair up to her dresser. Her nose is two inches from the mirror. She is inspecting her chin. “Elizabeth,” I say, “I called the Atlanta office. The receptionist said Dad’s not working at Leebson anymore.”

  I can almost see the words travel inside Elizabeth’s head and register in her eyes. Her eyelids close, her head rocks back.

  “She’s probably wrong,” I say. “It’s probably a mistake.”

  Elizabeth shakes her head. “Must have just happened. I’ve been calling every week to check.”

  “You have? Why?”

  “Because I knew this was going to happen, that’s why.”

  “Oh,” I say. Elizabeth has been checking up on our dad. This is not what I wanted to hear. I feel as if Elizabeth has just belted me in the gut. I take a deep breath and try to recover. This feels even worse than the receptionist saying he doesn’t work at Leebson. It feels more real, somehow.

  Elizabeth sits absolutely still for a minute, then jumps to her feet and runs down the stairs. I follow her out to the backyard, where my mother is tugging a weed vine that has snaked itself around her yellow pansies.

  “MOM, DID DAD QUIT?” Elizabeth cries.

  My mother’s head snaps up, her hand is gripping the vine. Her eyes look surprised and unhappy, like she’s just spilled grape juice on herself.

  When I see this, I know it’s true. I try to carve a way this will all be okay. Maybe he already has a new job right here. Maybe that’s why he quit.