Reggie yanks at his leash to cross the street. I stand my ground. But before I can climb the stoop and knock on the front door, a yellow cab pulls up to the curb and honks the horn. A moment later, an old man with huge black sunglasses and a long white cane comes out the front door. Instead of a left shoe, he’s wearing one of those walking casts. Reggie yelps, and backs his way down the street, pulling me with him. The old man cocks his head and frowns. But then he taps his way down the stoop. He hobbles over to the cab. The driver gets out and tries to take the old man’s arm. The old man jerks his elbow away. He gropes for the back door handle. The driver shrugs and climbs in behind the wheel. The old man settles into the back and slams the door. The cab speeds away.
Reggie stops his retreat. He whines and comes over to lick my hand. I tell him it’s OK, everything’s going to be OK. We cross the street and head for the bridge. But I’ll be back.
om keeps looking over at me. She’s pretending to do a stale crossword puzzle from last Sunday’s Globe. I’m sitting across from her, pretending to do my social studies homework. Secretly, we’d both rather be watching TV.
“What’s this?” she says. She’s pointing at a big red C+ sticking out of the front of my American history book. Oh great. It’s the result of the pop quiz I took on Friday. She pulls out the quiz without even asking and holds it up.
“C-plus?” she says. “You told me you covered the Revolutionary War last year. This should be an A-plus.”
Reggie harrumphs from where he’s lying under the table.
“I had trouble concentrating,” I say. What I don’t say: Because I was too worried about the fake note I wrote to get myself out of lunch recess so I could take a taxi to the pound instead of getting beat up by the school bully.
“You didn’t seem to have any trouble concentrating on the video games you played all weekend.”
“The quiz was on Friday,” I say. “It was already a done deal.”
“That’s not the point!” she says.
For some reason, Reggie scrambles to his feet. In the process, he whacks his head on the underside of the tabletop. Mom’s wineglass topples over and sloshes a big wet star on my pop quiz.
“Here we go again,” Mom says. “Please lock that damn dog in the kitchen.”
“It was an accident,” I say.
“Do it. You and I need to have a serious talk.”
Uh-oh.
I lead Reggie into the kitchen and hand him a butcher-shop bone out of the fridge. I grab the sponge from the sink and head back to the table to face the music.
“It’s about Reggie,” she says.
“That grade doesn’t have anything to do with Reggie,” I say, blotting my C+.
“Getting him was a big mistake,” Mom says. “He’s clearly traumatized by his first owner in some way that causes him to act out. I don’t think we can handle the extra stress of that in our lives right now.”
“Look,” I say. “It’s all cleaned up. No big deal.”
I try not to panic. I still don’t have enough evidence in the Alf Santorello case to clear Reggie’s name of any wrongdoing.
“It is a big deal, Nicky. Reggie has driven a wedge between us. He gives you an excuse to avoid dealing with me on some pretty big issues.”
“Where’d you get all that?” I say. “The shrink?”
“I don’t just sit there in his office like you and stare at the clock.”
So ol’ Holkke Håkan has been ratting me out to Mom. Supposedly whatever goes on in there is just between him and me. I guess it’s official: All grown-ups are in cahoots with each other.
I pack up my homework and stand. I head for the kitchen—the only place I can get any privacy besides the school library.
“God! You’re so much like your father it scares me.”
I slam the kitchen door on her.
Reggie looks up from his bone. His ears go all flat.
I stand at the fridge, taking deep breaths, trying to calm myself. Swiss Army knife, flashlight, rain poncho, deck of cards . . .
That’s the trouble with Mom. She’s always trying to get everyone to communicate all the time. It drives people crazy. Next she’ll want to talk about what happened that night before the Fourth of July with Dad and the mustard—get all that out in the open. Well, too bad. Because if I ever started in on that subject—really spoke my mind for a change—I doubt I’d ever get myself to shut up.
Maybe Dad’ll call tomorrow. Maybe he already has.
I take the marker off the magnetized memo board and I draw a big hangman with crazy eyes on the fridge door. Under it I write the words, “I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!”
I take a few more deep breaths. I grab the little eraser to wipe it all away. Nothing happens. I scrub harder. It’s still there. I spit into my palm and rub the fridge door really hard. Nothing. That’s when I realize: It’s a really old fridge, one that’s been painted a couple of times. The marker’s not going to wipe away. Ever.
Mom bursts through the door. “I shouldn’t have said that—”
I yelp. Reggie yelps.
“What on earth?” Mom says, staring at the fridge.
“Um, we’ve got a slight problem,” I say.
r. Holkke says he’d like to try something a little different today. He appreciates that I may not be much of a talker, not everyone is. Maybe expressing myself verbally just isn’t my thing. Maybe I’d prefer to express myself visually. He points to a pad on his coffee table. Next to it are crayons in a ceramic mug.
“You want me to draw a picture?” I say. Is he serious? I’m, like, practically twelve.
“Only if you want to,” he says. He’s always saying that.
“Of what?” I say.
“Anything,” he says. “You decide.”
“I’m not too good at art,” I tell him. Because I’m not.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “The point is to express what you’re feeling and share that with others. Why don’t you just start drawing and see where it takes you?”
OK, whatever. Beats sitting around for half an hour. Plus on the drive home I can tell Mom I actually did something here today. Maybe she’ll stop giving me the cold shoulder about the fridge, which we’re going to have to spray paint white sometime, without the landlord downstairs knowing about it. After we steam clean the carpet, that is.
I draw a big dog with pointy ears. I color the fur brown with big black spots.
“That’s a German shepherd,” Dr. Holkke says.
Duh!
“Is that your new dog?”
“No.” I’ve never mentioned Reggie to him. But obviously Mom talks his ear off about how that damn dog is driving a wedge between us. Just wait till he hears in a few minutes about how she thinks Reggie caused me to get a C+ in social studies and deface the fridge.
I draw a harness on the dog to disguise him. Only the actual masters of guide dogs get to hold their harnesses in real life. That’s how the dogs know it’s time to work. When the harness is off, the dog is off duty. Then he can hang out and act like a regular canine: romp with other dogs, get petted by people, play fetch. So technically speaking, Alf Santorello had every right to ask Jenny not to pet Reggie, even though he clearly relaxed the rules with the old guys at the monument. But he obviously unhooked Reggie then, gave him a few minutes off to chase bocce balls.
I need to have a word with this Alf Santorello dude.
The harness I just drew looks sort of stupid floating there in space. So I draw a hand holding it, which looks even weirder, until I attach a whole body to the hand.
“Who’s this?” Dr. Holkke says, tapping the blind master with his pen.
“Alf Santorello,” I say.
“Who’s Alf Santorello?” he says.
I’m dying to say my grandpa. But that whole situation has gotten way out of control.
“Nobody,” I say. “I just made him up.”
“It’s an unusual name,” Dr. Holkke says.
Hello, as if Håkan Holkk
e isn’t! “I heard it once, walking around the neighborhood,” I say. “I just like the way it sounds.”
I add a pair of big black sunglasses to the master.
“Are you sure that’s not you, Nicky?” Dr. Holkke says. “The blind guy holding the dog looks a lot like you.”
“I told you, it’s just some guy.”
“Do you know what a metaphor is?” Dr. Holkke says.
“Leave me alone!” I say.
I chuck the crayon I’m holding across the room. It shatters against the wall. “It’s just some stupid old man with a stupid dog!” I crumple up the drawing and throw it at him.
We both stare at each other for a full minute.
“Wow,” Dr. Holkke says.
“I told you I wasn’t any good at art,” I say.
itting next to Mom in the front seat feels like one of those gray, rainy days, even though it’s actually pretty nice outside. Maybe it’s just the gloomy classical music they play before the news on this public radio station.
I sneak a peek at her. She’s still staring straight ahead, all stony-faced and silent. When’s she going to start yelling at me for losing it in Dr. Holkke’s office? He must have told her. He rats me out for saying nothing. So far, she hasn’t spoken a word to me: not when she was paying up with Holkke’s secretary, not when we were walking out to the parking lot, not since we got stuck in rush hour.
“Um, you’ve got a green light?” I say.
She doesn’t hit the gas. She bursts into tears.
Everybody behind us starts honking.
“I’m a terrible mother,” she sobs.
Uh-oh. “Maybe you should pull into the breakdown lane,” I say.
She nods. She puts her indicator on. She peels off onto the shoulder, nearly hitting an SUV. She slams the car into park.
“There are way-worse mothers in the world,” I say.
It doesn’t help. She really starts to bawl then.
I turn the radio off. I reach into the glove compartment and hand her a tissue from the packet we’ve got stowed there.
“Now you’re resorting to violence instead of communicating your needs,” she says, honking into the tissue. “What’s next? Shoplifting? Gangs?”
I think about the Frisbee incident up at the monument.
Then, for some reason, I just say it: “I don’t frankly care if you gave me Reggie as some sort of lame consolation prize. And I don’t care if Reggie ate your philodendron or spilled your wine. I like him. I like having him around. He makes me feel better. You want me to communicate my needs? I only have one right now. What I need is for you to stop threatening to take him back to the pound.”
She looks over at me, a little surprised.
“Clear?” I say.
She nods. But she doesn’t pull back into traffic. She starts crying again. Oh great. I hand her another tissue from the pack.
“It’s been harder than I thought,” she says. “Standing on my own two feet. I get into these funks. And when I do, you feel completely unsupported and alone. That’s why you drew yourself as a blind kid at the shrink’s office today, isn’t it?”
Wow. The bottom-line skinny for a change.
“Um, Mom? I’m doing a report on guide dogs for school—remember?”
“Really?” she says. “That drawing was just for school?”
No, not really. I definitely do feel dragged blindfolded around the planet by a bunch of grown-ups who don’t know where they’re coming from or going to any better than I do.
“Really,” I say.
Mom asks for another tissue.
“So we’re keeping Reggie right?” I say.
She nods. She throws the car into gear and noses it back into traffic, pissing off about a half-dozen commuters. But at least we’re on the road again. She apologizes for freaking out. She says it’s just been one of those days—first Chaser Junior about some missing file, then Dr. Holkke with the drawing. How about if she stops by the Supa-Sava? She’ll cook whatever I want for supper—to make it up to me. Spaghetti? Macaroni and cheese? Just name it, and she’ll get the fixings.
What I really, really want is to hoof it over to the North End and knock on Alf Santorello’s door. But I guess hearing what happened between him and Reggie isn’t so urgent, now that I get to keep Reggie no matter what. So first things first. Mom just cut me a major break. It’s time to cut her one back.
“Thanks,” I say, “but it seems like we could both use the night off. How about if we grab Reggie and go for a spin—see a little of Boston for a change? It’s a such a nice night out. Maybe we could check out that park along the river that Chaser Junior told us about?”
“OK,” she says. “Sure, why not.”
A second later we both start laughing like idiots.
haser Junior’s park actually turns out to be kind of cool. The Esplanade is long and skinny and stretches for miles along the Charles, with these amazing views of the Salt and Pepper Bridge and Cambridge on the other side. There’s a paved path all along it for biking and rollerblading. And just like Chaser Junior said, there are playgrounds and a skateboard ramp and even a concert dome called the Hatch Shell. A ton of people are still there when we finally find a parking spot for the car, even though it’s almost dusk.
Mom is totally impressed by how well I handle Reggie. When I say, “Forward!” he starts walking. When I say, “Stop!” he stops and sits. Secretly I’m really proud of him. He’s proving to her, all by himself, that he’s actually a pretty good dog to have around.
We decide to buy a couple of hot dogs and cans of soda for our dinner. There’s a snack cart near the Hatch Shell. Near it is a stand with a man selling kites and stuff. We go and have a look while we’re eating. A whole bunch of people are flying kites on a little islandlike thing sticking out into the river.
“Which one do you like best?” Mom says.
I point out the kite with a big Superman S on it.
“I like that one too,” she says. “Let’s get it.”
I don’t say anything.
“What?” she says.
“I don’t know how to fly kites,” I say.
“Neither do I,” she says. “But it can’t be that hard, right?”
“We’ll look totally lame out there,” I say.
“So?” she says. “Nobody knows us around here. Besides, everybody looks stupid flying a kite.”
I laugh. She’s right.
We cross a little stone bridge to the island and for a few minutes watch how other people are flying their kites. Then we hitch Reggie’s leash to the leg of a park bench and give it a whirl. Mom holds the kite steady on the ground while I let out a bunch of string. We wait for some wind. Then I start running while Mom throws the kite up into the air. The first couple of tries don’t amount to much. But Mom finally figures out the angle that catches the most wind, and suddenly the kite takes off. It’s soaring, and I’m letting out string like crazy. Before you know it, our kite is right up there with the rest of them. Mom comes running over, whooping and clapping her hands. She goes to high-five me. People don’t really do that anymore, but she thinks it’s still cool, so I go along with it. Like she said, nobody knows us here.
Over by the park bench, I notice Reggie baring his teeth and barking his head off. His hackles are all up, just like that time the Townie teens hassled me.
Maybe he saw a squirrel?
grab my lunch and head for the front doors. I can’t say that Timmy Burns and his Townie posse are being nice to me—they’re not exactly inviting me to join their kickball team—but they’ve definitely stopped punching my arm at the recess bell. I guess Timmy can’t stop laughing at me long enough to beat me up.
I pass Rita talking to that weird tall girl in the old-fashioned dress. Rita has this panicked look on her face. She’s standing with her back pressed against a locker and clutching a science book to her chest. The weird girl is hovering over her, talking a mile a minute. I slow down so I can eavesdrop.
�
�I told you I can’t,” Rita says. “I have to babysit Julio.”
“Why doesn’t your mother just get a real babysitter?”
“We can’t afford one,” Rita says.
“Well, what about now?” the weird girl says. “We could do it now.”
I stop. I turn around. I say, “Hi, Rita, sorry I’m late.”
“Oh, hi,” she says, a look of pure relief on her face. “I was wondering where you were.” She points to the weird girl. “Have you met Lulu McFadden? Lulu this is, um—” She draws a blank.
“Nicky,” I say. “Nicky Flynn.”
“Right. Nicky,” Rita says.
“You’re the new kid,” Lulu says. “I’ve been meaning to introduce myself.”
“You about ready to go, Rita?” I say.
“All set,” Rita says. “See you around, Lulu.”
Lulu darts a suspicious glance at both of us, then gives up. She says she’ll wait for Rita after the final bell, just in case she can get out of babysitting. She scuffles off down the hallway.
“I owed you one,” I say.
Rita turns to open her locker.
“Thanks,” she says. “Now take a hike.”
“How’s your baby brother?” I say.
“What’s it to you?” she says.
“I don’t have any brothers or sisters,” I say.
Rita whirls around to face me. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” she says. “But didn’t you totally blow me off the other day?”
“You were freaking me out. Everywhere I turned, there you were!”
She giggles then—something I’m not expecting.
“I can get pretty intense.”
“I’ll say.”
“Sorry, bro. You looked smart. I guess I just miss smart kids. Most of my friends are at Boston Latin, where I wanted to go. But the commute there would have killed my mom. And with the new baby, she just needs me around right now.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I promise I’ll stop stalking you. Adiós.”
“Listen. We may as well eat lunch together,” I say. “You don’t want that Lulu chick to go postal on you.”
How I Got a Life and a Dog Page 10
