My Boyfriends' Dogs

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  “Mother!” I protested. Here I was entering my last year of high school, no doubt as one of the few remaining virgins in the Northern Hemisphere. And still I got no respect in my own home.

  “He needs to believe in God,” Amber said, further shoring up “our” side and the side of the angels.

  I used to think that God and boyfriends inhabited two different worlds. I still wasn’t sure how to make room for both of them, but I’d been thinking lately that it would be worth the effort to figure out. What I loved about God was that I could spill my guts to God. There had to be hundreds of verses in the Psalms that talked about crying out to God about life. Even Amber got tired of listening to me after boyfriend breakups. “Deal. God’s in.” I wrote God, noticing—not for the first time—the way God spelled backward is doG. “He has to be a dog owner. My boyfriend, I mean. He’s got to have a dog.”

  “Great,” Mom muttered. “All we need is another dog. Just so you know, I refuse to be part of a three-dog household.”

  I grinned at Amber. “Did she say ‘three dog’ ? ”

  Amber threw a scolding glare at Mom. “You did, Big D.”

  I leaped to my feet. “Come on! It’s a Three Dog Night, and it’s time to dance goofy!” My mom had turned me on to this classic-rock group when I was five, Three Dog Night. She got me hooked because of the “dog” in the name, but it turned out they weren’t bad.

  I pulled Mom up, and Amber followed suit. Then I belted out our special song. I’d made up the lyrics, but the tune I got from Three Dog Night’s “Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog” song.

  “Jeremiah was a hound dog!

  Dated him for a while.

  He left me flat,

  But I’m tellin’ you that

  Just rememberin’ him makes me smile.”

  “Sing, you guys!” I commanded. “And where’s your soul?

  Dance, wenches!”

  Reluctantly, they joined in on the chorus:

  “Boyfriends are fun.

  I’m gonna get me one.

  When he leaves in a poof, he

  Always leaves me goof-y.

  My prince is a frog,

  But I still got my dog . . .

  And he sure is a mighty fine dog!”

  Amber and Mom, who’s never been accused of singing on-key, started out slow and low. But by the end, they were totally into it, belting out lyrics as loud as I was, with Adam and Eve barking at us the whole time.

  But the best part was this goofy dance we’d invented. I think we’d started putting it together after my breakup with Went. One night when Amber was sleeping over, I admitted to her and Mom that I’d known about Went hitting on them. After an awkward silence, Amber had walked to my dresser and picked up the little figurine she’d given me for my birthday—a statue of Goofy dancing. Without a word, Mom stoked up the music. And we danced the night away.

  Over time, our “goofy dance” had grown into a synchronized routine to this one song. One song, but we managed to work in the twist, the swim, the mashed potato, the jerk, the boogaloo, the electric slide, a moonwalk, and a couple of slick disco moves.

  Now, the night before our senior year, Amber and I showed Mom a couple of new dance moves we’d picked up at summer school, and we added them to the routine. When we were done dancing, we collapsed into a heap on the floor. Adam and Eve took turns pouncing on and licking us, while we laughed so hard it hurt.

  As if an invisible conductor had lowered his baton to signal the end of our performance, we all grew quiet. Even the dogs stopped. For a minute, nobody spoke. I think we were all feeling it—our last night before school started for the last time.

  Amber opened her mouth to say something, but Mom shook her head. “Don’t say it. I’m going to start crying like a baby if you do.”

  “So we’re all thinking the same thing? ” I said, not wanting to go to the crying place. “This is the big one, right? Our last year . . . So that means . . .” I glanced from Amber to my red-eyed mom. “That means I have one last shot at finding the perfect boyfriend to take me to the prom.”

  2

  “You know,” Amber said as we elbowed our way through the halls of Tri-County High, “I’m proud of you, Bailey. Do you realize we talked on the phone for over an hour last night, and you didn’t bring up guys even once? ”

  “Say it isn’t so,” I pleaded.

  “And I know you won’t admit it, but you like our advanced creative writing class. I think you even like English Lit and French, too.”

  “Let’s not get carried away.” But the truth was, I loved those classes. In fact, two weeks into my senior year, I liked all of my classes, except World Cultures.

  “Bonjour, mon amie!”Roni shouted as she and her goth buddies passed us in the hall. They were all dressed in various forms of black, but Roni had her own style—funky pink ballet slippers; straight black hair, but pulled into a ponytail; no makeup; no red lipstick or fierce eyeliner.

  “Friends of yours? ” Amber asked.

  “Roni’s cool. She sits next to me in French. She’s really smart. I like her accent better than Madame Jones’s.”

  Amber’s grin was accusing.

  “Okay. I do like French. Who knew that once you get past those conjugations, French really is a romantic language? ”

  “Who knew? Mediocre Mark. That’s who.”

  “Funny. At least he’s not in my class.”

  We got to creative writing early and took our seats in the second row, Amber’s favorite location. Usually, I preferred the back, but I went along with Amber this time, mainly because of the view. I got to look at the back of Eric Strang, a well-muscled back at that. Topped off with a great neck and thick, sandy blond hair. He was without a doubt the cutest guy in Tri-County. He didn’t play sports, although with his bod, he certainly could have. Eric was one of those rare hunks who are as brainy as they are built.

  Suddenly, Eric swiveled in his seat and looked straight at me. Caught. But he grinned as if I hadn’t stared holes through the back of his head. “Great story yesterday, Bailey. I couldn’t get it out of my head.”

  “Yeah? ” I said, ever quick on the uptake. This guy was movie-star handsome, and my story was in his head?

  “Wish I could write like that.” He turned back around before I could thank him . . . or kiss him . . . or volunteer to write stories just for him for the rest of my life.

  Amber elbowed me. “See? Told you.”

  “Told me what? ” I asked, still dazed.

  “That your story was great, nitwit.”

  I’d had fun writing it, but I’d felt like hurling when Ms. Knowlton read it out loud to the class. I’d gotten the idea when Mom yelled at me about leaving my sandals in the middle of the living room for a week. So I made up a short story about a woman who lived alone in a high-rise in Manhattan—no friends, no boyfriend. It started to get to her. Then one day she noticed that she’d left the newspaper on her living room floor, and she thought, If I don’t pick up this paper, it will stay here forever. There’s nobody but me in my world. Years passed, and the paper didn’t move. The woman kept her apartment clean, but left that paper where it was, stepping over it every day of her lonely life. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore, and she jumped out of her window and died. A rookie cop followed up and checked her apartment. He was about to leave when a headline in the old newspaper caught his eye, something about the St. Louis Cards being in last place. The cop went back, picked up the paper, scanned the article, and threw it into the trash. The end. When Ms. Knowlton finished reading the story, nobody said anything. I’d ducked out the second the bell rang.

  Jeannette Martin walked into class and eased her slender self into the seat next to Eric. She had the kind of sophistication and class you almost never see in a public school. She flowed, while the rest of us chugged. She sat poised, we slumped. The Martins were “old money” in Freemont. Freemont University had a “Martin Hall” and a statue of Clyde Martin, military hero.

  Eric sneeze
d, and Jeannette whispered something to him. He whispered back, and they both looked worried.

  Then she turned around to me. “Bailey, that was such a great story yesterday. You’re really talented.” The smile was real. Jeannette was impossible to hate, even though I wanted to.

  “Thanks.” I smiled back. Couldn’t help myself.

  I guess I didn’t hear much of our lecture on self-editing. I was too involved imagining what it would feel like to run my fingers through Eric’s sandy blond hair.

  After school, Amber and I headed for the senior lot. Her dad had turned over his old car to Amber when he got a new one. The dealer hadn’t offered to give him much for the gas-guzzling SUV with 182,000 miles. But Amber and I were glad to get it. Mom needed our car to drive to work—and drive home to walk the dogs, of course.

  I stopped in my tracks. A couple of people bumped into me, but I barely noticed. A few feet ahead of us in the parking lot was Eric Strang. There should have been a law—or at least an all-school advisory—against anybody looking that good in khaki pants and a polo shirt.

  Jeannette was with him, looking equally great, I had to admit, in crinkled linen. They never dressed alike, but you could tell they shopped at the same stores. Expensive, exclusive stores. Probably Strang Salons. Eric’s father owned upscale clothing stores all over the United States.

  Eric walked to the passenger side of his understated navy Volvo and opened the door for Jeannette. She slid in with the grace of a ballerina.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Amber said.

  “What? ” I asked, as if my best friend didn’t have the power to read my mind.

  She led the way to Harper, her car, named after our fifth-grade teacher, who had never liked me much. She was right—Amber, not Mrs. Harper. Eric Strang was so far out of my league. Besides, he already had the perfect girlfriend in Jeannette Martin.

  Amber turned the key, and the engine caught first try. She patted the dashboard. “Good, Harper.” She glanced at me before pulling into the line of cars trying to exit the lot. “Want to come help me paint? ”

  “As tempting as the offer to help paint your house is, I have to say no. I’m working.”

  Mom’s friend Sarah Jean had gotten me a part-time gig at Grady’s Gas and Snack. Wanda’s great recommendation to the higher-ups hadn’t hurt either. So I was once again the Grady Girl. It had taken me a whole week, though, before I got brave enough to sing. People knew me in Millet. Sarah Jane went into shock the first time she heard me belt out “Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet” while I served up a lemon slushy. But it wasn’t long before she was shouting for me to come up with a song for different customers. She didn’t dance or sing like Wanda, but she did teach me more country western songs than anybody has a right to know.

  The following week Amber and I were finishing our lunches in the school cafeteria when John Morgan, a senior in my cultures class, plunked his tray on our table and scooted his hulk of a body next to me. I knew what was coming.

  “Wanna do something after the game Friday?” John asked, sticking three ketchup fries into his mouth.

  “No thanks,” I answered. It was painful to watch the mutilation of those fries.

  “We could do something Saturday night.”

  “Sorry, John. No.”

  “Sunday? Or next weekend? ”

  I put my hand on his, blocking his reach for more fries. “John, don’t waste your time on me. You’re a great guy, but I’m not going to go out with you.”

  He jerked to his feet, almost tipping our whole table. “Fine. Like I care.”

  “That went well,” I muttered.

  “And what’s wrong with John? ” Amber asked, sounding curious but not disapproving.

  “Can you imagine John Morgan in a tux? ” The guy was a born fullback, a position he filled nicely for the Tri-County Tigers.

  “Why would I want to imagine such a thing? ”

  “Because that’s what my prom date will be wearing.”

  “To the prom that’s half a year away? ”

  “Seven months, thirteen days,” I corrected her.

  “You’re shopping for prom dates already? ”

  “You and Mom are always telling me to plan ahead,” I reminded her.

  “For college. Not for the prom.” Amber shook her head. “So that’s why you’ve been turning down dates? You’re worried about the prom? ”

  “Not worried. Focused.”

  “You know you’ll get a date to the prom. Not that the world would end if you didn’t,” she added under her breath.

  “But that’s just it!” I knew this would be hard to explain to Amber, who probably wouldn’t care that much whether she went to prom or not. “I don’t want just any date. Like, I don’t want an imaginary prom date.”

  Amber grinned. “An imaginary prom date? Now that could be fun. If we double, could we ride in your imaginary Jag? ”

  “Not that kind of imaginary. I mean, where I drag in a friend of a friend, or some guy I knew from sixth-grade summer camp, or a son of Mom’s old school buddy and pretend we’re madly in love, the ideal prom couple.”

  “I get it.”

  “And I don’t want a used or recycled boyfriend either.”

  “So Mediocre Mark’s out? ”

  “Totally.”

  “And Mitch and Went,” Amber added.

  I nodded, but I didn’t look at her. There was still an ember in my heart for Went Smith, and it sparked a little whenever I thought about him. Mitch too. I remembered being kissed by Mitch under a cold sky and bright moon, talking about art and music. . . .

  “. . . perfect prom date? ” Amber was on a roll. “And all this time I thought you were finally getting into your classes.”

  “There’s that, too,” I said, pulling myself out of my memories. “I don’t know how it happened, but my classes turned interesting. Teachers are better this year, too.”

  “Yeah. That’s it, Bailey. Couldn’t have anything to do with you, or the fact that you know what they’re talking about in class because you’re actually reading the assignments.”

  There was no question that not dating had given me more time to study. Several nights a week, Mom and I curled up on opposite ends of the couch and read for hours. I’d polished off novels that weren’t even homework. Weird.

  Lunch ended, and Amber and I worked our way through the crowded lunchroom.

  “Ah, the drama,” Amber said, glancing over the sea of noisy juniors and seniors. “Who will be the last date standing? ”

  3

  I knew who I’d choose as my “last date standing.” Eric Strang, the gorgeous, smart, kind—did I say gorgeous?—guy in creative writing. Every day I had to look at his strong back and sandy blond hair. How hot would he be in a tux?

  I was still envisioning the handsome Eric in a tux as I plopped into my last-row seat in French class.

  “Bonjour, la classe!”bellowed Madame Jones.

  “Bonjour,” we muttered back.

  “Aujourd’hui, nous allons discuter quelque chose, et je veux que vous décidiez du sujet.”

  As always, I turned to my gothic French partner, “Mademoiselle Roni,” to translate. She was wearing a red satin sheath dress, with leather half-gloves.

  “She wants us to decide what to talk about today,” Roni whispered.

  “Not again.” We’d done this before, and the kids who understood her were the ones who chose subjects like Napoleon or majoring in French in college. It was up to me. I raised my hand.

  “Ah,” said the surprised Madame Jones. “Mademoiselle Bailey? ”

  “L’amour!” I shouted.

  My request was greeted with applause from half the class. Our teacher instructed us to come up with a list of French words relating to amour. She quickly, and wisely, excluded swearwords, slang, and coarse language. Even good ol’ Mediocre Mark knew how to ask me to go to bed with him in English, French, and Italian.

  Roni and I breezed through
the easy words: boyfriend, girlfriend, kiss, hug. I allowed my goth buddy her unusual train of thought surrounding love: death, loss, sacrifice, torture. So I took a few liberties myself: tuxedo, prom, broad shoulders, sandy blond hair, Yale bound.

  Roni stopped writing and narrowed her eyes at me. “Yale bound? ”

  I shrugged.

  She smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Don’t tell me.”

  “What? ”

  “Should I add the name Eric Strang? ”

  “How did you know? ”

  “How many people in this school do you think are headed for Yale? ”

  “Two.” I pictured Jeannette, her pale pink cashmere sweater (which cost more than my state-school tuition) tied around her shoulders as she strolled arm in arm with Eric across the Ivy League quad.

  “Not you too,” Roni said.

  “Wait. What do you mean ‘not me too’? Do you like Eric Strang? ”

  “Eeew! Gross!”

  “Are we talking about the same Eric Strang? Because there is nothing gross about the Eric I’m talking about. In fact, he’s the perfect amour.”

  She shook her head. “Not for me he isn’t.”

  “Why not? ”

  “Bailey, Eric Strang is my brother.”

  “Your what?” I must have shouted because Madame Jones shot me a dirty look.

  Roni fingered her necklace, which resembled a human molar on a leather strap. “Haven’t you noticed the family resemblance? ”

  I took in her thin, almost emaciated build, the straight black hair, the . . . well, the goth. “Not exactly.”

  She dug into a black leather bag and came out with a driver’s license that she stuck in my face. It was her picture, with the name Ronisetta Strang.

  “Ronisetta? ” I repeated.

  She whisked the license away. “Don’t ever call me that, or I’ll rip your heart out.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I’d never thought about Eric having siblings. Or Roni. Maybe only children assume everyone is sibling-free unless proven otherwise.

  Once her license was safely returned to her bag, Roni sighed. “I can’t believe you have a thing for Eric. Got to say I’m disappointed in you.”