I gazed up at the sky. An amber sun was setting. It reminded me of a picture my dad once took. We’d gone to the beach, and Dad had caught a candid of Mom gazing out into the ocean; the sun was just this exact color.
Mom loves seeing the sunrise over the ocean; she says it’s the most awe-inspiring, beautiful sight in the world. My dad promised that if we ever won the lottery (which was doubtful since we didn’t play), he’d buy her a house on Jupiter Island, the ritziest part of our town, where every home is beachfront and you could watch the sun rise every single day if you got up early enough.
Dad liked being by the water, too, but for him, nightfall was way cooler. He loved watching the moonbeams streaking the ink-black ocean. “There’s just something mystical about that, Gracie,” he once mused. It was a strange comment from him, since my dad was the ultimate “prove it and I’ll believe it” realist. He didn’t go for any of that “new-agey, mystical, woo-woo” stuff. Me neither.
“So you’re reading that book about the pig,” Rex said, trotting beside me.
“Pig?” I repeated, momentarily confused. “You mean The Pigman & Me.”
“And?” the dog prompted.
And what? Did I like it? Not really. I was reading it, as Rex no doubt knew, because Mr. Kassan said he’d pass me if I did a report on it, and didn’t flake on future assignments. I chose the shortest book on the list.
I felt sick every time I thought about school. If my dad knew I was flunking … well, he wouldn’t believe it. “Not my Gracie,” I could hear him saying. “She’s way too smart. You must have her confused with someone else.”
“I miss him.” My words sounded hollow and hoarse.
Rex stopped dead in his tracks, almost like a cartoon dog. He whirled around and clomped his weighty front paws down on my flip-flopped feet. Staring at me with big, marbled brown eyes, he said, “I can listen.”
“Not like him.” I slipped my feet out from under his paws and continued walking. I don’t know how long after that—five minutes? Fifteen?—when I realized we were no longer anywhere I recognized. We’d taken a turnoff somewhere, perhaps back on Indiantown Road, or maybe Haverhill, and ended up in an unfamiliar neighborhood.
There were no sidewalks. Jaggedy lawns wild with weeds spread all the way up to the street. The houses were set far apart; not one had a paved driveway. Many had foreclosure signs, and worse, one after the other was run-down or boarded up and abandoned altogether. I checked the time. Over an hour had gone by since we’d left Canine Connections. Why weren’t we home? And why hadn’t I heard from my sister?
“Don’t worry,” Rex assured me. “I know exactly where we are.”
“Share it,” I demanded. Just then, some unidentifiable small woodland creature skittered right in front of me and I jumped ten feet off the ground. I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto went through my head. But neither my head nor I found it funny.
“Relax, Francie, we’re cutting through Prosperity Farms. You know it.”
Clarification: I know of it: A. People say it used to be a nice, woodsy, rural area. B. Despite its hopeful name, neither the area nor anyone in it ever prospered. Now, it’s run-down, depleted, and mostly deserted. C. My mom would be freaked out if she knew I was here, and only partly because D. it’s nowhere near where I live.
E. If you believe the TV news, gangs run rampant and dead bodies turn up here with alarming frequency.
“Rex,” I growled through gritted teeth, “this is not the way home. What are we doing here?”
“It’s garbage pickup day—they’ll have good snacks!” he said jauntily, nosing a nearby garbage can. “Once I found a whole turkey carcass. Of course, that was right after Thanksgiving and …”
“No way! I can’t believe I let you drag me here.” My stomach twisted into a knot of panic. Why hadn’t Regan called? Or maybe she had, and I hadn’t heard the phone? She’d kill me.
With mounting fear, I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and got the answer I dreaded: no bars. No service. I needed to orient myself. As we approached a corner, I looked up at the street sign: 159th Road. I checked the cross street: 159th Lane. I was officially creeped out.
I dragged Rex to the next intersection, and was hit with the same feeling I had when I first heard him talking to me: I’ve lost my mind. It read: 159th Court. If I hadn’t gone crazy, then I’d entered the Twilight Zone, only not the one with sexy vampires and ripped werewolves. The one from that classic TV series where people end up on staircases with no exits, in elevators that never stop at your floor, in towns that don’t exist.
Rex, meanwhile, had hit paydirt: a juicy steak bone that must’ve spilled over from someone’s unlidded garbage can.
“Rex!” I stomped my foot. “Put that down and take me back the way we came. Now!”
“No problem,” he said, gnawing the bone. “Just follow me.”
“That’s what got me into trouble in the first place,” I grumbled, knowing my options were severely limited. We’d trained the dogs to lead blind people; now, blindly, I followed the dog.
Obsessively I checked for the return of bars on my phone.
“Come this way.” Rex directed me to turn onto 149th Street. “I’m almost sure this cut through will take us to your house. Toward it, anyway,” he amended.
He’s almost sure? It’s almost nightfall! I’m about ready to return him to the shelter! We zigged and we zagged, until I felt like I was trapped in a maze with no exit. I needed to find a main thoroughfare. Failing that, I needed a landline.
“Hey, there’s a light on in this house.” Rex pointed his snout toward a shabbily shingled house with a sagging front porch. “Why not see if they’ll let you use the phone? Regan might be getting nervous by now.”
I wanted to strangle the dog. Might be? I eyed the house warily. The windows were bare, and yes, there was clearly a light on inside. Cars were parked at random angles in the driveway and on the front lawn. As we approached, I could hear the insistent thump of some kind of techno-metal music.
People were home—but did I really want to find out who?
“I don’t see any other houses with lights on,” Rex prompted as I hesitated. “Unless you want to walk farther, to, say, 149th Way?”
What would Dad say to do in this situation? I pictured my big burly dad narrowing his eyes so his caterpillar eyebrows knitted together. This totally qualified as a scary situation. Should I be brave and ring the doorbell? Or run? I scoured my brain for some other Dad-sanctioned advice. All I came up with was, “Gracie, if you feel fear, there’s probably a good reason. Act on it.”
But … act how? Keep going, or trust that just because the neighborhood is gang territory doesn’t mean the big bad wolf lurks behind every door?
I took a deep breath and followed Rex up two dilapidated porch steps and tried to convince myself that maybe a nice, unthreatening person would open the door. Or, failing that, hoped Rex looked ferocious enough to scare off any stranger-danger. For his part, the dog acted unconcerned. Showing off a newly learned skill—not that anyone asked him to—Rex hoisted himself on his hind legs, and using his nose, targeted the doorbell, and pressed. LuLu would have been so proud.
It didn’t have the desired effect. All we heard was the insistent thump-thump of a backbeat—no ringing of a doorbell. Rex tried again. Still nothing.
Was no one home, contrary to appearances? A part of me was relieved at the prospect. Or was the doorbell broken?
“Go on,” Rex directed. “Knock.”
As soon as my knuckles hit the door, we heard a series of deep, throaty barks, like those of a large beast. Again, I hoped my canine companion could out-frighten whatever we were about to be greeted with.
Rex had no interest in terrorizing anyone, man or beast. Even as the door opened a crack, Rex rocketed inside the house, whooping for joy. “Otis! I thought it was you. I got a bone! Let’s play tug-of-war!”
Only I heard him, of course. And I wasn’t reacting, at least not
to Rex. The boy who’d answered my knock had eyes as black as olives, sharp cheekbones, and a head full of thick, black hair.
Anger and fear collided and squished my heart.
Not him. Not on his turf. Not in the dark. One by one, tentacles of terror coiled around me and squeezed hard. In my head, I whipped around and ran. But in reality, I stood there, quaking. And then, just for a split second, JJ Pico’s coal-colored eyes reflected something I never imagined in a boy like him: fear.
“What’re you doing here?” He sounded more scared than scary.
“I made a mistake,” I said, trying to compose myself. “Rex! Let’s go.”
Rex was nowhere to be seen. He and Otis had rough-housed their way deeper inside the house. No way was I going after them. I cupped my hands around my mouth and called, “Rex! Come! Now!”
If Rex heard, he ignored me.
“Really, man, what are you doing here?” JJ demanded, nervously peering over his shoulder. He wasn’t looking for the dogs. The cars on the lawn, the music—JJ had company.
“Look,” I said, trying to hold it together, “we got lost on the way home and …” I trailed off.
“No kidding, Magellan. You’ve got to be miles from wherever you live.”
“I need a landline,” I admitted. “It was just random that I rang your doorbell. Anyway, we’re going. Rex!”
Understanding crossed his face just then. He tilted his head up just slightly and lowered his voice. “Wait here. I’ll get you the phone—but don’t even think of calling the cops or anything. Because I was cleared …” It was his turn to trail off.
A burning fury crept up my neck. JJ Pico had been released without any criminal charges against him. But even if he’d lied about being in the car that day, his brother had been. And brothers brag—JJ had to know something. I bet he thinks I know more, too. Why else would he seem so nervous about my surprise appearance?
“Swear you won’t call the cops, I’ll give you the phone,” he repeated.
“I don’t want anything from you,” I snarled. “Just my dog.”
“Don’t be stupid,” JJ said. “You’re lost in this crap neighborhood. Stay there.” He turned and strode inside.
It would have been the moment to flee—even without Rex. But the idea of returning to the nightmare maze of streets was enough to keep me rooted.
A minute later, JJ returned bearing a cordless phone. “Make it quick.”
My fingers were shaking as I punched in Regan’s number. Luckily, she picked it up on the first ring, and I managed to tell her where I was. I disconnected over her outraged reprimands. “Thank you,” I mumbled, handing the phone back to JJ.
“Yo, man, who’s the guest?” a voice from down the darkened hallway called out.
“JJ got company? Bring her inside,” another voice chimed in.
Way before my head got the message, my heart started to pound. Without seeing them, I knew who was there. Panic rose up in me and I took a step back.
Not far enough. A face to match the menacing voice materialized over JJ’s shoulder. I didn’t recognize this guy, who wore his greasy hair in a ponytail, but I did make a gutsy guess. “Is this your brother?”
JJ’s jaw dropped, but before he could say anything, a torrent of laughter poured from ponytail guy. “She thinks I’m Tommy? That’s a hoot, man.”
I started to form a question, but was interrupted by the appearance of the heinous Hector, clutching a beer and bearing an explanation. “JJ’s brother is in jail. Surprised, with all your connections,” he sneered, “you don’t know that. Been there for two years.”
“Hey.” Chris joined the crowd at the front door. “Her again? What’s going on, man? Why you hangin’ with the cop’s kid?”
“Not anymore.” Hector snickered. “Cop’s dead.”
Something inside me snapped. With a stupidity I didn’t know I had, I reared back and spit in Hector’s face. I got him in the eye.
Hector shoved JJ out of the way and came at me. I was a dead girl …
… Or would have been, but three things got between Hector and me: a white poodle, a raggedy mutt—and JJ Pico.
The dogs were barking wildly, JJ was shouting, and I was ready to hurl another loogey when the screech of Regan’s tires as she came flying around the corner on two wheels sent me and Rex bolting down the driveway.
12
What if I’m Not Crazy?
There was no question of dinner that night. I was choked with anger. I was furious at JJ for his bold-faced lie—he had been in the car with those monsters, and he knew who had pulled the gun. I was enraged at the police for not convicting them in the first place, and at Regan for always being late. Mostly I was infuriated with myself for moronically following the dog. I stormed off to my room, where I could lock myself in, and everyone else out. Too wound up to sit still, I paced, kicking hard at the piles of stuff littering the floor, the inside-out clothes, smelly socks, unlaced sneakers, Mom’s scrapbooks, the book I was trying to read for school, and random photos. What was once merely messy was now an official trash heap: the detritus of my life for the past six months.
It isn’t fair! I wanted to punch the walls, throw the window open, and scream so loudly that when I stopped everything would be back to the way it used to be.
I’m not a tantrum thrower. I never was. We already had one drama queen in the family. I guess I figured there wasn’t room for two. When I was really young, and succumbed to the occasional meltdown, I could count on a predictable pattern. I’d get a time-out, or denied TV, or be grounded, but I knew my dad would eventually show up bearing a bowl of ice cream. It was always vanilla fudge, my favorite. That was his signal: I’d served my time, all was forgiven, and life could go back to normal.
When I got older and faced some injustice, I called Mercy, or Jazz, or even Kendra and went on a venting spree until I was calm. Failing that, at least I could usually lose myself in a book, a movie, a school assignment if necessary. I used to be able to drown out the world by turning the music way up. I had coping skills.
Skills that had deserted me now. I couldn’t even cry.
“Let me in, please, Niecy, I can explain everything.” On the other side of the door, Rex whimpered. As far as I was concerned, he could whine all night. My room was off-limits to him.
Eventually, I stopped pacing and kicking, slid down the wall, and curled into a ball. A picture of me and my dad, taken at the sixth-grade father-daughter dance, was sticking out of a pile on the floor. I picked it up. Between the wrong poufy dress and worst haircut ever and pre-contact lenses, I looked like a frizz-topped matzo ball with bad glasses. My expression was one of appropriate mortification.
My dad might have had his arm around an Olympic gold medalist or a rock star: He was beaming with pride. His cheek-to-cheek smile lit up the room. His eyes, large and round and sky blue, sparkled.
Regan’s eyes. Ironic how she’d inherited my dad’s exact coloring but not an iota of his other traits. At the memorials, they called my dad “tough but fair.” At home he was the softy. My mom had been the disciplinarian.
“How could you leave me?” I demanded of the picture. The only response was Rex, scratching at the door.
“Go away!” I growled, and went to work on the photo, ripping it again and again, into a million little pieces.
“I have to talk to you!” Rex pleaded.
Dogs don’t talk.
“I can explain …”
Dogs don’t lead unsuspecting thirteen-year-olds to bad neighborhoods.
“… about JJ.”
And they don’t lead victims to predators.
Believing Rex did all those things proved I’d sailed past merely wacko into crazy town.
And I was flunking out of school.
If nothing else was real, that was. The copy of The Pigman & Me stuck out from under a balled-up T-shirt, mocking me.
What if I’m not crazy?
Ping! A sliver of a thought popped up in a corner of my bra
in. Like those jarring ads for an upcoming TV show that appear on the bottom of the screen when you’re watching something else—small but impossible to ignore.
What if I played it out, just for a minute. That, what? The dog is talking, but only to me. Because, why? He’s not really a dog, but some otherworldly being, a spirit, an angel in the body of a mangy mutt. And he’s come to me … why? I shook my head wildly, fisted my hands, and rubbed hard at my eyes.
I’d gone way too far. There’s no such thing as otherworldly beings; neither angels nor devils and especially not dogs-who-are-really-spirits.
“Grace, it’s Mom—please let me in.”
How long had she been at the door? Reluctantly, I uncoiled myself and stood up. I was a mess. Dried sweat had wrinkled my top, my shorts. I swiped tendrils of springy frizz behind my ears.
In contrast, Mom was put together, all made-up, freshly shampooed hair, cute outfit. She’d even gotten a manicure, I noticed. She was holding a tray with my dinner.
I’m not hungry, I wanted to say, but the words never came out. The aroma was tantalizing. She’d made chicken, steamed mixed vegetables, and—this is what made my mouth water against my will—shoestring french fries. That was Dad’s from-scratch specialty. He used to peel potatoes, put them through a special slicer called a mandolin to get them really thin, and then deep-fry them. My mom claimed to be fried-food averse, but even she could never resist Dad’s crunchy-salty potatoes. That she attempted to make them herself sent my battered heart plunging.
“I’ll put this down on your desk,” she said, crossing the room. She managed to avoid stepping on anything, and tactfully, didn’t comment on the waste heap.
“Thanks,” I said, swiping a couple of T-shirts off the floor and tossing them on my bed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Rex slink in.
“I know you’re mad at your sister,” Mom said, “and it sounds like you have good reason, but you can’t let anger consume you.”
What the Dog Said Page 7
