End of the Race

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  “So, you’re friends of Miss Drescher’s? She’s a real nice lady, that Roselyn. Tries so hard to fix up those dogs. Got her hands full, she does.” Mr. Mahoney has a soft voice with a touch of an Irish accent. I like him tons better than the two greyhound handlers, but I’m a bit nervous as he escorts us back down to the dingy basement. Will those creepy men still be there?

  Gran coughs when the pungent odor of wet dog and mildew hits her sinuses. “My word, this place could use a scrub.” The dogs howl and yap at our arrival.

  “Here’s Bad Girl,” I say, kneeling beside her. She’s still tied to the post and whines as I touch her foreleg. “She’s licked her leg so much, it’s all wet.”

  Gran kneels down next to me and checks the greyhound’s wounded leg.

  Bad Girl whimpers. I stroke her fawn-colored coat.

  Gran gently places the dog’s paw back on the floor. “It’s a sprained carpus—wrist. We’ll need to splint and bind it, but first we need to clean her up. Mr. Mahoney, is there a sink here?” asks Gran.

  “Right over there.” He points to a far corner, where food bowls and supplies are stacked in wobbly piles. “Vet’s usually here by now, but ours had an emergency.”

  “I see,” Gran murmurs. “Here, Taryn, fill this with warm water.” Gran holds out a plastic bowl and a bottle of antiseptic soap. “You can wash her leg, very gently.” Taryn nods and gets right to work. When she’s done, I hold a metal splint under Bad Girl’s foreleg while Gran wraps it tightly. “This will hold until we get her back to the clinic. Now, where’s that other greyhound? The one that’s had the laxatives?”

  “Those men didn’t get anything down Whiskey ’n’ Water,” Taryn says. “Maggie stopped them just in time.”

  Gran pats me on the back. “Good work, Maggie. We’ll need to check him, regardless, to make sure they haven’t been feeding laxatives to him all along.”

  Mr. Mahoney follows me as I make my way to Whiskey ’n’ Water’s cage. His tail wags against the bars:thump, thump, thump. Mr. Mahoney opens the cage and lifts Whiskey out.

  I point to his wagging tail. “Look—his tail is lopped off!”

  “This one’s a real wagger,” Mr. Mahoney says. “He wagged his tail so much he kept hurting it. We had to cut some of it off so that it would heal.”

  “That’s awful. These cages are much too small,” Taryn says, frowning.

  I gaze into Whiskey’s deep brown eyes. “You’re such a happy boy. Even here.” But despite his wagging tail, he’s trembling and panting, as if he’s just run a hundred miles. “Hey, Gran, he’s shaking!”

  Gran comes over and listens to the dog’s heart with her stethoscope.

  “Is he sick, Dr. Mac?” Taryn asks anxiously.

  “The heartbeat is very rapid.” Gran pushes gently around his kidney area with a grim look on her face. “His kidneys have an abnormal feel. We’d better get some fluids and electrolytes into him right away.”

  I gather up the portable I.V. and a container of Ringer’s solution. Gran swabs an area on Whiskey’s shoulder and inserts the needle. I attach the Ringer’s to the needle.

  “What would cause this kind of kidney problem?” Taryn asks.

  “If it is laxative abuse, which I suspect from his shaky condition, the body becomes depleted of minerals, which affects the kidneys,” Gran explains. “Sometimes this damage is so great, the kidneys fail.” Gran’s words send dread through me.

  “Try not to worry, Whiskey, we’ll help you.” Taryn strokes his blue-grey back, which trembles violently as I insert a thermometer and Gran takes blood samples.

  “His temp’s below normal,” I note.

  “Consistent with laxative abuse,” Gran remarks. “As soon as we get home, we’ll get his blood results. They’ll show if he’s potassium depleted and how well his kidneys are functioning.” She inserts the sample tubes into a plastic protector kit and packs up her medical supplies.

  How could anyone mistreat an animal like this?

  I clip a leash on Whiskey ’n’ Water, and Taryn takes Bad Girl’s leash. As we leave the raceway, both greyhounds become extremely nervous. They tremble at the clump of Mr. Mahoney’s workboots along the cement and at the loud remarks of the people in the parking lot.

  “Why are they so jumpy, Dr. Mac?” Taryn asks.

  “They’re not used to life outside the track—not cars, not open spaces, not even fresh air.”

  I open the van’s back doors. “It’s good we brought those two kennels. They’ll feel more secure in them.”

  Gran nods. We nudge the dogs into their kennels. Whiskey shakes and Bad Girl whimpers softly.

  Mr. Mahoney wishes us good luck. Taryn and I hop in back to keep an eye on the dogs. Gran drives quietly, concentrating on retracing our route back to the interstate.

  The greyhounds have such sweet, innocent faces, even after all they’ve been through. “Taryn, I have an idea,” I announce. “Let’s rename the dogs. We’ll pick nice names that are so close to the ones they already have that they won’t even know the difference. But we will.”

  “Great idea, Maggie!” Taryn speaks softly to Bad Girl. “How would you like a prettier name?” Bad Girl’s long snout seems upturned in a smile. “How about just plain Gal?” Bad Girl barks playfully.

  “Gal?” I repeat. “That’s kind of weird.”

  “It’s not weird at all,” Taryn replies. “My dad’s Brazilian. Gal is a common Portuguese term for ‘girl,’ just as it is here, and it’s a really popular girl’s name in Brazil.”

  “Gal.” I say it a few times. “It does have a cute ring to it.” I gaze at Bad Girl. “Hey, Gal, you happy now?” She presses her nose to the kennel window and licks my hand. “Gal it is. Now my turn.” I turn to Whiskey. “Whi, whis…” He’s wagging that crimped-off tail and making a breathy sound through his open mouth. “You sound like a…whistle. That’s it! Hey, Whistle, you like riding in this car?” Whistle’s bandaged tail whips around the kennel like Roselyn’s whirligig.

  “Whistle it is,” agrees Taryn.

  Whoops. We forgot to ask a very important person’s opinion. “Gran, what do you think of those names?”

  “Whistle and Gal? Very nice.” Gran smiles stiffly through the rearview mirror.

  Gran seems a bit tense. I’m hoping she’s so relieved that we’ve accomplished what we came to do that she’ll spare us a lecture about our basement investigation.

  But no such luck. Once we’re safely pointed toward Pennsylvania and she’s no longer checking the map every few minutes, Gran digs in. “Girls, I have to say, what you did—sneaking into Speedway’s basement without telling me—was very dangerous.” She glances from Taryn to me in the rearview mirror. “What do you have to say about that, Maggie?”

  “Sorry, Gran. I should have asked you.” I pause. “I was afraid you wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Taryn?” I guess Gran isn’t going to spare her. I pray Taryn won’t blurt out that I put the idea in her head. I tense up, waiting for her answer.

  “I’m so sorry, Dr. Mac. It was wrong of me. I got Maggie in trouble, too.”

  Whoa, she’s taking the rap?

  “If you want me to quit volunteering…” Taryn’s voice cracks. Is she going to cry now?

  Gran’s voice is slow, determined. “Girls, I know your intentions were good and what you did was courageous. But doing the wrong thing, even for the right reason, can lead to trouble. What if those men had done something worse than simply chase you? I wouldn’t have known where to look for you if you hadn’t returned.” She sighs. “Next time, trust me to be open-minded enough to at least consider all of your ideas.”

  Tears roll down Taryn’s cheeks. I put my hand on hers. “C’mon, now,” I whisper to her. And to Gran, I think, Just let me get my punishment over with. And spare Taryn.

  “Maggie,” Gran says, “I’d like you to write an essay on how you could have conducted your investigation in a safer way. You’re smart. I’m sure you can come up with one, maybe even two, a
lternative scenarios.”

  Groan. Gran knows writing is true torture for me.

  “Taryn, I can’t set any punishment for you. That’s your mother’s domain. But she will need to know what happened—in your words—when we drop you off.”

  Taryn wipes her tears away and scrunches up her face, as if she’s just swallowed turnips. “She’ll kill me, Dr. Mac.”

  “I doubt she’ll go that far, but you should have worried about that sooner. By the way, of course you can keep volunteering. What would we do without your good work?”

  “Don’t forget how helpful she is during procedures, Gran,” I add, surprised at my relief that Taryn’s not in trouble with Gran. Taryn beams.

  Who cares about punishment? When I glance back at Gal and Whistle lying peacefully in their kennels, I feel as if I just scored ten Ambler baskets in a row.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hi, Maggie.” My long-lost friend Sunita places her lunch tray next to mine. She’s picked the same spicy peanuts and salad with French dressing that she always eats. I swear she’s going to turn into a giant nut. “What’s going on at Dr. Mac’s Place? I’m finally done with my mammoth history project, so I can get back to the clinic starting tomorrow!”

  “Let me guess: you got an A plus,” I say, biting into a French fry.

  “No, just an A.” Sunita smiles sheepishly and takes a bite of salad. “I heard you and Taryn went to Connecticut, to a dog-racing track! Is that true?”

  I nod. “News travels fast. Was David the messenger?” On the school bus this morning I started to tell him about it, but we got to school before I could finish. I promised to fill in details about our trip to the track at lunch.

  As if on cue, David plops down in a seat next to me. “I cannot tell a lie, Maggie. I am the gossipmonger. So let’s have all the gory details!” He raps his fist on the chair back for emphasis.

  Brenna slides her tray next to David’s. She bites into a veggie burger and takes in my story silently.

  I tell them all about our detective work at Speedway, how we gathered evidence, how we almost got caught. As the story unfolds, a crowd gathers—some of the basketball team, girls from my English class, and a bunch of eighth-grade boys. I spot Darla whispering something to Brenna. Brenna clears her books off a chair so Darla can sit. My heart is pounding, partly from the excitement of retelling our saga in front of all these kids and partly from a confusing bunch of feelings because Darla’s listening, too.

  “Rescuing those dogs and standing up to that sleazy racetrack owner took real nerve,” one of the boys remarks.

  I continue the story up to the point when we treated the dogs at Dr. Mac’s Place: Gal for her sprain and Whistle for laxative abuse. “They’re going to be fine. And guess who called this morning.”

  “Who?” David asks, hanging off his seat.

  “Manny Drescher!”

  “What did he want?” Sunita asks.

  “He said he’d let us open an adoption booth at Speedway!” Cheers rise all around. I feel great, but the best, the absolute best, part is when Brenna comes up and hugs me.

  “Wait until I tell my family about this,” Brenna exclaims. “Maggie MacKenzie, savior of greyhounds!”

  Brenna, David, Sunita, and I are at Dr. Mac’s Place. It’s almost closing time. All the kennels have been cleaned and the animals walked and fed. Gal and Whistle are getting tons of attention, playing like puppies at our feet. Sherlock is jealous, so I’ve put him in the living room. The track greyhounds are camped out here just until we find them homes through our new adoption program, Gingerbread’s Greyhound Rescue.

  We’re finally working on our Web site. Sunita, our resident computer brainiac, is doing the programming. We’ll have portraits of adoptive dogs and tips on keeping greyhounds as pets. We’ll even have some breaking news on new legislation about dog racing, and a list of which tracks around the country have adoption services. If this project goes well, we might expand our services to other tracks. But first, we’ll need lots of manpower—and money.

  When Taryn arrives, we show her what we’ve done so far. She suggests including personality profiles for each dog, which we all think is a great idea. We’re in the middle of creating our pro-spective owner form when the clinic bell jangles.

  “I’ll get it.” I jump up, swing open the door, and stand there a minute, just staring.

  “Hi, Maggie.” Darla runs her hand through her blond ponytail. “Can I talk to you?”

  You’ve got to be kidding. But something in Darla’s face seems different. I wave her in. Gal and Whistle bound over.

  “Wow! Are these the Speedway dogs?” Darla leans down to get a better look.

  “Yep. C’mon, we can talk in my house next door.” I don’t feel like bringing Darla into our Web site workshop.

  Darla follows me through the clinic and into the kitchen. Sherlock trots over and sniffs my corduroys. “I’m totally guilty of paying attention to other dogs. Sorry, boy.” I pet him, show Darla to the kitchen couch, and hunker in a chair at a safe distance. “Well?”

  Darla sighs and rakes her hand through her ponytail again. She must be nervous. “I don’t know where to start. I just want to say, I really respect what you did at Drescher’s Speedway.”

  Get to the point, Ball Hog.

  Darla goes on. “Before I got Hoops, I read up on the greyhound racing situation. I talked to some handlers and went behind the scenes a bit, too. You’re not the only one who feels outraged by it.” She stares down at the carpet, not looking at me.

  Your point is?

  “I mean—” Darla hesitates. “What I want to say is…when I realized how much you’re actually doing to help the greyhound cause, like going to Drescher’s and mustering up the nerve to talk to the owner and confront those handlers, well—I have to admit, you really walk the walk.” Darla pauses again, then looks up at me. “You know, Maggie, we aren’t that different. We’ve actually got a lot in common.”

  I raise my eyes slowly, cautiously, to meet hers. She has a hopeful smile on her face. Darla’s never smiled at me before, and it feels weird.

  “Say something,” Darla suggests.

  “I’m listening” is all I can say so far.

  “When I came to this school, all I had going for me was basketball,” she says quietly. “Have you ever had to change schools, make all new friends?”

  I shake my head no.

  “Well, you’re lucky. It’s hard being the new girl.”

  Now I do have something I want to say. “Maybe, but you didn’t have to be so mean to me. I never did anything to you.”

  “I know. I’ve been rude, and I’m sorry,” Darla says. “I was trying to be strong. But now I see that strong is different from rude.”

  “I guess maybe I’ve been rude, too,” I mumble. “The truth is, it was a real pain to have someone so good suddenly on the team, vying for my spot. I was used to being the star center.” It’s my turn to smile. “I have to admit, though, you’re good. But you really need to pass.”

  “You’re good, too,” Darla says. “Your pivot-turn is awesome, for someone so short.” She winks at me. “Maybe we can try working together instead of competing. Not that I won’t beat you on a scrimmage.” She checks my reaction.

  “I’ll bury the hatchet on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you promise never again to call me Shorty.”

  “OK, you got it.”

  Suddenly, I get an idea. It’s so obvious I must have been blind not to see it before. “Darla, what if we joined forces? We could use your help in running Gingerbread’s Greyhound Rescue.”

  Darla’s face lights up. “Deal, and I’ll match you one,” she answers.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  Darla leans toward me, her blue eyes sparkling. “Gingerbread’s Greyhound Rescue will need money, right?”

  I nod, sighing. How to get money is the one thing I haven’t figured out yet.

  She continues,
“It’ll need money for a booth, for dog handlers, for delivery expenses…”

  Double duh. As if she needed to remind me how difficult this will be. “So what are you saying?”

  Darla’s eyes are at full-tilt twinkle. “I propose that we put on a charity basketball event. Get two teams together who will play one rip-roaring game and entertain the crowd.”

  My heart starts to pound with excitement. Why didn’t I think of that? “That’s an excellent idea, Darla! But you have to promise me one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “TO PASS THE BALL!”

  “Deal.” Darla grins, and we shake on it.

  “We’re going to kick butt—and raise huge money for Gingerbread’s Greyhound Rescue!” Darla shouts as she pumps her fist in the air.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Darla and I put together two superstar teams, including the JVs and a handful of varsity girls of Ambler High who were sympathetic to our cause. Taryn came through with a trio of select runners from her track team. She assured us they were no ordinary fifth graders, and boy, was she right. Darla and I were opposing team captains. We named our teams after some of the dogs from Speedway: hers was the Swifts, mine was the Whistles. Brenna and Sunita plastered our school and Ambler’s main streets with posters. Taryn and her teammates taped posters up at Elizabeth Blackwell Elementary. The tickets sold like wildfire.

  Coach Williams volunteered his services as ref and let us use the school gym. Darla’s team won after Taryn sped past me to score the decisive basket for the Swifts. But Darla was cool and didn’t rub it in. In fact, she even complimented me on my incredible pivot-basket, which I sank right under her nose. I didn’t rub that in, either. I’m not sure we’ll keep the niceties up one hundred percent, but we’ll try for eighty-five. The game was so much fun that the Whistles and the Swifts will have a second game at Ambler’s YWCA in a couple weeks.

  It’s the postgame party in our living room. All the dogs are trolling for dropped food bits. My basset hound, Sherlock, has given up trying to defend his territory and has made friends with Gal and Whistle. Socrates, our cat, is the only party pooper. He’s hiding out in the bathroom behind the shower curtain.