Luckily, it was a small school, with only one floor. Amy could see Kaitlyn at the end of the hall, about to turn the corner. Running wasn't allowed, but Amy was certain she'd be able to catch up because Kaitlyn was walking along slowly, making sure that she was noticed as she passed those classrooms that had their doors open. Kaitlyn was so popular even the sixth graders knew her.
The younger kids probably knew her, too, but they didn't count.
Moving along at a pace just short of running, Amy followed Kaitlyn around the corner. Kaitlyn had paused to admire her reflection in the glass of the trophy case. There was a lot to admire. Kaitlyn had perfect hair, perfect teeth, a big enough wardrobe that she rarely wore the same outfit twice, and a figure just as good as the girls who played soccer—except that she didn't play sports, which gave her the added advantage of no sweat.
"Kaitlyn," Amy called, not daring to shout, but raising her voice so that Mr. Dambra, whose room she was passing, scowled and closed his door.
Amy thought Kaitlyn must have heard, for she seemed to glance over her shoulder, but maybe she was just tossing her perfect hair, for she started walking again—much faster than before.
"Kaitlyn," Amy called a second time.
Was she deaf, or what? Kaitlyn disappeared into the office, two doors ahead of where Amy was.
When Amy walked into the office, she saw that all was not lost. Kaitlyn was waiting for Mrs. Jensen, the secretary, who was busy talking on the phone.
"Kaitlyn," Amy said a third time—
—just as Kaitlyn tossed the absence list on Mrs. Jensen's desk.
Then, finally, Kaitlyn turned around. "Oh," she said, her voice dripping with sweetness and innocence. "Amy." She smiled brightly. "Love your sweater."
The way she said it made Amy look down to make sure it didn't have a stain or catch and that it hadn't ridden up while she'd been chasing after Kaitlyn. Amy had worn the same sweater at least once a week since the weather had turned cool in October, and now here it was the week before Easter. If Kaitlyn had truly liked it, she'd had plenty of chances to say so before.
Now Kaitlyn said, "I've heard if you wait long enough, all the old styles come back." Her smile faltered, as though she was thinking that from now on she wouldn't believe all that she heard. "Oh well!" she added brightly, and breezed past Amy.
Watching Kaitlyn promenade down the hall, Amy thought Kaitlyn was the kind of person who proved your mother was wrong when you were worried about your hair or clothes or something foolish you'd done, and your mother said, "Oh, don't worry. Nobody noticed; nobody cares."
Amy forced herself to stop watching Kaitlyn.
Mrs. Jensen was still talking on the telephone, looking flustered; apparently whoever was on the other end was giving her a hard time.
Would it be rude to reach over and take the absence list? Amy was just trying to talk her fingers into moving, when Mrs. Jensen picked up the page and began fanning herself with it.
Amy was feeling hot and sticky herself.
After four or five minutes, Mrs. Jensen finally straightened out the problem, whatever it was, and hung up the phone.
"Now," she said, "Amy. What can I do for you?"
Finally. "I'm present," Amy said. "Sister Mary Grace has me on the absence report."
Mrs. Jensen glanced at the wall clock and crossed Amy's name off the absence list. And wrote it down on a sheet labeled TARDY. "Try to be on time," she recommended, as though Amy had never thought of that.
Misbehaving
During silent reading, Amy became aware that there was very little silence or reading going on. There was, instead, a great deal of giggling and poking. Amy figured that Kaitlyn was probably doing what Kaitlyn did best: gleefully tormenting someone, much to the entertainment of the other fifth graders. As long as it's someone else, Amy thought. She felt guilty for the thought, but not guilty enough to get involved.
But then she noticed that—in addition to the giggling and poking—there was also a lot of pointing in the direction of the windows.
Amy, whose desk was three rows away from the windows, glanced up and saw nothing.
Then she saw Sherlock's grinning face appear in one of the windows.
Then she saw nothing.
Then she saw Sherlock's grinning face reappear.
Then she saw nothing.
Amy closed her eyes then opened them again—as though she could possibly have been mistaken in what she'd seen, as though anything else could be mistaken for a medium-sized brown, white, and black dog leaping up and down as though he were on a trampoline. For a smart dog, Amy thought as Sherlock jumped back into view, he was looking pretty silly.
He must have remembered her saying that people were nervous about stray dogs biting, because he was working very hard at looking friendly: head cocked to one side, tongue hanging out, ears flopping, all the while grinning foolishly. Obviously he knew that the children could see him, and obviously he loved being the center of attention. Amy was sure that was an expression of delight on his face when he saw that she'd noticed him.
She shook her head, but he didn't catch the hint to go away. She covered her face with her book to let him know she didn't want to see him. From the continuing laughter of the other children, he didn't catch on to that, either.
"Class," Sister Mary Grace said in her warning voice.
No, no, no, no, Amy wished.
She sat very straight and quiet, with her book held up in front of her to show Sister Mary Grace that she was concentrating on her work.
But it didn't work. One out of thirty must not have been enough. Sister Mary Grace put down her own book and headed for the windows.
Amy silently mouthed the words "Go away."
Apparently, smart as Sherlock was, he wasn't smart enough to read lips. Or at least not while he was bouncing up and down on the school lawn.
At least, Amy thought, Sister Mary Grace seems more puzzled than angry. In fact—Amy started breathing again—Sister Mary Grace began to laugh. She liked to say that she had been a teacher for almost forty years, and there wasn't much she hadn't seen or heard before. Now she tapped on the glass and pretended to scold. "Dogs go to dog school; people go to people school. Those dogs who want to play with people will have to wait until recess after lunch, and that isn't for another forty-five minutes. Do you understand?"
Don't answer! Amy frantically wished at Sherlock.
Sherlock must have remembered that dogs couldn't talk. He barked, once, and stopped jumping.
"Very good," Sister Mary Grace said. "You are a clever dog, aren't you?"
Sherlock gave another sharp bark.
"Now, no more barking," Sister Mary Grace said. "You just wait quietly until recess." She laughed again, and Sean Gorman, whose desk was in the first row, reported to the rest of the class, "He's lying down, just like he can understand exactly what Sister said."
Good, Amy thought. Let's hope he obeys Sister better than he obeys me.
He must at least have given the impression that he would, for Sister Mary Grace said, "Now if I could only get my class to behave so well."
She should have known better.
Instantly several of the children started barking, or sat panting, tongues hanging out while they pretended to beg.
"Just my luck," Sister Mary Grace said, shaking her head. "The good dog's outside, and the misbehaving dogs are inside."
Which sounded—even to Amy—like an invitation to act like a dog.
It was the end of silent reading for that day.
Recess
At lunch Amy gulped down her sandwich and ignored the people she usually ate with so that she could be first in line at recess. But Sherlock came trotting over as soon as the yelling, laughing children burst out of the doors onto the playground, and someone shouted, "Look! There's that dog!" And then Amy wasn't first anymore.
Several children surged past Amy, but it was Kaitlyn whose voice carried. "Here, doggy, doggy, doggy," Kaitlyn said, in the kind of sing
song voice people sometimes use with babies.
But Sherlock walked right by her to stand in front of Amy, which made Amy blush with pride.
Kaitlyn tossed her hair, to show she didn't really care.
"Wait, wait!" Sister Mary Grace called, suddenly concerned now that the children were actually outside, with the dog in their midst. "Does anybody know who this animal belongs to?"
She'll call Animal Control for sure, Amy thought. And from there, the college research people would pick him up. Wishing she was smart enough to think up better choices than do nothing or say "He's mine," she took a deep breath and answered, "He's mine."
"Great!" some of the kids said, taking that as permission that they could play with him. "What else does he do? Does he know tricks? Jump, boy, jump!"
Sister Mary Grace looked as though she were about to give a dogs/people appropriate-places lecture, so Amy said, "I know he doesn't belong at school. He must have followed me." She turned to Sherlock, who was sitting patiently, looking up at her. "Bad dog," she said. "Bad, bad dog."
Sherlock hung his head as though ashamed.
Amy didn't believe it for a second.
"Can he shake hands?" somebody asked. "Give me your paw, boy. Can he roll over and play dead?"
Ignoring the enthusiastic children, Sister Mary Grace suggested hopefully, "Maybe one of your parents could pick him up?"
"They both work," Amy said, which was true. She didn't add the little detail that so far they didn't even know they had a dog. She'd worry later how she'd convince them that they needed one. The important thing for now was to keep Sister Mary Grace from calling Animal Control.
And Sister Mary Grace still looked doubtful. "Is he good with children?"
Sherlock wagged his tail and gave a friendly bark.
"Oh, yes," Amy assured her. "He's a bad, bad dog, but he's very good with children. He absolutely never bites or chases."
Sherlock barked and offered a paw to Sister Mary Grace.
"He's a very safe dog," Amy said.
Sister Mary Grace looked as though she was weakening.
Amy said, "And he doesn't like the heat." Luckily it was quite warm for spring. "If I bring him to that shady area on the other side of the fence"—Amy glared at Sherlock and spoke directly to him—"I'm sure he'll stay."
Sherlock rolled on the grass, exposing his belly, and the children groaned and begged Sister Mary Grace to allow him to stay on the playground.
Finally Sister Mary Grace caved in. "He can stay while Amy is out here," she said. "But put him on the other side of the fence when the younger children come out."
The children cheered. Amy was ready to hug her, but that was too big a reaction for what she was pretending was going on, so she only waved as Sister Mary Grace went back into the school.
Everything was beginning to look perfect.
Then Kaitlyn moved closer.
Kaitlyn made a show of holding her hand in front of her mouth, but her voice carried as she said to Minneh Tannen, one of her friends, "Ever notice how after a while people and their dogs start to look alike?"
Amy felt her cheeks grow red as her classmates laughed and repeated Kaitlyn's comment. Not that Sherlock was a bad-looking dog, but Amy knew it was meant as an insult.
Sherlock cocked his head and looked from Amy to Kaitlyn, then back to Amy.
Sean Gorman, one of the few who had not laughed, asked, "What's your dog's name?" That was all she needed, to have Sean start talking to her—Sean, who was so smart he'd skipped the second half of fourth grade to join the fifth in January. He was even less popular than Amy because he was always raising his hand and volunteering answers.
"Sherlock," Amy muttered.
"Like the detective?" Sean asked.
Leave it to him to know, but Amy nodded, pleased she didn't have to explain.
Kaitlyn said, "'Clueless' would be a better name."
"He's a smart dog," somebody said.
"Not if he thinks he's a kangaroo," Kaitlyn jeered.
Sherlock barked at her, sounding less friendly than he had for Sister Mary Grace.
"Come on," Kaitlyn told her friends. "Who wants to hang around a smelly old dog?"
She started to walk away, and Sherlock, behind her back, walked several steps also, tossing his head so that his ears flopped, a good imitation of Kaitlyn's bouncing hair.
At the sound of laughter, Kaitlyn whirled around, but by then Sherlock was sitting down, looking innocently off into space.
Those children who had seen laughed even harder.
Kaitlyn assumed Amy had done or said something. "People sometimes smell like their dogs, too," she said.
But it was only the ones who hadn't seen Sherlock's imitation who laughed.
About half the children left with Kaitlyn. The others stayed clustered around Amy and Sherlock. It's almost like being popular, Amy thought—except that everybody was there because of Sherlock, not really because of her. But she proved that Kaitlyn was wrong and that Sherlock was smart by having him do tricks like rolling over and finding which backpack had Jason's cupcakes and barking answers to math questions, and that was fun.
When the bell rang and it was time for the students to gather up their things, Amy said, "Come on, Sherlock," and started toward the shady place where he was supposed to wait till school was out.
Some of the group began to follow. Amy told them, "He'll settle down faster if it's just me. Otherwise he'll want to keep on showing off."
Sherlock gave a twisting jump into the air—like an outside dog catching a Frisbee—to prove Amy's point.
Once the others were headed back toward the school and were out of hearing range, Amy turned to him. "What were you doing," she demanded, "letting yourself be seen like that? You could have gotten into serious trouble."
"You said you'd get out of school at 2:30," Sherlock explained. "But I don't have a watch."
Amy stopped and put her hands on her hips. "All that jumping up and down was to see the clock?" she asked.
"Most of it," Sherlock said, but he was already beginning to squirm. He hung his head and his tail drooped. He added, "Each time, I went to a different window so I wouldn't attract so much attention by staying around one place."
"And so you could see what was going on at each window," Amy guessed.
Sherlock squirmed even more. "Time goes slowly when you're waiting."
"I know," Amy said, unable to be truly angry: Sherlock wasn't a bad dog—he was just excited to finally be out in the world. She patted his head.
Sherlock cheered up at this sign of forgiveness. His tail whipped back and forth. "Then I saw you. And I couldn't resist wanting you to see me."
Amy patted him again. "No harm done," she said. "But now you sit or walk around this area quietly." She pointed to make sure. "From here to the fence, and no farther than that tree. Whatever you do, don't cross any streets. And don't come near the school again. Knowing what time it is doesn't make time move any faster. I'll be out when I'm out."
Sherlock gave a bark, which Amy supposed meant "OK," or "I understand," or maybe even "I don't like it," but why didn't he just say so? And why was he looking beyond her instead of at her?
Reluctantly, fearing the worst, Amy turned around.
And saw Sean Gorman standing there. With his eyes wide. And his mouth hanging open. Which pretty much killed any hope Amy might have had that he hadn't heard Sherlock speaking.
Should I tell him I was practicing ventriloquism? Amy asked herself. But you wouldn't need to be smart enough to skip the second half of fourth grade to recognize that for the dumb story it was.
Sherlock was no help at all. He started chasing his tail and pretending to be interested in studying the grass and butterflies and anything else except Sean or Amy.
Maybe, Amy hoped, if she and Sherlock acted normally enough, Sean could be convinced that he had only thought he'd heard the dog speaking. Now she only had to figure out what normal was in these circumstances.
&n
bsp; Sean finally stopped staring at Sherlock. "I got him some water," he told Amy, holding out one of the plastic soup bowls from the cafeteria, "because you said he doesn't like the heat."
"Oh," Amy said, unwilling to take the bowl. Trapped by her own cleverness. "Thank you."
"How..." Sean said. "What ... I..."
Maybe insanity runs in his family, Amy thought, and she could make him believe he'd been hearing voices.
"Yes?" she said innocently.
Sean turned back to Sherlock. "How do you do that?" he demanded. "How do you know how to talk?"
Amy fought the urge to say, "He's that new breed of Mexican Speaking Spaniel." Sean wasn't going to believe anything except the truth. She had to hope he was kind-hearted as well as smart. She said, "He's a science experiment. And the scientists are out to get him—to cut open his brain to see how it works. If you tell anybody, you could get him killed."
Sean set the bowl of water on the grass.
Sherlock approached slowly and let Sean pet him.
"I won't tell anybody," Sean assured, them both.
Notes
There wasn't time for much explaining. But, as Amy and Sean hurried back indoors, she admitted what she didn't dare say in front of Sherlock: "I'm worried," she told him, "that my parents might not let me keep a dog."
"What if they don't?" Sean asked. He was the shortest boy jn fifth grade—he'd been one of the shortest boys in fourth grade—and he was working hard at keeping up with the taller Amy.
"I don't know," Amy admitted. "Could you take him?" She hated that idea. Sherlock was more than everything she could want in a pet. He was everything she could want in a friend. He was, in fact, much that she wanted to be: daring and smart—but not too smart, she thought, looking at Sean—and open and friendly and likable. He could be a bit more reliable, but nobody was perfect. She didn't want to give him up—even to Sean, who didn't seem half as bad as she'd first thought.
Smart Dog Page 2
