Me & Jack

by Danette Haworth

Sincerely,

  Eugene Morrows

  Regional President, American Dog Breeders Association

  I read the letter again and again.

  “What is it?” Dad asked.

  “I … it’s a …” I handed the letter to him.

  He scanned it quickly, then smiled and handed it back to me. “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “That’s really something.”

  I looked at Jack in amazement. Sweet Prince William. This news was too big, too excellent. “Can I go to Ray’s house?” I blurted.

  “He’s out back with Alan,” Ray’s mom said, holding the screen door open. I choked back a groan. Why did he have to be here? But maybe that was a good thing. He’d hear that Jack was a purebred, and that Jack’s ancestors could be traced all the way to the palace of King Tut. Bet he couldn’t say that about any of his horses.

  Mrs. Miller held out a plate of peanut butter cookies, the kind you press a fork on to make hash marks. I took two. She must have just baked them because they were warm, and the peanut-butter smell left a trail in the air. “Just go around the side of the house, okay?” She smiled and bit into a cookie.

  I broke off a tiny chunk for Jack before biting into one myself. Oh, man, so good. And it didn’t have nuts in it; I hate them in cookies or brownies.

  Speaking of nuts, Prater was sitting on the concrete pad at the back of Ray’s house. I bit into the second cookie and looked around, but I didn’t see Ray.

  I tried to act casual. “Where’s Ray?” I asked, causing Prater to startle. I smirked before realizing it.

  He clucked his tongue. “How come every time I see you, you’re eating?” he said. He held something that looked like a nail, and he had a piece of leather on a cardboard in front of him.

  Okay, so this was how it was going to be. I made my voice flat. “Do you know where Ray is?”

  “Yeah,” he said, picking up a mallet. “We’re doing something.”

  Well, duh. Everyone’s doing something, even if it’s just breathing. Jack and I stepped closer. Prater was making some kind of drawing on the leather.

  He shrank away from us, his eyes flitting over Jack. “Don’t come over here! You almost made me make a mistake.”

  We weren’t even that close. But I backed away from him anyway, tied the leash to the railing, and sat on the stoop with Jack to wait for Ray. Jack panted while looking at me expectantly. What’s next? his eyes said. What’re we doing? I ruffled his ears to let him know it was okay—we were just waiting for a few minutes.

  On the concrete, Prater seemed to have forgotten us. He dragged something that looked like a screwdriver across the leather, and thin strips rippled up. Brushing them aside, he repeated what he did, then picked up a different tool and turned it on the leather in short strokes. The tip of his tongue stuck out between his lips.

  The back door creaked open. “Hey,” Ray said as he ambled down the steps. “What’s going on?”

  I pulled the letter from the dog club out of my back pocket. I couldn’t help smiling as I handed him the envelope. “Look what I got!”

  He slipped the letter out and began to read. “Wow,” he said, glancing up for a second. I liked that he sounded impressed.

  “What is it?” Prater demanded.

  I shrugged. “Something about Jack.” Something great about Jack.

  He laid his stuff down and stood beside Ray. I could see his lips moving as he read over Ray’s shoulder.

  “Give me that.” Prater snatched the letter from Ray.

  “Don’t tear it,” I said and tried to grab it.

  Prater jerked his hand away and finished reading the letter. Then he started laughing, a fake, overly hearty laugh. “You got some dead old lady’s dog!”

  How did he do that? How was he able to make everything sound so stupid?

  Ray said, “That’s not what it says.”

  “Yes, it does.” His eyes gleamed—this was fun to him.

  I clenched my teeth. “Give it back to me,” I said and held out my hand for the letter.

  He snapped his arm back, holding the letter out of my reach. A challenging smile spread across his face.

  I lunged, nearly falling, and Jack let out an uncertain woof. He pulled against the leash, stretching it to its full length.

  Prater focused on Jack. “He better not get loose.”

  “So what if he did?” I countered, though I didn’t want Jack to get loose either.

  “Oh, my God,” Ray said, treading toward Prater. “Give me the letter; you grabbed it before I had a chance to finish it.”

  Ray made a move for it, but Prater dodged him, laughing.

  I took a step closer to Prater. “You’re just jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous!” He snorted. “I don’t even care about your stupid dog.”

  “Then give me the letter.”

  His eyes lit up. “Then come and get it.”

  I sprinted across the grass, and as I did, I stumbled over his tools, heard something crack, and knocked over the bowl of water.

  Prater’s mouth fell open. “You did that on purpose!”

  “I did not!” I said, and at the same time, Ray said, “No, he didn’t.”

  Prater looked from me to Ray and back to me again. He picked up the now-soaked leather, scowling. “I was just playing around, but you did it on purpose. You ruined it,” he said, shaking the water from the leather. “This was going to be a present for my aunt.” Then he scanned the grass. “You broke my best knife!”

  “It was an accident,” Ray said. “You should’ve given him the letter.”

  Prater’s eyes constricted, and before I could stop him, he tore the letter into long shreds and threw them down. “There you go,” he spat. “There’s your precious letter.”

  My mouth fell open, then clinched shut. I stared disbelievingly at the pieces by his feet.

  “Oh, man,” Ray said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  Prater lifted one shoulder. He answered Ray but stared at me. “Now we’re even.” The set of his jaw challenged me to do something.

  Every neuron in my brain fired like pistons—hit him, hit him! And I wanted to. My hands curled into fists and my blood boiled. But then the scene flashed by me like a movie: I shove him; he hits me; I punch him back. A bloody nose or a black eye later, his knife is still broken, and my letter is still ripped. Fighting wouldn’t change that. Fighting wouldn’t settle whatever was between Prater and me.

  I took a step toward him and he braced himself. Then I leaned down and picked up the pieces by his feet.

  As much as I wanted to, I didn’t leave. Leaving would feel like running away, as if I were backing down to Prater, and there was no way I was going to do that. As I scooped up the last shred of paper, I relaxed the muscles in my face and turned to Ray with an almost pleasant expression. “Hey,” I said, keeping my voice light, “do you have any tape?”

  chapter 14

  The letter lay on Ray’s kitchen table. Lucky for me—if you can call it that—Prater had ripped the letter into strips. I’d been able to tape them back together like a puzzle.

  “What’s his problem?” I asked when Mrs. Miller left the kitchen. I ironed the letter flat with my hand. Mrs. Miller had this huge cutting board and rows of cookies lay cooling on it. The whole kitchen filled with the warm scent of peanut butter and sugar.

  Ray stood and glanced through the window. Prater was still out there, starting on a new piece of leather. I’d worried about leaving Jack anywhere near him, but Ray insisted Prater wouldn’t do anything to Jack.

  Ray sat, opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head and looked down.

  “What?”

  “Well …” He closed his mouth again.

  He wanted to tell me and he didn’t want to tell me, but I definitely wanted to know.

  “Come on, I won’t say anything.”

  When someone’s about to spill, all their fidgeting stops. They kind of lean toward you, and they level their eyes with yours, ma
king a bridge of trust. That’s what Ray did now.

  “Remember when CeeCee said Alan is scared of dogs?”

  “Yeah …” I fiddled with the bottle cap from the pop Ray gave me, spinning it across the table and catching it. Never look eager when you’re waiting to hear a secret; it makes the other person anxious, like maybe they should just keep quiet.

  He stared straight at me. “You can’t tell him I told you this.”

  Mrs. Miller rounded the corner. Man, she walked quietly.

  Ray shook his head. Be quiet.

  Mrs. Miller had fixed a bandanna around her hair and was carrying a dusting rag, which she set on the counter. She was probably around the same age my mom would’ve been. I wondered if they might have become friends.

  “What’re you boys doing in already?” she asked as she loaded the percolator with water and coffee. She didn’t seem to need an answer. Looking through the window above the sink, she chuckled. “Alan’s such a perfectionist.”

  Well, I could think of a few other words to describe him.

  She lit the stove and flames encircled the coffeepot. Leaning against the counter, she brushed back some loose hair with her hand. “So how are you and your dad doing?”

  Oh, no. Any other time, talk to me any other time, but not when I’m about to hear Prater’s biggest secret. “Fine,” I said. Adults like to hear positive things. But they also like details. “My dad just got a new car from the air force.”

  “Ooh!” she said approvingly. “Good for him!” She whisked up her rag and padded out of the kitchen.

  I pressed the edge of the bottle cap into my palm and looked at the zigzag impression it made. “So you were saying?” I prompted Ray. “Something about Alan being scared of dogs?”

  “You can’t tell him I told you.” He emphasized his words by widening his eyes. I shook my head quickly. Heaving a big sigh, he said, “When he was six, one of his dad’s friends brought his big dogs with him to go hunting. Alan was outside, alone with the dogs, when one of them attacked him.”

  He clasped his pop bottle. “I was supposed to be there. He wanted me to go, but I didn’t want to. Anyway, the dog bit his head, tore part of an earlobe, and ripped his side open. My uncle had to beat the dog off; it wouldn’t stop. Alan was in the hospital for a few days.”

  Mrs. Miller called out from the other room. “Ray, get me the Pledge, okay?”

  “Okay,” he called back.

  After he left the room, I couldn’t stop thinking about Prater. The whole time Ray had been talking, it happened in front of my eyes like a movie. I imagined him about the size of CeeCee, terrified and bloodied by a ferocious dog, no one around to help. No wonder he was scared of Jack.

  When Ray came back and sat down, I asked, “What happened to the dog?”

  “Uncle Bruce and his friend shot him.”

  I nodded. You couldn’t keep a dog like that—it might’ve killed Prater if his dad hadn’t come out in time. I folded the letter, rubbing my finger along the creases to settle the tape. We sat there, as what Ray had just said played in our thoughts. The coffeepot percolated, making clanky metal sounds and filling the room with the dark smell of coffee.

  Ray cracked his knuckles, one by one. “Don’t tell him I told you.”

  I frowned and shook my head. “So you think that’s why he ripped up my letter?”

  “No, he ripped it up because you stepped on his knife and you also got that leather really wet.”

  “But it was an accident!”

  “Yeah, but he doesn’t think so.”

  Mrs. Miller strolled in and tousled Ray’s hair. “Someone needs a haircut!” Ray smirked and shook off her hand. A pang of sadness hit me. I deflected it by thinking of something else, anything else.

  “Hey,” I said to Ray, “can you show me some of those yo-yo tricks?”

  “Yeah!” He leaped up from his chair, but then his mom caught his arm.

  “Don’t forget about Alan,” she said, then turned to pour herself a cup of coffee.

  Ray rolled his eyes. “I’m just going to get my yo-yos and we’ll go outside.”

  “Good.” She sipped her coffee.

  Actually, it was good we were going back outside. I didn’t want to lose face with Prater, and even more important, I didn’t want to leave Jack alone with him too long. Mrs. Miller went back to her chores, and when Ray came in with his yo-yos, I said, “He’ll probably be mad at you for coming inside with me.” It was a fact that he was already mad at me.

  Ray pocketed one yo-yo, looped the other, and threw it down. “He couldn’t stay mad too long. He doesn’t really have any other friends.”

  I sat up straighter and leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know, he’s always, like, picking on people.”

  “He doesn’t pick on you.”

  “He always makes fun of me because of the yo-yo. My mom says he’s jealous, but she’s wrong. He thinks it’s stupid. I’m sick of it.”

  “My mom always said to ignore people like that.”

  “My mom says that, too.” He wove the string around his fingers and looped it around his thumb. “Shooting star,” he said.

  I could see it. “Cool!”

  Ray gave a little grin and shrugged. He dropped the star and brought the yo-yo up into his hand. “I never make fun of the stuff he does. Some cousin.”

  I had seen the way Prater treated Ray. To him, they were more than just cousins—they were best friends. Which would be okay, except he didn’t want Ray to be friends with anyone else. “I thought you guys were best friends.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “Just cousins. Our mothers are always putting us together because they are best friends.” He seemed to think about that for a second. “I mean, we are friends. I just—well, sometimes he can be a real butthead, you know?”

  Exactly. Except the word that came to my mind was shorter and more precise.

  chapter 15

  We decided to build a fort.

  The idea came up during Sunday school in notes Ray and I passed back and forth. I knew exactly where we should do it. By the arrowheads, I scribbled just before class got out. Come to my house after lunch. Prater never attended Sunday school and only half the time did his family come to church, something I was glad for because then I could make plans with Ray without Prater butting in.

  Now Ray and I stood in the woods deciding how to construct the fort. Jack lay on the ground close by, his leash looped tightly around a tree.

  “We could put up a hut like on Gilligan’s Island,” I said.

  “Or a tree house.” Ray pointed to a cluster of trees.

  I bent down to a blueberry bush and popped one in my mouth. Mmm, sweet now. “Hey, what if we dig part of it?” I remembered seeing soldiers hiding in foxholes on television. “Then we could cover the top and make a secret entrance.”

  “Yeah,” Ray said. “Like camouflage.”

  I ran back to the house for shovels while Ray cleared the sticks and stuff out of the way. When we first thrust the shovels into the ground, it was like trying to dig concrete. It wasn’t long before we decided to take a break. Jack pranced in circles as I untied his leash and wound it around my hand. “Let’s go!” I patted his side.

  Jack yipped and we took off. The trees blurred as we raced by them. We pounded up the mountain and sailed over a tree stump, and I ducked when we passed under a low branch. Jack and I took the mountain like soldiers racing through an obstacle course. Then Jack caught scent of something and made a line drive through the woods.

  “Wait!” Ray called.

  “Jack, stop.” I tried to slow him down but he pulled me forward, intent on his prey. I glanced downhill to Ray. He was bending over slightly, bracing his hands on his knees; his chest was heaving.

  “Stop, Jack,” I said and tugged at the leash. He stopped but huffed and strained against the leash to continue his charge. I pulled him in closer. “C’mon, boy, we have to wait for Ray.” He groaned in frustrati
on, but I held firm and he gave up the chase. We trotted down to Ray, who was still trying to catch his breath.

  “Man!” he said between gasps. “How fast can you run?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know,” I said and grinned. “As fast as Jack makes me.”

  “You’re, like, in the Olympics or something.”

  I laughed.

  “Okay,” Ray said, straightening up. “I’m ready.”

  Jack pulled me as we zigzagged across the mountain. He veered at an angle we’d never followed before. I was holding back a little, making Jack go slower. I didn’t want Ray to feel bad, and plus it was more fun if we could all do it together. We ran without talking; only our footsteps sounded through the woods.

  Suddenly, Jack stopped. I sensed where we were on the mountain, but we had never been on this side before. Whatever Jack had been tracing was lost to him; he now pranced after a yellow butterfly that flitted by.

  “Hey,” Ray said, walking ahead of us. The trees thinned in that direction, like there was a clearing on the other side. Ray stopped before the edge of the trees and hunkered down. “C’mere,” he whispered.

  “Come on, Jack,” I said quietly. We crept up to Ray and crouched beside him.

  “Alan’s backyard,” Ray whispered.

  I nodded. From our hiding place, we could see down through the woods to Prater’s tree house. It was finished now. Trim decorated the doorways and windows, and the whole thing was perfectly square. His tree house looked exactly like a dollhouse. I shifted back on my feet. It was weird, spying on him like this, even though I didn’t see him anywhere. Still, I didn’t like being here—I didn’t want to get caught.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Dad was tinkering in the garage when we got back. Before Ray left, we went up to my room and I pulled out my Pennsylvania shoe box. I had planned this moment from the time we decided to build a fort, and especially since we didn’t find any more arrowheads in our digging.

  I laid the arrowheads on the carpet in front of me. The points were a bit rounded off, but that could have been from all that time in the ground. One of them was a little bigger than the other. I picked it up and rubbed it with my thumb. “The last person to touch this was an Indian,” I said to Ray. “You can have it.”