Starting From Here

by Lisa Jenn Bigelow

  “You catch the Bowl games yesterday?” Dad asked as we sat down to eat.

  “Nah, I had work. Did you?”

  “Tuned in to a couple. Whenever the FM cut out, someone filled me in on the CB. Nothing like watching it on TV, but you make do.” Dad popped another bite of omelet into his mouth. “How was your New Year’s?”

  I rolled my sausage links from one side of the plate to the other, then back. “Boring. How about yours?”

  “Fine, fine. I met up with some folks outside Denver for a bit.” He trailed off. “You remember John Gruber? Hauls timber?”

  “I guess so.” Dad had lots of friends on the road, more than he did at home. How could he expect me to keep them straight when I’d never even met them? “What about him?”

  “He’s landed a short-haul job down in Athens, Georgia. I probably won’t see him again.”

  I stabbed a sausage link with my fork and bit off the end.

  “But that’s how it is out there. You make a friend just to lose a friend. You don’t dare get used to anything; before long it’ll change.”

  I guess he wanted me to admire this profound observation, to mourn the loss of one of his faceless trucker buddies. But all I could think was Yay for John Gruber. Yay for John Gruber’s family, having Daddy home for good. I’d had such a small taste of that, and the circumstances had been rotten.

  “Dad? Do you ever think about doing that? Taking a short-haul job, I mean.”

  “Bee, you know those jobs are hard to come by. The pay’s not as good, either. We’re still paying off your mom’s medical bills, and I want you to have money for college.”

  I thought of my failed chemistry test and my other steadily declining grades but kept my mouth shut. If he wanted his little college fantasy, he could have it. It was less trouble that way, for both of us.

  “I know our arrangement isn’t ideal, but the work’s reliable. It keeps us living comfortably.” Dad pushed back his chair and carried his empty plate to the sink.

  The conversation was over.

  I grabbed Mo’s leash and took him out into the bitter cold morning, thinking about those short months Dad had been home: Mom’s final weeks and the weeks that followed. It had been so strange. First, the shock, even though we’d known the end was coming; we couldn’t get used to it, couldn’t accept it. Dad and I had stumbled around with red eyes and didn’t care who noticed. The phone had rung constantly. Grammy and Pop-Pop had swooped in from Florida and fluttered around us like anxious birds. We’d eaten Aunt Sue’s overbaked casseroles for two weeks straight. At night I’d fall asleep on the couch, my head in Dad’s lap as he watched TV shows about the pyramids and Machu Picchu and the Great Barrier Reef. When he was tired, he’d lie on the floor beside me and sleep, not bothering to turn off the lights or the TV.

  Then, suddenly, there had been silence. The phone calls and visits stopped. Dad had sent me back to school, and he had gone back to work. Life was normal again—sort of.

  Dad’s evenings and weekends away had never seemed so long until I had to face them on my own. Even when we were together, things weren’t the same. We didn’t know what to say to each other, what to do. We hadn’t realized our lives revolved around Mom.

  This is what you call comfortable, Dad? Sleeping behind the driver’s seat? Driving through nights and weekends and holidays when you ought to be here with me?

  The day Mom’s diagnosis had gotten pushed from Stage III to Stage IV, she’d called Dad. He bobtailed home from Virginia, even though driving without a load meant losing money.

  Mom and I had sat on the couch, waiting for him. I was only five feet tall and a hundred and ten pounds, but I felt like a giant compared to Mom. Over the past few months, she’d turned into a doll made of toothpicks and tissue paper.

  “It’s going to get harder now, Bee,” she’d said.

  I didn’t respond.

  “You’ve been so strong in all this. A real trouper.”

  I still didn’t respond. I didn’t even nod.

  “I know Aunt Sue isn’t your favorite person.” I’d been staying with Sue while Mom was at the hospital and Dad was away. “Hell, even with all she’s done for us, she’s not my favorite person, either. But since all this began, I haven’t heard you complain.”

  I’d looked down at my hands and picked at a cuticle. My nails were a ragged mess.

  “I want you to stay strong, okay? Stronger than ever.” Mom shook my knee. “Bee?”

  Shutting my eyes, I croaked, “I’ll try.”

  “Good,” Mom had said, pulling me tight against her bony chest, “because Daddy’s going to need your help. When—if something happens to me, you’ll be all he’s got.”

  It turned out to be even harder than I thought. Still, I tried. I never whined about the long days alone. I never begged Dad to come home.

  But that didn’t mean I wasn’t waiting for him to do it on his own. He’d laid out the arguments for OTR trucking as neatly as Mom’s clothes before we took them to Goodwill, but something never quite fit. If I was all he had, why wasn’t I more important than medical bills or a college fund? The only explanation I could come up with was that he had a new girlfriend out there but didn’t have the guts to admit it. That, or he just didn’t want to be with me.

  MO WAGGED HIS tail wildly as I herded him into Scarlett on Friday morning. “If you knew what was coming,” I said, “you wouldn’t be so happy.” Soon we were back at the clinic, shut into an examining room with Cindy. Mo shivered on the steel table, tail tucked beneath him. I stroked his head and neck, but his eyes accused me: We could be at home on the couch right now if it weren’t for you.

  Cindy looked Mo over and asked questions about his energy and appetite, both good. Then Dr. Voorhees came in. “Today’s the day!” she told Mo, slipping him a biscuit. He sniffed it suspiciously before biting down. “We’ll get rid of those nasty stitches in a jiffy.”

  Dr. Voorhees stripped the gauze from Mo’s stump. His eyes grew wide when she plucked with scissors and tweezers at the black thread lacing his wound. His nails skidded on the table as he tried to wriggle away. Cindy held him so firmly I wondered if she’d been one of those girls in high school who joined the wrestling team. When the stitches were gone, Dr. Voorhees unsnapped Mo’s lamp shade and set it on the counter.

  Mo was left with a long, pink, puckered scar and lots of stubble where his fur was just starting to grow back. Cindy lowered him to the floor, and he slunk behind my legs. I leaned down to stroke his ears. “Dr. Voorhees, there still hasn’t been any—”

  “News? No. It’s been what, two weeks? Colby, I think it’s time to stop thinking of Mo as temporary and accept that you’re in this for the long haul.”

  I hugged Mo, and he gave me the most slobbery kiss in the universe. I’d never been so glad to be in anything for the long haul.

  “How are you adjusting to being a pet owner?” Dr. Voorhees asked.

  “Well, I’m beginning to understand what everyone says about a dog being a big responsibility,” I admitted. “He keeps finding new things to get into. And he’s impossible to walk! One minute he’s running his nose over every inch of ground. Then he’s yanking me off my feet to chase some invisible squirrel.”

  She laughed. “Can you come back at five fifteen? With Mo, of course. I’ll give you some tips on handling him.”

  “Oh no. You don’t have to do that.”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s no trouble at all. I wish more people took an interest in their pets’ behavior. It would save me a lot of trouble. Besides, I know Mo sort of dropped from the sky on you.”

  Like the klutziest angel ever.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” I said.

  When we returned, there was only one car in the lot: a green SUV witsh DOG IS MY COPILOT and ASPCA bumper stickers. It had to be Dr. Voorhees’s. Mo was not exactly thrilled to be back. I had to drag him into the empty waiting room. I gave a nervous cough to announce our pr
esence as Mo hunched behind my legs.

  Dr. Voorhees came in. “Oh good, you made it. Colby, take off your coat, and we’ll get started.”

  I draped my coat over a bench, then turned to Mo. Since we hadn’t hauled him into an examining room or poked at his stump, he was starting to relax. It didn’t hurt when Dr. Voorhees pulled a dog biscuit from her pocket and held it out to him.

  Dr. Voorhees showed me how to fix his collar and leash high on his neck, just behind his ears, to give me more control. She strode out of the waiting room and down the hall, Mo hobbling meekly at her heel as if he weren’t the same dog who’d yanked me off my feet and into a snowdrift that very morning. When they reached the end of the hall, she turned, and he toddled on back.

  Then it was my turn. We passed the bathroom, various examining rooms, and finally the operating room. Every now and then Dr. Voorhees called to me to keep my arm relaxed or showed me how to correct Mo and bring his attention back to me. And, amazingly, instead of Mo dragging me or vice versa, we walked side by side.

  “It won’t be this easy every time,” Dr. Voorhees warned me, “especially with all the distractions of the outdoors. But you’ll get it. Give Mo a nice, long walk to tire him out before you leave in the morning—or a jog, if you both can manage it—and hopefully he won’t have the extra energy to spend tearing the house apart.”

  I pulled on my coat. Dr. Voorhees said, “If you’d like to come back next Friday, we can work on ‘sit’ and ‘stay.’”

  “Dr. Voorhees—”

  “Please, call me Robyn.”

  “Uh, Robyn. I appreciate what you’re doing. I mean, thanks. But you’ve already done so much for Mo and me. I can’t ask for more.”

  A look I couldn’t pin down flashed across her face. Then she smiled. “I meant what I said, Colby: it’s no trouble. Mo’s such a sweet boy. It’s a pleasure to work with him.”

  She walked to the door and opened it for us. Cold air swirled in around our feet. “Be patient with her, Mo,” Dr. Voorhees—Robyn—said, patting his head. “Colby has a lot to learn.”

  School began again, with only two weeks left in the semester. I dutifully went to all my classes, not because I minded detention—I did some of my best daydreaming in detention—but because I needed to go home to Mo as soon as the bell rang. Unfortunately, sitting through school confirmed what I’d suspected: I’d fallen so far behind over the fall, there was no way I could catch up before finals. This report card would not be pretty.

  When activity period rolled around on Wednesday afternoon, I debated whether to head to Mr. Peabody’s room for the Alliance meeting. I dreaded seeing Rachel. On the other hand, why should I be the one to give it up, especially now that she had a boyfriend?

  Mr. Peabody greeted me outside the door. “Colby Bingham! It’s great to have you back. How was your vacation?”

  “Okay, I guess. I got a dog.”

  “Okay? You guess? Getting a dog sounds way more than okay to me!” Mr. Peabody gripped my shoulders and gave me a little shake. A smile slipped onto my face, and he beamed. “That’s more like it! You’ll have to tell me all about it sometime.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “Did you have a good break?”

  “Yes, indeedy. Andrew and I took Lucy to Disney World. We went on the teacups, and I’ll tell you what: I never knew such a little girl could have so much puke in her!” He looked proud. “Come on. Let’s go see if we’ve got a quorum.”

  When we walked into the classroom, I was amazed by how many people smiled at me, even some newer members I didn’t really know. Liliana waved and pointed to the empty chair between her and Zak. Then I saw him. Sitting beside Rachel in the circle, chatting up his neighbors as if he had every right to be there, was Michael Schmidt.

  I backed out of the room and sagged against a locker. I shut my eyes. Did he think a single trip to Fazoli’s made him one of us?

  Rapid footsteps approached. “Colby.” It was Rachel. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “Why’s he here, Rachel?”

  “It’s a gay-straight alliance.” Her tone was defensive. “He’s a straight ally.”

  “And here I thought he’d come out of the closet over break.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. But it’s been so long since you’ve been to a meeting, I thought you’d quit.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. But don’t worry, I’m leaving now.” I took a step away.

  Rachel reached out and touched my sleeve. “Don’t be like this. No Name-Calling Week is coming up. We need you.”

  “No, you don’t, actually. You’ve got enough members already. More than enough.” Another step.

  “Do you want me to ask him to leave?” There was a growing edge to Rachel’s voice. “I can do that.”

  “I don’t want you to do anything. But if he cares so much, where was he before you two hooked up? Changing lives through chess club?”

  “He didn’t know much about it,” Rachel said. “When I told him how we try to make school a more accepting place for everyone, he wanted to see what it was like for himself. He’s really not a bad person, Colby. He’s actually a pretty great guy.”

  “Obviously. You’d never settle for anything less.”

  Then I walked away for real. Rachel didn’t try to stop me.

  From the Rainbow Alliance Internet Lounge:

  van_the_man: ZOMG, so psyched for the AVD!!!

  colb33: The what?

  yinyang: Alternative Valentine’s Dance. You know the Valentine’s Dance that the student council puts on every year? We’re going to do our own queer dance.

  kittykat96: I for one do not completely agree with this plan. How can we expect the rest of the school to treat us the same as everybody else if we keep ourselves separate?

  van_the_man: I’d like to dance with a boy and not worry about getting bashed.

  writergrrl: I’d like to dance with girls and not worry about it getting back to my parents. Not to mention I can’t even dance with boys without feeling guilty about the double standard.

  rachel_greenbean: Besides, the dances are on different nights. You can go to both if you want.

  colb33: I know I wasn’t at the meeting, but … I’m having a hard time imagining an Alliance dance. Are we going to have it in Mr. P.’s room and play tunes off his computer? Turn the light switch on and off and pretend we’re at a rave?

  yinyang: No need to be snarky. We’re going to reserve the cafeteria and invite kids from all the other high schools in Kalamazoo County.

  van_the_man: WOO HOO PARTY!!!

  writergrrl: I’ll ask if I can write up an article for The Watchman. Maybe we can recruit more members for the Alliance while we’re at it.

  schmitty: Great idea! You’ve already got my approval as features editor.

  As if he hadn’t done enough to ruin my life, Michael Schmidt had infiltrated the Lounge.

  I’D BEEN ALL set to let Robyn’s offer of training slide by. She’d probably forgotten, anyway. But she called me Friday after school. “You and Mo up for another lesson tonight?”

  “Uh, sure. I mean, I don’t have any plans.”

  “Come up to the house this time—second floor, above the clinic. Some people feel like they live at their jobs, but I literally do.” She laughed. “There’s a set of stairs outside, around back. Just come up and knock.”

  I hesitated. It was bad enough intruding on her personal time. I didn’t want to invade her home, too.

  She misinterpreted my silence. “If Mo’s not up to stairs, I’ll come down. But we’d be more comfortable up there.”

  “All right,” I said. “See you at five fifteen.”

  I helped Mo scrabble up the wooden stairs to Robyn’s place. The door at the top swung open before I could knock. “Come in, come in, Colby and Mo.”

  She’d exchanged her white coat and pants for a Detroit Lions sweat suit. Crowding around her knees was a posse of dogs. I counted
three snuffling noses, not including Mo’s. “Back off,” Robyn told them cheerfully, and ushered us out of the cold and into the not-much-warmer house. My breath puffed around me.

  “I leave the heat off during the day since the dogs are out back,” she explained, taking my coat and hanging it on the rack by the door. “It’ll warm up soon. I thought we’d have a cup of tea in the meantime.”

  I edged into the kitchen, with its homey red and gold decor, the strangeness of the situation sinking in. Seeing Robyn in a sweat suit was weird enough; it couldn’t have been much worse if she’d worn a flannel nightie. Traipsing through her house was even more awkward, like going to a teacher’s house. Maybe she was comfortable up here, but right then I would have preferred the antiseptic feel of the clinic.

  She filled the kettle at the tap, oblivious.

  I unclipped Mo’s leash, and he quickly stuck his nose under the tails of the other three dogs. They returned the greeting. I perched on a stool by the kitchen island and watched. “Are these your only dogs?”

  “Only?” Robyn exclaimed. “Three isn’t enough for you?”

  “There were at least six here the day I picked up Mo.”

  “Ah. The rest were Christmas boarders who’ve gone home. This is Oscar”—she pointed her toe at a cinnamon-colored fuzz ball now snuffling for crumbs along the linoleum—“and that shepherd mix sniffing your coat is Lorraine. And that curly, gray butt slinking away is Fontine, my toy poodle. Don’t be offended. She’s a snob around strangers.”

  Robyn opened a cupboard and took down a glass cookie jar filled with dog biscuits. She offered biscuits to all of the dogs. Mo inhaled his and waited eagerly for another, but Robyn turned to another cupboard and took down a basket filled with every kind of tea imaginable, neatly labeled. “Pick your poison,” she said. I pulled out a mint one.

  Mo gave up on Robyn and wandered into the rest of the house. It must have passed inspection, because a couple of minutes later he reappeared and flopped to the floor at my feet with a grunt.