by Linda Benson
Title Page
Walking the Dog
Linda Benson
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Musa Publishing
Copyright Information
Walking the Dog, Copyright © Linda Benson, 2012
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
This book contains quotes from Jack London’s Call of the Wild, public domain.
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Musa Publishing
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Published by Musa Publishing, September 2012
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This e-Book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this ebook can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.
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ISBN: 978-1-61937-342-6
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Editor: Kathy Teel
Cover Design: Kelly Shorten
Interior Book Design: Coreen Montagna
Chapter 1—New Girl
RUMORS FLOAT AROUND about Sophie from the day she arrives. We hear things whispered in the hallway and on the playground. Most kids don’t change schools this late in the year, when we can almost taste summer and freedom. Sophie got transferred here to get out of a difficult situation. Something bad happened to her.
It doesn’t really matter to me. Ever since Ms. Cordilini seated Sophie in the desk right next to mine, I can’t help staring. Sophie is smaller than most of the girls in our class, with hair so blonde you can almost see through it. Her eyes are pale blue, and even with the scar that runs up the side of her cheek and splits her eyebrow in half, I think she’s the most beautiful girl in the entire fifth grade.
First thing in the morning, Ms. Cordilini usually gives us a math problem up on the board. It’s our wake-up exercise, she says. Something to get our foggy minds tuned in to school.
Sophie comes in late a lot of times. Her hair is rumpled and her clothes wrinkled, like she just got out of bed. But as soon as she gets to class, she puts her stuff away and starts working. Not visiting and talking, like everybody else. Sophie is always right on task, not messing around, just doing her work.
After a few days of this, I start sneaking a look at her paper in case I get called on.
“Jared Westin, can you tell us what the common denominator is of one-fourth and one-sixth?”
I hate it when Ms. C. asks me stuff about math. I don’t know the answer. I don’t really get math anyway, especially fractions. I look over at Sophie. She’s probably got the right answer. She never raises her hand though.
Kayla, the pony-tailed teacher’s pet in the front row, jabs her hand in the air like she’s bidding at an auction. “I know. Pick me. Pick me,” she says, like a broken record and Ms. C points to her. Front row kids always get picked.
“Twelfths,” spouts Kayla, with a smug grin on her face. “You need to change them both to twelfths.”
“Correct,” says Ms. Cordilini. “Who else got that?”
Not me. I steal a glance at Sophie’s paper. She’s got her eyes down, probably so no one will call on her. But she has the right answer—three-twelfths and two-twelfths. Sophie looks at me sideways with a small, crooked grin, and my insides turn to syrup.
After math our class walks in a line, following Ms. Cordilini into the corridor and toward the gym for assembly. A couple of other teachers fall in step. Between hollering at us to keep our line straight, our voices turned off, and other unimportant stuff, they start whispering—like we don’t have any ears.
I can’t help it if I’m curious, so I listen up when I hear the words “new girl.” I know they’re talking about Sophie.
“Sad, sad story,” they say in hushed tones. “Abused,” they breathe, only they cover their mouths and look the other way when they say it.
Once Joey kept saying he was abused, after he got himself grounded for a whole week for saying the F-word in front of his father. With no television or computer time, Joey acted like it was the end of the world.
Then there was Lucas, who moved away. He was a sour kid anyway, and my parents never let me play at his house. He told us his dad used to take a belt to him. I guess that would qualify.
But Sophie. When I try to imagine what might have happened to her, how she could have gotten that scar on the side of her face, my stomach knots up and I can’t even think about it.
After assembly we have lunch, and I watch Sophie. She gets her tray and wanders around the cafeteria, looking for a spot. No one scoots over for her. She finally sits by some third graders, but they finish their meal and go outside to play. As the table empties, Sophie eats her chips and sandwich by herself.
At lunch recess when I’m out on the field, I spot Sophie push open the double doors to come outside on the playground. Kids seem to avoid her like the plague. She follows the gravel path along the fence line, kicking rocks out of her way. Her head is down, like she’s concentrating really hard on the top of her shoe.
Me and my friend Corey are kicking the soccer ball around just for fun. It’s hard to get motivated toward a real game when you only have a few minutes of recess left. Plus, the sun is so warm, it’s making me lazy.
“Wake up, Westin!” Corey hollers so loud it jolts me back to reality. “Are you playing? Or daydreaming?” He mounts a running drive down the field and kicks the ball in a high arc toward the goal.
Mike, this huge fifth grader from the other class, starts shoving people out of the way. I’m waiting for the yard duty teacher to blow the whistle at him, only they’re not even looking. Mike jumps in front of the ball and gives it a sloppy kick. His foot slips sideways, and the soccer ball careens over the heads of all the players, right toward the path where Sophie is walking, with her head still down.
“Way to go, dude.” Corey makes a rude noise, way down in his throat. “Good shot.”
I wince. Will Sophie look up in time?
I hold my breath and watch the soccer ball lob right over the top of Sophie’s head and hit the track in front of her, missing her by inches. Sophie doesn’t even flinch. She doesn’t try to kick the ball back to us—she just stands there.
I rush toward her, before Corey and his big mouth get there. Catching my breath, I try to think of some cool remark. “Hey,” is all that comes out.
“Hay is for horses, Jared.” Sophie smiles her lopsided smile.
I like the way she says my name. “That was a close one,” I say.
She nods, peering at me with those clear blue eyes, the same color as the sky.
“Come on, Westin. Kick the ball. Quit wasting time. The bell’s going to ring.”
I dribble the soccer ball between my feet until I’m out on the grass. Then I pass it hard down the field toward Corey. I steal a glance back at Sophie, who stands like a statue with that goofy sideways grin plastered on her face. I smile too, just a little, and charge after the ball.
Chapter 2—Bad News
“HURRY UP, JARED,” Corey hollers as we scurry toward the front entran
ce after the last bell. He sprints ahead of me, racing toward the bike rack, pushing past kids that are pouring outside.
“I’m coming. I gotta wait for my brother anyway.”
Buses are lined up along the outside corridor, waiting for the kids that live out of town. Parents are pulling around back to pick up the kids that need a ride. I glance back toward the doors for Petey. It feels good to be outside. School feels like a prison on days like this.
“Come on,” says Corey. “Let’s get going before all the buses leave.”
“I can’t go without Pete.” I hunch my heavy backpack up on my shoulders, and maneuver my bike away from the rack. “His class has a sub, and they’re not out yet.”
“Are you chained to that kid, or what?”
It feels like it. Ever since the accident, I’ve got almost no freedom at all. Every stinking day, I wait for Pete. I’ve got to escort him home. I’m even supposed to get off my bike and make sure he walks across the crosswalks. Geez.
I see a flash of bright hair. Sophie pushes open the heavy doors leading out of the building. She doesn’t get in line with the bus riders, and she doesn’t head toward the bikes. I wonder where she goes after school.
My eyes follow Sophie as she hustles down the outdoor corridor. When she’s almost to the very end, she looks back over her shoulder at me. Without thinking, I give her a halfway wave. She shoots a smile back in my direction, but then her head is down in an instant like it never happened.
“Quit looking at that girl,” says Corey. “She’s bad news.”
“How do you mean?”
“I just heard stuff, that’s all. Take my word for it.”
I shake my head, and watch as Sophie slinks around the corner of the building and is gone. But where does she go?
“Did you get your homework done in class?” says Corey.
“Nah. I don’t get fractions at all. I don’t know why we have to learn all that stuff. It’s not like I’m gonna be an astronaut or a scientist anyway. What do I need math for?”
“I hear you. Cordilini’s really into math. It’s lame if you ask me.”
Bus Number One revs up its noisy engine, and soon every bus in line starts belching out smoke. The fumes drift up the walkway and almost gag me. Where is Pete anyway? You’d think he’d be able to ride home by himself—he’s almost in third grade. But no, after the accident, I have to wait for him. Like I’m his keeper or something.
Come on, Petey.
A battered, brown Oldsmobile appears in the parent exit lane, going the wrong direction, and ends up facing the line of buses with nowhere to go. The driver, a woman with red hair piled on top of her head, slams on the brakes, slaps the gearshift into reverse, and backs out.
“Way to go, lady,” says Corey, as he takes off on his bike.
The car window is rolled down. The woman inside cusses and yells so loud we all can hear her. Her passenger hunkers way down in the seat, almost out of sight. I think it might be Sophie, but I can’t tell for sure.
Finally I see the last line of kids stream out of the doorway. Second graders. Some pile onto the waiting buses, some run toward the parent pick-up lane, and some toward the bike racks. At last I spot Petey. He’s grown about two inches this year, but when I see him hitch his backpack up onto his bony shoulders, I realize that he’s still my awkward kid brother who almost died last year.
Chapter 3—The Pup
ABOUT ONCE A DAY Mr. Gannon, the school counselor, comes to class for Sophie. When someone goes with Mr. G., we all know what it’s for. To talk about their problems—or as Mr. G. likes to say, “Things that are troubling you.”
Personally, I’ve never been called to Mr. Gannon’s office, but I know lots of kids that act like they have problems just so they can go. Mostly they want to a) get out of class, or b) play with Fuzzy—Mr. Gannon’s therapy dog. Fuzzy is this huge golden retriever that comes to school with Mr. Gannon every day. Mr. G. brings him into the classrooms occasionally, and Fuzzy loves to be petted.
Mr. G. also lets us walk Fuzzy with him on the playground. That dog’s tail is a perpetual motion machine, and he looks right at you with big golden eyes, like he understands everything you say to him. So when Mr. Gannon comes for Sophie each day, we all know she’s going to spend time with Fuzzy and talk about her “troubled past.”
One morning Mr. Gannon comes into class without Fuzzy. Instead, he’s holding a gangly black puppy who’s trying to nibble on his ear. “Sophie,” he says quietly. He tries not to disrupt our social studies lecture, but we all laugh when the puppy squirms so hard that Mr. Gannon almost drops him. “Sorry,” he says, as he grabs the delinquent dog and escorts Sophie down the hall. It’s hard to concentrate on Westward Migration after that. We all want to know about the new dog.
Sophie catches up with us later, as we wait in the lunch line. For once, somebody actually talks to her. Kayla, who always has to act important, pops the question, right in Sophie’s face.
“What is that puppy doing here in school?” she says. “Where’s Fuzzy?”
“Fuzzy’s getting old,” says Sophie. She seems surprised at the attention. “Mr. Gannon wants to train a new puppy to maybe be his replacement.”
“That’s stupid,” says Logan. “There’s nothing wrong with Fuzzy. He’s an awesome dog.”
“Yeah, how would you like to be replaced by a bratty little pup?” says Corey. “What’s he going to do with Fuzzy? Give him away? I’d take him.”
“Mr. Gannon’s going to keep Fuzzy,” Sophie says. “He’s just going to give him a rest several days a week. He’s bringing the new puppy to school to socialize him.”
“Looks like he needs more than socializing,” says Brad. “I’d suggest behavior modification school.”
That brings a few chuckles, but Sophie keeps going. “I know something else about the puppy.”
“What?” asks Kayla, hands on her hips.
“He doesn’t have a name yet,” Sophie says. “Mr. Gannon’s going to have a contest. Everybody at school can choose a name, and then we’re going to vote on it.”
“Cool,” says Corey. “I think we should call him Spike.”
“No, I was thinking something like Charlie,” says Logan.
“How about Midnight,” says Kayla, and her eyes go all dreamy.
“Smoke,” says Brad.
I don’t say anything. I’m just waiting in the lunch line, watching Sophie. Right before my eyes, she’s transforming from the new girl who always has her head down to the girl on a soapbox, a champion of black Labs, a down-right interesting person.
“I have the best name of all,” says Sophie, when everyone else has run out of ideas. “The one that will win the contest.” Her voice gets all quiet now, almost a whisper. “I think Mr. Gannon should name the new dog ‘Lester.’”
Lester?
“That’s a stupid name,” says Corey.
“Totally dumb,” agrees Kayla.
I think so too, but I don’t say it. Instead I watch Sophie’s face. She doesn’t respond at all, but changes in some way, like a flower closing its petals. Her eyes get this blank look like she’s not even there, but in some totally different place.
I wonder where.
Chapter 4—Scars
ONE OF THE THINGS that bugs me the most about having to watch out for my little brother is that he’s always making me late. Especially in the mornings. Yesterday he couldn’t find his other sneaker (it was under his bed). Today he can’t find his backpack. I know he’s only in second grade, but how can a kid be so unorganized? I feel sorry for him when he gets real homework, like in fifth grade.
Since the accident, everybody treats him like a baby and makes excuses for him. But then he’ll always be the baby of our family. Mom and Dad aren’t having any more kids ‘cause they were already so old when they had us, like almost forty. Which is probably why they’re so strict. You’d think we were made of gold or something.
But I’m tired of having to stay right by Petey’s
side when we ride our bikes to school every morning. I’m supposed to keep my eyes on him at all times. When I was his age, I could get to school on my own. But then I knew enough not to ride out in front of cars.
“C’mon Pete,” I yell. “Where’d you put your backpack when you came home yesterday?”
“I don’t remember,” he says.
I hold the front screen door open and glance around the edge of our porch, where a concrete pathway angles toward the backyard. I see a piece of blue nylon strap sticking up.
“Hey, Petey,” I say, pointing. “Did you leave it outside last night?”
“Oh yeah, maybe.” He just stands there with a goofy grin on his face, wiping the sleep out of his eyes.
“Well, hurry up, dude.”
“Okay, okay.” He shakes the wet dew off the backpack and slides it up onto his thin shoulders. It takes forever to pedal the five blocks toward Mountain View School, he rides so slow. I’d like to get there early, for once.
Petey lines up with his class and goes into the building. I hang out by the front door and wait for Sophie. I’m pretty sure she’s not in class yet because she’s never on time. But how does she get to school? Was that her mother in that brown Oldsmobile yesterday? Maybe she gets dropped off. I watch the clock through the window. The crossing guards come in from their duty.
“Better go to class, Jared. You’re going to be late.”
At the last possible moment, I run and slip into my seat before the bell rings. Sophie slinks in about fifteen minutes later, with a tardy notice from the office. She doesn’t even look like the same girl as yesterday. Her hair is mussed, and one eye looks puffy.
Today when Mr. Gannon calls Sophie into his office, she doesn’t come back for lunch. Maybe she stays in his office all through the lunch hour, I don’t know. But after lunch, her desk is still empty. The almost-summer sun burns through the big windows of our classroom and makes us restless and edgy.
Ms. Cordilini finally stands in front of us and claps her hands. “Everybody up,” she announces. “Time to burn off some energy!”
