“Why those things?” Trevor asked.
“In her speech she said that by the time her time capsule would be opened, fresh water would be scarce — only to be used for drinking and not playing around in.”
“When does the time capsule get opened?” Trevor asked.
“Fifty years!” Miller said.
“Fifty years is a really long time,” Noah said. “You should see the old guys at the veterans’ hospital. I bet most of them are fifty!”
“Fifty years!” Trevor said. He whistled and shook his head.
Fifty years until the time capsule was reopened was practically forever. Then again, a mere six weeks to Miller’s birthday was practically forever, too. Trevor wasn’t going be around for either event. But he didn’t let himself dwell on those sad thoughts. He took back his bag of trail mix and scarfed down the last of it.
Trevor was shutting his locker at the end of the day and was about to hoist his knapsack onto his back when he remembered that he had left his jacket by the school fence during the afternoon recess. It was his new dark blue one with the orange zippers and it fit him perfectly, not too long in the arms. His dad had brought it back from one of his flights overseas, and his mom would kill Trevor if he came home without it, so he charged out the back door of the school to the soccer field.
No one was around.
Trevor reached the fence line where he had left his jacket.
Only his jacket wasn’t there.
Had someone taken it?
Doubtful. His jacket would be too small for most others to wear.
Had he left it somewhere else?
Trevor scanned the fence line on his left, and then he turned and scanned the right-hand side. Behind the fence was a back alley where the neighborhood houses kept their garbage cans and gardening sheds. He could smell a mixture of grass clippings and sour milk in the warm spring breeze.
He turned to scan the soccer field.
Wait.
There was his jacket, hanging from one of the soccer goalposts. Maybe a playground monitor had moved it there so that it would be easier for the owner to spot.
Trevor was about to leave the fence line when he heard a sound.
It was a familiar sound, a sound he was guaranteed to hear every Wednesday afternoon.
It was the happy sound of a dog shaking itself.
Trevor turned to the sound. He sucked in his breath.
It was a fleeting glimpse, the shortest of visions. It was there and then it was not there.
A dog. Certainly a dog. A dog with spots. A dog with spots shaking its head and body and then its legs. A dog with spots glancing at Trevor while turning a tight circle as if chasing its tail, then disappearing behind a row of garbage cans.
And then nothing.
Trevor stared in disbelief.
Surely he was seeing things. There wasn’t really a spotted dog. There couldn’t be. Mr. Fester’s dog was long gone.
He stared and stared at the place where the spotted dog had disappeared, his heart pounding, his ears straining to hear something more.
But all he heard was the sound of children laughing in one of the backyards, a blue jay cawing like a squeaky clothesline and the distant roar of an airplane soaring high overhead.
Where was Loyola? He had to tell Loyola.
No. Wait.
Should he tell Loyola?
After all, he couldn’t be sure of what he’d seen. Why get her upset?
Trevor waited some more.
The spotted dog did not reappear.
It was nothing, Trevor reasoned, backing away from the fence. I’m just out of sorts today because I’ll miss Miller’s birthday party, because I won’t be around to see the opening of our class’s time capsule in fifty years, because Mr. Fester still thinks he has a dog.
Trevor walked over to fetch his jacket, all the while convincing himself that he was seeing things.
And he was right.
He was.
That’s why he didn’t look back at the row of garbage cans.
Seven
—
More Sightings
ALL WEEKEND, Trevor was plagued by thoughts of what he had seen or not seen in the alley, while his parents continued to pack away the things that he would not see again until they had moved to their new place.
Those worrying thoughts about Buster made him cranky at every turn. He kept trying to pick a fight, but there were no takers. Both his mom and dad were in spectacularly good moods, because the prospect of moving again meant they were going to fly different types of airplanes, just the kind of experience they were looking for.
“Don’t pack my kite,” Trevor warned his mom as she headed upstairs with a stack of flattened boxes.
“Of course not,” she said cheerily. “Not until the end, like always.” She paused. “Is something wrong?”
Trevor shifted on the couch. He had been trying to read a new mystery book that Mr. Easton had suggested called To Catch a Bicycle Thief, but with all the goings-on around him, it was hard to concentrate.
“Can we get a dog when we move?” Trevor blurted.
He already knew the answer because he had asked a hundred times before, and the reply was always the same. So why bother asking?
Guilt. That’s why. Edward Pond’s lecture about motivation flashed in his mind.
His mom sighed. She leaned her stack of boxes against the stair railing and came over to sit down beside him.
“What’s eating you?” she asked. “Not the move, is it?”
“No,” Trevor said glumly, staring into his book without reading a word.
“Well, what then?” his mom insisted, gently closing his book.
“I just want a dog, that’s all. I like the ones I’m walking each week, but none of them are mine.”
“I’m sure you’re taking great care of them,” his mom said, skillfully preempting his usual argument that he’d take good care of a dog, so she needn’t worry. “But we move too much and it’s hard to rent a place that allows dogs. You know that, pumpkin.”
Pumpkin. She always called him that when she had to tell him something difficult. Whenever he heard that nickname, he went straight to high alert. Unless she was offering pumpkin pie, which was his favorite dessert. Then he came running.
His mom made excellent pumpkin pie.
Suddenly he was hungry for pumpkin pie.
“Will you make me a pumpkin pie?”
“What? This weekend? I was planning to get ahead of the schedule by packing some of the kitchen.”
Trevor knew the drill. The kitchen was always one of the last rooms to pack and one of the very first to unpack. That, and the beds. His mom usually baked a pumpkin pie almost as soon as they had settled. The smell instantly made the new house feel like home.
But if there was to be no pumpkin pie this weekend, Trevor went right back to trying to pick a fight.
“Miller’s having a birthday party at the go-cart track and I’m invited,” he said.
“That’s wonderful,” his mom said, falling into Trevor’s trap. “You’ve wanted to try the track ever since we arrived. I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to take you ourselves.”
“I’m not going,” he said flatly.
“Why not?”
“It’s in July.”
“Oh,” his mom said. She patted his knee. “You’ve really enjoyed your time at Queensview, haven’t you?”
It was true. Trevor had really enjoyed his time. It was because of the people he had gotten to know. Really gotten to know. Mr. Easton. Mr. Fester. He paused. Loyola.
“Yes,” he said glumly, making no effort to hide his feelings.
Even though he knew that the move wasn’t his mom’s fault — not really — he still wanted to punish her, because he suddenly realiz
ed that he was pretty sure he had seen a spotted dog in that alley and he had no idea what to do about it.
And he couldn’t exactly tell her about that, either. What would he say?
Hey, Mom, I think I may have tricked an old man’s family into thinking that he couldn’t take care of himself because the old man had all this crazy talk about a spotted dog that doesn’t exist, only there probably is a spotted dog, but too bad for the old man whose house is now up for sale.
“Tell you what,” his mom said. “If I can get the winter clothes packed, I’ll see about baking that pumpkin pie.”
Trevor tried, but it was hard to stay mad at his mom who, despite being in the throes of yet another move, would stop to make him his favorite dessert.
“With whipped cream?” he asked, pushing his luck.
“Of course,” she replied as she got up.
“Thanks,” Trevor muttered. And then, “Where’s Dad flying to today?”
“Winnipeg.”
“How long?”
“Back tomorrow.”
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Trevor said, glad he was feeling better.
A doorbell usually meant some kind of package or delivery had arrived. But when he opened the door, it was Miller on the front porch.
“Some of the guys are meeting at the soccer field with their kites. Want to come?” Miller asked.
He was carrying his rolled-up kite which, when unrolled, was the shape of a white box with a small red dot and a larger blue dot on it, and pointy black bits trailing on the corners. Miller said it was a Korean fighter kite, and it did look ominous, only Miller wasn’t all that skilled at flying it. There were plenty of grass stains on the white bits.
“Mom, where’s my kite?” Trevor bellowed.
“Still in your closet,” she replied from somewhere inside the house.
“Be right out,” Trevor said to Miller.
He rushed upstairs to his bedroom closet and pulled out his kite, which his mom had bought for him at a famous store called Sky High Kites on one of her trips.
It was an awesome kite. It was shaped like a Canada goose with a wind-inflated body and wings, a long black neck and black, white and brown markings. The only thing missing was the quack.
Both Trevor’s parents were big kite fans. They each had their own kite. His dad’s was in the shape of an orbiting satellite, and his mom’s kite looked like an origami airplane made out of lined notepaper.
“I hope I have better luck today with the wind,” Miller lamented as they walked along the sidewalk. “I don’t think my kite is going to take many more crashes. Maybe it’s just too heavy.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” Trevor said. “Airplanes are heavy but they fly.”
“But isn’t lighter better?” Miller asked.
“Not necessarily,” Trevor said. “You need large wings to create the lift into the air to overcome the weight of your kite. But your kite must also be strong enough to take the force of the wind. So you need a balance. Light plus strong. Just like an airplane.”
“Oh, that’s right. Your parents are pilots. What’s that like?”
“No big deal,” Trevor said. “We get to fly for free. That’s about it.”
“I’d love to fly all the time,” Miller said.
“When it’s free, it’s not so special,” Trevor admitted.
“And you move a lot, too,” Miller said.
Trevor could feel Miller tense up beside him. Miller was not the type who liked to talk about feelings or sad things or about anything that wasn’t about to explode, burst into flames or crash in some hilarious way. Especially on such a blue-sky day.
“Hey! Is that Noah?” Trevor asked as they came onto the school’s soccer field, changing the topic to something happier.
The wind was stiff, but not too stiff. Trevor got his kite up on the second try. Noah got his kite up, too, a blue-and-orange two-stick diamond kite with a long trailing tail of bow ties. The bow ties reminded Trevor of Mr. Fines.
When Craig arrived, he flew his delta kite with its triangular shape, extra batons for strength and keel. Craig could make his delta fly at really steep angles and swoop at the other kites. He was a menace.
Bertram was late on account of the shoe shopping he had to endure with his mom, during which she made him try on one hundred pairs, none of them as comfortable as the sneakers with holes he was still wearing. Bertram didn’t own a kite, so Trevor let him fly his from time to time.
Meanwhile, Miller repeatedly crashed his Korean fighter kite to the point of no repair. Holding bits and pieces in his hands, he turned to Trevor.
“Can I try yours?” he asked.
“You’re joking, right,” Trevor said, his eyes glued to his goose in the sky.
But his eyes weren’t always glued to his kite. Not entirely.
Every once in a while, he glanced at the back alley beside the soccer field where he thought he may have seen a spotted dog the day before. The alley remained ordinary in every way.
Rows of garbage cans and recycling bins.
Bikes leaning against garden sheds, abandoned in haste.
Sheets and pillowcases pinned to sagging clotheslines, snapping in the wind.
No spotted dog.
Suddenly, a crash rang out. It sounded like a metal garbage can lid hitting the pavement.
Trevor nearly let go of his kite.
“What was that?” he demanded.
The other boys barely shrugged, way too busy with their kite flying to care about a garbage can lid.
“Here,” he said to Bertram, handing over the reel for his kite, “but keep clear of Miller.”
Bertram happily took hold.
Trevor cautiously made his way over to the fence line. His heart was racing and his mouth went dry. What was he about to see?
Nothing, apparently. Nothing that had made that crashing sound, anyway. Just the breeze blowing in his ears. For all Trevor knew, that crashing sound might have even come from inside one of the houses, now that everyone was keeping their windows open to let in the warm spring air.
“What are you doing?” Bertram called to Trevor.
“Just seeing something,” he called back.
“Seeing what?”
Trevor hesitated. What, exactly, should he say? The thought of telling the boys about the spotted dog, about the old man that he may have betrayed, about the terrible guilt he was feeling was too hard for words.
And then a wave of anger hit him. How did this happen? Why did he care so much? What made him get so involved?
Trevor made a vow then and there. When he moved, he would return to his standard routine — try new things, join new groups, but don’t get to know anyone too well. Or look what happens.
“Time to fly,” he muttered to himself.
“Miller wants a turn on your kite,” Bertram called out.
Miller was standing right beside Bertram, grabbing at the string.
Trevor turned to the boys.
“Hold on,” he called back, and strode in their direction, refusing to take a backward glance at the alley.
When Trevor arrived home after the kite flying, his dad met him at the door. He was in his uniform and on his way to Winnipeg.
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” he told Trevor and kissed him on the forehead. “Save a piece of your mom’s pumpkin pie for me for breakfast,” he added.
“I will,” Trevor said.
Trevor liked his pumpkin pie warm, right out of the oven, but his dad liked his pumpkin pie cold from the fridge. He said that pumpkin pie tasted even better the next day.
Or maybe that was just how his dad had gotten used to eating it, flying around so much that he was rarely home when the pie came out of the oven. Trevor couldn’t be sure.
Hi
s dad pulled out his car keys and headed down the steps.
“Hey, Dad?” Trevor said.
His dad turned.
Again, Trevor hesitated. Should he tell his dad about the spotted dog?
Trevor knew his dad didn’t mean to, but he jiggled his keys, a sure sign that he was in a hurry to go. There was an airplane with its passengers waiting, after all.
“Safe travels,” Trevor said, his standard goodbye.
“Roger that,” his dad said, giving him a salute.
He climbed into his car, and Trevor went inside the house.
“Smells great, Mom,” he called out.
The air was thick with warm cinnamon, nutmeg and brown sugar. And while Trevor ate his large slice of still-warm pumpkin pie with extra whipped cream, he almost forgot about the spotted dog that he may or may not have seen.
Almost.
But not quite.
It was the first Monday morning in June. Trevor and the rest of the grade-six class sat cross-legged on the shiny wood floor of the auditorium, all staring up at the stage. There Ms. Albright, the school secretary, stood holding a large basket. Inside the basket were the names of each and every grade-six student written on folded slips of paper. Mr. Easton was swirling his hand in the basket, making a big deal out of picking one single name.
The students buzzed in anticipation.
Mr. Easton plucked a slip of paper from the basket and held it up for all to see.
“And the Queensview Elementary student chosen to be this year’s time-capsule participant is …”
He unfolded the paper and read the name. Then he held the piece of paper out for Ms. Albright to read. She smiled.
“Trevor Tower!”
Whoops and cheers flew all around Trevor with lots of thumps on the back and friendly shoves.
“Congratulations, Trevor!” Mr. Easton exclaimed.
Trevor beamed. He had never won anything before. Or if he had, he had never stuck around to hear the results.
“What are you going to put in your time capsule?” Noah asked as everyone stood to go back to class, now that the selection was over.
“Don’t know,” Trevor admitted. “I’ll have to think about it.”
With each family move, Trevor had worked hard not to leave anything behind. It was strange to think that this time he could fill a locker with whatever he wanted, and the contents would be safe in one place for fifty years.
The Missing Dog Is Spotted Page 8
