Several voices chimed in. “Oh. Yeah!” “So awesome . . .”
“They’ve hatched,” Raya said. “Hopefully, it’ll keep going great, and our class will release a school of fingerling trout into the Bigelow River come April. So far, so good,” she added. She put both thumbs up.
Next was Sari Winkle. She tilted her head while a smile overtook her face. “I’m Sari. You know that.” She fiddled with her earring. “I guess what I would want you to know about me is that I love to make things.” She breathed a little laugh, and again there was a little hum in the room. I had the sense that any one of these kids could have introduced the others, including at least two significant facts. “I love arts and crafts. All kinds. That’s me!” Sari giggled. “I guess it’s inherited. My mom’s a graphic artist. She and I live here full-time and my dad works in New York City all week and comes home on weekends. I guess that’s all,” she said. “For now, anyway.”
On they went. I kept listening. Or, I tried.
Last, there was a smiling boy. He said, “Hi. I’m called Moss.” Then he told me his family had been dairy farmers for six generations. One of their cows once gave four gallons at a milking. He had recorded the whole thing on video. “I’d like to be a scientist. But I’ll probably end up on the farm.” He shrugged. “That’s all I can think of. I guess I’m not very significant.”
“But you’re funny,” Raya said, and my new classmates laughed. Moss seemed fine with that.
I didn’t laugh. There was something sort of sad about what he’d said. I gave him a slight nod. I was already forgetting names and facts and how they matched up. But I was going to remember the boy called Moss. He had an interesting name and a big handsome nose, and he was funny in my favorite sort of way. And he had one last, very weird thing to say: “Anyway, Lydia, it’s nice to see you again.”
See me again? What did he mean?
Then something dreadful happened. Mrs. Ossinger asked me to introduce myself, and I had to come up with a few significant facts of my own.
Oh. Which ones, which ones? My father ditched? My mother had a bad heart and I watched her turn blue and die nine days ago, and this is her sweater and I can’t bear to take it off, and I have a box of paper goddesses under the bed I’m sleeping in that no one here would understand, and there is a mouse living in the wall of my room. . . .
My head felt like it was full of those finger fish that Raya had just mentioned. Swimming all around up there, bumping into my skull.
Say something, Lydia.
“Umm . . . well, I moved here from Rochester, New York. I live with my aunt. Bratches. That’s her whole name. Just Bratches. And her wife, Eileen O’Donnell. Eileen works at the feedstore.” (I realized that this was a good mention; a lot of these kids had animals.) “You might know her. And we all live at Elloroy Harper’s place on Pinnacle Hill. It used to be a working farm”—they probably knew its history better than I did—“but, um . . . there aren’t really any animals there now. I mean not the farm kind.” I paused. I needed my lips to stop sticking. Some kids were nodding. Some were just looking at me. “Anyway I’m here to . . . help them. They need it. They just got a terrible dog.” A few kids laughed. “He’s so bad they haven’t even come up with a name to give him.” More laughing. “So I . . . try to help them with the dog. And. Just. Everything.” I was never so happy to close my own mouth.
Mrs. Ossinger said, “Welcome, Lydia. We’re glad to have you join us. We’re sure you’ll love our community.”
Why did people say things like that? Who knew if I would love it? What if I never did?
When Mrs. Ossinger went back behind her desk, Raya Delatorre stretched out of her chair to tag my shoulder. “Don’t worry about remembering everything,” she whispered. “Just ask who’s who. I’ll tell you.”
Sari leaned back to agree. “Yeah, we all know each other really well.”
Later, they walked me around so I could see the whole school. (That didn’t take long.) We ended up down in the basement library. Ah, books! Maybe art books. Somewhere. I squinted at the signs that hung above the sections. Books seemed to be sorted by grade levels.
We stayed there talking for a few minutes, my welcomers and I. I told them I liked their significant facts. “I don’t know anything about trout,” I admitted.
“I am big into fish,” said Raya. “We can go see the tanks later. Those are up in the science room. It’s in the part of the hall with the rain forest banners. We would’ve shown you but it’s also a homeroom, so it’s busy in there in the mornings. But the trout are about so big right now.” She showed me with her fingers. “Their yolk sacs are almost gone. It’s been pretty cool.”
“I’d like to see,” I said.
“You will. We’re all responsible for the tank.”
Then I turned to Sari. “You said you make things. Do you knit?” I asked. “I noticed your mittens—”
“Yes!” she squeaked. “Oh my gosh, I love to knit! Do you?”
“I do. And my . . . I do a little bit, actually. I’ve always needed help.”
“I noticed your sweater,” she said. She took a little bit of the ruffle in her fingers. “I thought to myself, That’s handmade! Someone’s an expert.”
I nodded. But I felt myself pulling back. It suddenly struck me that I had a day of testing ahead of me. “I guess I should ask you to show me to that room I’m supposed to go to. The resource room?”
“Okay, sure,” Sari said. Then she paused and leaned in just a little. Her eyes were big and blue and serious looking. She tucked her curls behind her ear and I noticed the beaded earrings again. “And Lydia,” she said softly, “we just wanted to say . . . we’re sorry. We heard that you lost your mother recently—”
“Oh, no. I didn’t lose her.” I gave my head a quick shake. I felt heat in my cheeks.
“Oh,” whispered Sari. She and Raya both looked stricken.
“She died,” I said. “It’s better to say she died.” There. I’d said what Mom had told me to say, except not the sassy, sort of funny part about how I hadn’t lost her like you’d lose a wallet or keys. I had not left her on the bus or downtown or at the flea market. I knew where she was. Sort of. So why did I feel so terrible now? So rude?
My welcomers blinked. They swallowed.
“So . . . the resource room is upstairs,” Raya said, looking out from under her purple bangs.
“Yes. Right. Lead the way!” I said, turning myself back into grinning, peppy Lydia Bratches-Kemp, new girl. Off we went, a little more silently than before.
16
A Stop at the Feed
Week one is done.
Those words played a refrain in my head as Aunt Brat and I walked down the empty hallway of the school together on Friday afternoon.
I’d been assessed. (In and out of the resource room all week.) Now Aunt Brat and I were fresh from our meeting with Ms. Abraham. We’d learned a thing or two about me.
Though I, Lydia Bratches-Kemp, had been tracked a little differently from my new schoolmates, the differences were not concerning; knowing how to learn was more important than what one has learned, apparently. I could stay with my eighth-grade classmates for all subjects. The teachers at Chelmsford would “bring me along in regard to all topics specific to its curriculum.” I’d have some reading to catch up on in these first weeks. (I was not thrilled.) But Ms. Abraham had said I’d do just fine. “We will be delighted, Lydia,” she’d said, “when you begin to contribute to discussions from your own areas of proficiency, which are evident and considerable.”
She’d really sung that last part out. Aunt Brat had sat by, beaming. I didn’t completely buy that song, nor had I missed the message that they wanted me to participate in class. Still, the news had been good, and as we reached the wide doors I smiled to myself.
Did you hear, Mom? We did all right . . . I’m smarter than they thought.
That made me snort—loudly—which meant I had to share the thought with Aunt Brat rather than just
be rude. So I did. She gave me the wry grin—the one that made her look like Mom. We pushed through the doors together and stepped into the sun.
The temperatures had come up again in Chelmsford. It’d been a rainy week. But now, so bright. Go figure.
“Let’s drop in on Eileen at the feedstore before we go home,” Aunt Brat said. Our shoulders bumped together as she spoke—accidentally, I think. “Would you mind?”
“Fine with me,” I said.
I’d been to the Feed, where Eileen worked, just once before. I’d kind of liked the place, with its sacks of feed stacked high as my chin and the square wooden bins full of birdseed and dog biscuits. Now I was trying to remember which day in the recent blur of days that had been.
This was January ninth. The ninth! I couldn’t think of any other New Year that’d brought such a pileup of changes with it.
On the ride over, I figured it out. I’d gone to the feedstore with Aunt Brat on the evening before they’d gotten the new dog. So that was last Friday. One week ago. I was pleased to have that straight in my little mental calendar. Tomorrow would be Saturday again. Two weeks since Mom died. There in the car I fought the now familiar wash of sorrow. The great gray threat, I called it, though only to myself. I was quite good at beating it—resisting a crumble-and-cry session. At some point, I’d stopped counting the days, I guessed. But right now, I needed to hold on to them.
The shop bell jangled as we let ourselves in the door at the Feed. I took in the smell—a weedy, woodsy, faintly sweet scent that I could remember from nowhere else and yet found comforting—if a little sneezy.
Eileen happened to be coming across the wide pine floor with two huge bags of chicken pellets stacked on one shoulder. (Eileen, leaning.) “Well, glory,” she said. “What a surprise! My favorite women come to see me at my toil. Huh-haw! Gotta load this onto the Perkins’ pickup.” She gave a little grunt. “Be right back. Pick out some treats for the doggie-os.” She gestured toward the biscuit bins with her free hand, then backed her way out the door.
“She’s so strong.” I said it out loud without thinking.
“Oh, I know she is,” said Aunt Brat. She grabbed a paper sack and shook it open. She held it out to me. “Care to do the honors?” she asked.
“Sure.”
The Feed was candy-shop wonderful, with its bins of biscuits in whimsical shapes and muted colors. I didn’t have to like dogs to appreciate the treats. I pushed the scoop into a bin of pink-and-ocher-colored pinwheels. Then I moved along to the tiny brown bones.
“Delicacies for dogs, hmm?” Aunt Brat offered. “It’s so satisfying to spoil them. Especially rescues, given whatever heck they might have been through. And of course we’re going through a lot of training treats with the new fella. Oh, that reminds me, I want to pick out a collar for him too. His is so faded, so ratty.”
“And he slips it,” I added.
I need not have said so. She knew. The yellow dog was an escape artist. At least ten times in less than one week he’d pulled out of the collar and run off on us. Six times he’d done it to me. I was having trouble not taking it personally. He’d trot away just fast enough that I couldn’t catch him, then go slinking along between the old barns. Then he’d look over his big blond shoulder at me. So much sass! The worst was when he’d hop off into the woods, disappear behind the layers of tree trunks, and be gone for twenty or thirty minutes. Aunt Brat and Eileen would get so worried for him, they’d take dinner off the stove, and we’d all get into our coats and boots and search. Then, like an apparition, he’d be on the front porch just staring forward, the stinker.
“He knows! He knows where home is,” Eileen would say, so pleased.
“Oh, he’s really a good boy, isn’t he?” Aunt Brat would return.
No! He isn’t! I always wanted to say it. Still, I’d felt a spark of gladness every time he had shown up again because my new adults had an unexplainable fondness for their new dog. I did not want them to lose him. Most of all, I didn’t want to be the one to lose him for them, even though I was starting to think it’d be an act of mercy. He was putting them through so much worry. And so many towels.
Oops. I’d been unconsciously plunging the scoop in and out of a bin of fish-shaped biscuits—and leaving few survivors. I dropped the scoop and rolled down the top edge of the paper bag.
Eileen came breezing back inside. She joined Aunt Brat at the rack of dog collars. “He’d be handsome in green, don’t you think?” Aunt Brat said.
“I do,” said Eileen. “If he had a name, I could cut him a nice shiny tag on the new laser, too.”
“The name is still in the works,” Aunt Brat said.
“Yep,” Eileen agreed.
It seemed unbelievable, and not a good sign, I thought, that they’d had the dog almost a week and still hadn’t managed to come up with a name that’d stick to him.
17
Shiny Prize
It was my job to get the old collar off the dog while Eileen snapped the new one on. Not-Bullet struggled against us. Soonie stood in the way of the entire operation. I accidentally caught her under her chin with my elbow and made her cry. I started to sweat.
Doesn’t anybody get it? . . . I am not a dog person. . . .
I pinched and pushed at the webbing of the old buckle-style collar, trying to unnotch it. Eileen held on to the dog. Not-Bullet kept twisting. Eileen’s knuckles got in the way of my knuckles. How could it be so hard to get a collar off a dog when he’d managed to do it for himself so many times?
I was about to suggest we use the dog’s trick and pull it over his head, when, success! The faded red collar dangled from my hand. The dog immediately closed his jaws on it and began to pull, tail wagging, butt in the air, slobber flying. Eileen still needed to clip his new collar on so I held firm, though now I had hold of nothing but the metal tags. (Not so comfortable, digging into the soft part of one’s palm, let me tell you.) Eileen snapped the new collar on.
“Phew!” she said. She sat back hard on her butt.
Mr. Yellow and I continued our tug-of-war for the old collar. Aunt Brat chimed in from the kitchen, “Looks like he wants that back.” She and Eileen laughed.
“And he may have it,” said Eileen. “All we need is that shiny prize. The new rabies tag. Bling for the baby.” She chuckled, then made a little gesture that somehow let me know that I was to get it. Great.
Actually, two tags hung from the collar on a metal S hook—one shiny, one not. I was loath to close my hand over them again, but I went for it. I leveraged a twist to spread open the hook. The tags bit into my hand! The dog shook his head. Ow-ow! I held on. Twist. Twist. I yanked upward—and I got those tags!
I let go. Not-Bullet slipped backward. He ran off, whipping the collar side to side as if he’d won. Huh!
“Did you get the tag?” Eileen asked.
I held up my fist. I forced a smile. “Yep!” I said.
“Amazing! Brava! Lydia victorious!” Aunt Brat crooned from the kitchen. She waved her cooking spoon in the air.
“Huh-haw!” said Eileen. She grunted and pushed herself up off the floor. The dog had taken his own prize to the living room rug. He held it between his paws while he gave it a good sideways chewing.
“Oh, look at him. So content,” Aunt Brat said. Her voice oozed with affection.
“Sweet old lion,” said Eileen.
Yeah . . . lion . . . after the kill. . . .
“Okay, let’s just let him enjoy that for now,” said Aunt Brat. “Our supper is ready. Don’t lose that tag. We’ll hitch it to him later. I imagine we’ll need the pliers.”
Pliers? We have pliers? I just ground the skin off my palm! I managed not to roll my eyes.
“We’ll catch him when he’s napping,” Aunt Brat went on. “Wash hands, you two, and let’s call Elloroy to supper.”
In the bathroom, I soaped the tags and my hands together. I let the water rinse the suds away. The new rabies tag was all shiny copper paint and shaped like a shield. It w
as engraved: 0967 Blountville, TN.
The old tag was different—shaped like a dog bone. It was dull silver, dented up, with only traces of green paint left on it. It was exactly the sort of thing I scavenged for art projects.
Mom will love it, I thought. I almost kept myself from the realization that she’d never see it. Almost. This was one of those moments when I felt like I was a visitor here. Soon I would go back home to Rochester and find Mom waiting for me in the little box house. I drew a big breath in through my nose. I dropped the old worn tag into the pocket of Mom’s wool sweater.
“Done in here, dolly? My turn.” Eileen wedged into the bathroom. She reached around me for the bar of soap.
“Done.” I held up the shiny copper rabies tag between my finger and thumb for Eileen to see. “I gave it a bath,” I said as I headed out the door.
“Our sweet lion will surely appreciate that,” she called after me.
Can a dog do that? I wondered. Appreciate?
18
Facing South
The dog who was not to be called Bullet looked handsome wearing his new green collar when he squatted and peed in the living room during supper that night. It only ever took him a split second to get that done.
“Oh! Oh! No!” Aunt Brat cried.
“Dang it!” said Eileen. She threw her napkin on the table.
“Uh-oh,” said Elloroy. But he sat right where he was and did not break the rhythm of his spoon dunking into his soup bowl.
A Home for Goddesses and Dogs Page 6
