I am surprised to hear Elizabeth say this. She has never said anything like it before. In fact, usually she says just the opposite.
“But you sure do make her mad. Especially when you tell her that she isn’t your real mother. Man oh man. You might as well pour gasoline on her and strike a match.”
“Well, she isn’t,” I say.
“Oh, come on, Ant. Just because you don’t like our mom doesn’t mean you can make up a new one.” She shakes her head.
“She’s your mom. She isn’t mine. For one thing, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t look at all like her,” I say.
“Not now, but she looked like you when she was a kid, before she got her nose fixed and her hair permed and dyed.”
When Elizabeth says this, I feel a sharp pain in my chest.
“No, she didn’t,” I say, but it’s too late, because suddenly I see a photo in my mind. It is in Aunt Mindy’s house, on the dresser in Aunt Mindy’s bedroom. The picture is of Aunt Mindy and my mom when they were little girls. They are wearing matching dresses with white sailor collars. They are both petting a big orange cat. Aunt Mindy looks like herself, only younger. My mom looks like me.
17
OTHER DOGS’ STINK
Dear Real Mom,
Okay, so you aren’t real. Okay, so I’ve known this all along. Big deal. I’m going to believe in you just the same. Because I am not Mrs. MacPherson’s daughter. I’m not. Lots of people look alike and they aren’t related. They do. And Pistachio isn’t their dog, either. I know this for a fact.
Sincerely,
Ant and Pistachio
Every day for the past two weeks I’ve been going home to get Pistachio and then walking to the vet’s office to work. Mostly I clean the kennels in the back. I use this stinky green stuff and a big yellow scrub brush. It isn’t fun. Especially since they take the dogs and cats away, so I don’t even get to pet them or talk to them or anything. The vet has made it clear I’m being punished. She doesn’t like me. I don’t like her, either, but the receptionist with the fluffy white dog is very nice. I can tell she doesn’t think what I did was all that bad. I’ll bet she believes in the Hippopotamus oath, too.
At least the vet lady lets me bring Pistachio. I made a bed for him out of an old blue blanket, but he hardly ever lies in it because of all the smells. He just can’t get enough of smelling other dogs’ stink. The only thing he doesn’t like is the smelly green soap. When I squirt it in the bucket, he curls his lip and shakes his head and backs away. I don’t blame him. I hate it, too. It makes me feel as if I’m about to sneeze. Like I say “Aah aah aah,” but never “Choo.”
The other things I hate are the creepy purple pamphlets. They are in the brochure rack along with some other colored papers about fleas and heartworm and housebreaking. Or they were, anyway. Now the purple pamphlets are in the Dumpster underneath a big load of dog poop. That is where they belong. They are trash. Worse than trash, really. On the cover is a picture of a sad old golden retriever and a badly drawn clock. The words are printed in computer handwriting. They say: “Is it time to euthanize?” What they really mean is: “Are you ready to butcher your best friend?” Only if they said that and had a picture of a person there, they’d get arrested.
That clock really gets me. It reminds me of the homework pages Kate got when she was in first grade. The ones where she had to draw in the hands of the clock to show: breakfast time, lunchtime, dinnertime. And now: slaughter time.
I never even read the inside of the pamphlet. The cover is enough to tell me that I would never take Pistachio to this vet again. I don’t care that I am supposed to be earning money toward future vet care for him. I’d rather go to jail than take him to a vet who would have a pamphlet like that. I keep my eye out for them now, and when I see one, I take it straight to the Dumpster in the alley out back.
The way I figure it, this is my good deed for the day. It’s a lot more important than cleaning the kennels. Still, cleaning the kennels is what lets me go to the zoo with Harrison on Saturdays. And this is really fun. The other good thing is, because I’m always at the vet or at the zoo, I haven’t been around my mom much lately. And when I am home, my mother acts funny toward me. She doesn’t forget I’m there the way she used to. She watches me and she asks a lot of questions about Just Carol. “What do you think that teacher of yours would say about this?” she asks when she catches me sneaking down the back trellis with Pistachio in my pocket. “How should I know?” I say.
One day she asked, “So, what does that teacher of yours have to say about me?”
“About you? Just Carol doesn’t say anything about you,” I tell her, but she acts like this couldn’t possibly be true, like I’m holding back. I’m not holding back. I do like that what Just Carol thinks seems to matter to her, though. It makes me feel safer somehow, as if my mother no longer has the final say on everything.
My biggest problem is still my dad. Elizabeth drew him a map and highlighted in pink all the places he could work around here, but I wonder if he’ll pay any attention. He says he will, but then he has this habit of “forgetting.” When my dad says he doesn’t remember, it makes me so frustrated I could scream, because there’s nothing I can say to that. Forgetting is an easy loophole. A weasel route out of trouble. Forgetting is worse than lying. That’s why I’m glad for the map. It’s all on paper now. We taped it to my dad’s briefcase, so it will be hard for him to “forget.”
The other problem is Harrison. He is acting funny about this Math-a-thon thing. First he said he couldn’t possibly come because the Math-a-thon is Saturday and that’s when we usually go to the zoo. Then, when he found out Just Carol was coming to the Math-a-thon, so for sure there would be no zoo that day, he got very quiet. I hate when he does this. If I didn’t know him so well, I’d think he was being mean. But I know with Harrison that’s never it. Harrison is never mean.
Today when I see him, he’s sitting on the ground outside Spanish class. He’s drawing, of course. Usually now he draws giraffes instead of chickens, but today he’s back to a chicken drawing—one he started a long time ago. He is almost done. The only thing left is one chicken foot and part of the head. It is always amazing to me how he knows so clearly what chickens look like from every point of view. It’s as if he has a complete inventory of chicken parts in his head.
“Why are you being weird about this Math-a-thon?” I ask him.
“Why are you going to it?”
This is a good question. I never really thought about why I agreed to go, except that it hadn’t taken any effort so far and Cave Man said I should. But usually having a teacher say I ought to do something is all the reason I need to refuse.
I’m not sure what the real reason is. It may be because I want Just Carol to think I’m smart. Of course, it has occurred to me that she already thinks I’m smart, and if I crash and burn in the Math-a-thon, that will change her mind. But I don’t think I will, because I’m good at math. I don’t really try hard, either. It’s like a part of my brain already knows how to solve the problems. The wrong ways and the right ways. I follow all the paths through to the end and back again.
One of the reasons I like math is because a right answer is right, no matter who grades your homework. In English, a teacher will give you a bad grade on a paper just because you have a big mouth or she doesn’t like your handwriting. But in math, it’s never like that.
I think about how to explain this to Harrison. Apparently he thinks this Math-a-thon is dangerous somehow, as if it’s going to lead me someplace he can’t follow. I can’t get him to see how ridiculous this is. Last year, when I got sick to death of being sent to talk to Mr. Borgdorf and I started doing my work in class, he worried about that, too. But then he got used to it and it was okay. It’s not as if Harrison likes to get in trouble. He doesn’t. But he hates changes, and he worries school will get in the way of important things like his art and us being friends. Adults always act as if school is supposed to be more important th
an your friends, which Harrison and me think is just plain wrong. We’ve discussed this many times.
“I just want to,” I say.
He chews his pencil and says nothing. I see this is not good enough.
“Maybe Just Carol has something to do with it,” I say.
He puts his face back down next to his page and gets busy with his pencil. “You don’t have to be good at math, you know.”
“I know,” I say. “It’s like a puzzle, Harrison. I just want to know if I can do it.”
“What if you can?”
I shrug. “So then I can.”
“You going to start doing this on Saturdays instead of the zoo?”
“No. I love going to the zoo.”
Harrison isn’t drawing now. He’s chomping on his pencil. His hair is in his face, I can’t see his eyes.
“What if you like this math stuff better?”
“Harrison, I’m just going to try this. It’s only one Saturday. People don’t do this every Saturday.”
“Are you going in a bus?”
“No.”
“I’m not good at math. I couldn’t go on a bus,” Harrison says.
“There’s no bus, Harrison. And so what if you’re not good at math? I’m not good at drawing.”
He nods. “Are you going to want to be friends with Keegan and Madison? They’re good at math. They probably sit together on the bus.”
“Harrison.” I give his arm a gentle slap. “I’m not going to be friends with Keegan and Madison and I’m not going anywhere on a bus. Are you friends with Sarah Feldman just because she’s a good artist?”
“No. I’m friends with you.”
“Yeah, and I’m friends with you, so don’t get weird on me. Besides, maybe Just Carol will let us go to the zoo on Sunday this week. We could ask.”
“Yeah, let’s ask.” He smiles his one-sided, one-dimpled smile. I still can’t see his eyes. All I see is hair and mouth.
“So are you coming to the Math-a-thon? I need you.”
Harrison pushes his hair out of his face and makes his eyes go crossways. Then he smiles back at me. “Okay, sure,” he says.
18
A RIDE
My mother is all dressed up in her blue high heels with her only-for-special-occasions perfume on. I don’t know why she’s dressed this way. It’s only Elizabeth’s dress rehearsal, not even the real show or anything.
Elizabeth is wearing her good pink leotard and tights. Her hair is pulled back so tight it looks as if it is giving her a headache. Kate is wearing her pink leotard and her hair is slicked back, too, just like Elizabeth’s. Kate is only going to dance class, but my mom let her get dressed up, too.
Dad got home last night. I can hear him in the shower. I am hanging outside his door, waiting for him to finish. Pistachio is nestled in the crook of my arm.
“How are you getting to your Math-a-thon, Antonia?” my mom asks as she floats by smelling like lavender.
“Just Carol is picking me up,” I say. This is a lie—a dumb one, too. I should get a ride from my mom, but I want my dad to take me. Elizabeth has to be there early, so my mom is taking her. Probably my dad is going later when the performance starts. But maybe he’s not. Maybe, if he gives me a ride, then he’ll see what a big deal this Math-a-thon is and he’ll stay and watch me—at least for part of it.
I wait until I hear my mom and Elizabeth and Kate get in the car, then I knock on the bathroom door. “Dad?”
“Yes?” his voice sounds slightly muffled through the door.
“Are you going to play golf today?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Pistachio wiggles in my arm. He wants to get down. I switch arms, hoping this will get him comfortable again.
“Are you going to do something else, then?” I wish he’d come out. It’s impossible to talk through a closed door.
“Many other things. I’ve got a full plate today, then I’m flying to New York tomorrow. I have to pull together some documents and do a lot of—”
“NEW YORK!” I scream. The word roars in my ears. “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO GET A JOB IN NEW YORK?”
The lock pops, the knob turns, and I get a warm blast of steam when the door opens. My dad comes out, looking fresh, just out of the shower. His wet hair has comb marks and his skin is all pink. He smells of shampoo and toothpaste and soap and steam.
“Relax, Antonia. It’s corporate headquarters. The job is here.”
“Oh,” I sigh. My dad walks into my parents’ bedroom. I follow him. I don’t think he’ll say anything about Pistachio being in here. My mother would in a second, but my dad doesn’t notice stuff like this.
“Are any of those things you have to do down Johnson Ranch Road?” I ask.
“No.”
“What about if you decide to go to the driving range?”
“What is it you need, Antonia?” my father asks. He ducks down to see himself in the mirror on his dresser. Then he looks at me in the mirror.
“I’m going to the Math-a-thon, did Mom tell you?” I see the reflection of myself and my father.
He nods his head. “She mentioned it. Something about a postcard and some confusion about who was invited.”
“Oh, I was hoping you’d give me a ride,” I say. I want to ask him if he’ll come. I want to tell him I’d really like it if he would, but I can’t say this. It seems too personal. Too true. Besides, I can’t stand it if he turns me down.
“A ride?” My dad spins around and looks at me. “Your mother drove right by there. Why didn’t you go with her?”
I shrug and look down at my parents’ dresser. A card and a rose are leaning against my mom’s jewelry box. The card looks as if it came from Elizabeth. It has the slanty writing Elizabeth likes to do and a picture of a ballerina copied from a book. I pick it up. “You are cordially invited to a preview performance,” it says. I hate Elizabeth. She always figures out how to get what she wants.
I take a deep breath. “Are you going to Elizabeth’s dress rehearsal?” I ask.
“I sure hope so. I’m certainly going to try. I’ve got an errand to do first and I’m really hoping it doesn’t take too long.”
“So could I?” I ask, petting Pistachio’s head.
“Could you what?” He’s digging in his drawer for something.
“Have a ride?”
My father groans. His head shoots back, like someone slapped his face. “Antonia, why do you do this? It’s as if you go out of your way to be annoying to your mother and me.” He shakes his head. “I wasn’t going that way. I wasn’t leaving right now.”
“Well, forget it, then,” I say. I take Pistachio to my room and set him on the floor. Then I fill his bowl from my own private sink. For a second, I think about taking Tashi to the Math-a-thon. I would certainly like him to come with me, but it seems too hard to hide him. Besides, I don’t feel like getting Just Carol upset all over again. Getting her un-upset was way too much trouble. “Bye, Tashi,” I say, then I march into Elizabeth’s room to get her helmet. I will just have to borrow her bike. That’s all.
My father is downstairs reading the paper when I walk by on my way to the garage. “I suppose you’re going to be late now,” he says from behind his newspaper.
I ignore this and go into the garage to get Elizabeth’s bike. I try to wheel it out from behind the boxes of stuff my mother is sorting through, but it won’t go. It has a flat tire and the chain has slipped off the gears.
My father opens the door and steps into the garage. He sees the flat tire. “Antonia.” He shakes his head. “You have to learn to think ahead!”
This stings. I did think ahead. I thought this all out very carefully. If I’d asked him to come to the Math-a-thon last night, then my mom would have known I’d lied, plus I’d still have to compete with Elizabeth. My only chance was to wait until after my mom and Elizabeth left. I may be a liar, but I’m not stupid.
“C’mon,” my father says. “Let’s get going, I’m never going to make it
to your sister’s dress rehearsal at this rate. And your mother will have my head if I miss it.”
I follow him to the car. We get in. He backs out, his hand over the seat looking behind him. I don’t say a word as we drive to school.
My school is on a cul-de-sac and today it’s clogged with traffic. Cars are trying to park, cars are dropping kids off, cars are turning around. Families are walking into the auditorium. People are everywhere. The marquee sign out front says District 2 Math-a-Thon. Welcome Contestants and Their Families.
I hope my dad will see this. I hope he will understand that not everybody is invited to be in the District 2 Math-a-thon. I want him to know this is a special thing. I want him to come in with me.
“Antonia, it looks like a real jam up there, they must be having a soccer game today. I’m going to let you out here, then I can duck down Rio Road and miss that whole mess.”
“It’s not a soccer game, it’s a Math-a-thon.”
He nods his head. “Come on, hop out. I’m blocking traffic. I got to scoot on out of here.”
I don’t move.
“Antonia!”
“Look, Dad, maybe I’ll just stay with you today.”
“With me?” My father’s voice drops. His eyes move quickly back and forth as if he is looking for a way out. “I thought you wanted to go to this math-a-thing?”
I look out the window at my school. I’m suddenly afraid to get out. I want my dad to come with me. I want to hold his hand, the way I did when I was little.
The car behind us toots its horn.
“Antonia!” my dad cries.
“Forget it,” I say. I get out, slam the door, and watch my dad pull away. The turn signal goes on. I watch the yellow orange flash flash. The car turns and he’s gone.
19
THE MATH-A-THON
I have never been to a Math-a-thon before. Cave Man told me how it works, though. He said they give each kid a problem and then they start a giant wall-size stopwatch. Whoever finishes the problem correctly before the buzzer buzzes goes to the next heat. Six kids from my class are in my section. Joyce Ann Jensen, Alexandra Duncan, Keegan and Madison and some other kids I don’t know very well mainly because the smart kids don’t hang around Harrison and me. In fact, Joyce Ann is staring at me now as if I am the last person in the world she expected to be here.
Notes from a Liar and Her Dog Page 11
