Effective. I don’t know this word but something in the way Caleb says it stings like goo on red, raw hands.
Tessa smiles. “I’m glad you’ve been looking into it. I’m not all that worried about Luna being effective. If she makes you happy, she’s doing her job.”
Caleb blinks. He doesn’t seem to understand this duty of mine.
“So what did you think of our first group counseling session?” Tessa asks. “I’d like for you to return. Maybe someone there can finally beat you at chess.”
Tessa titters, Caleb does not. He blinks. The air rushes like wind over water.
“I’m not sure that’s the best direction to take, Ms. Tessa,” he says. “I’m very comfortable with where we are now.”
Tessa smiles warmly, and the air around Caleb calms. She can do that; she can smile like a sunflower turning to the sky and the wind somehow settles. “Oh, I am too. But comfortable isn’t really where we grow.”
And then Caleb does something he’s never done before. He looks at me and says, “Will Luna be there again too?”
I thought Caleb never cared if I was there or not. I thought he’d never really noticed me beyond a small pat or tiny tug or an offering of a bowl of water. I thought he believed I wasn’t effective. Sometimes, something shifts—a tree falls, a mudslide occurs—and a rushing river is forced to take a different route through the dark woods. Caleb’s river just took a new route.
“Definitely,” Tessa says. “Luna is always by our side.”
I am. I am always by your side, I promise. This part of duty comes easy to me.
Caleb doesn’t pet me, doesn’t tug my ears. He stands, nods at Tessa. He douses his red, raw hands with a squirt of that clear goo. He rubs the goo all over his palms. Together we wince.
“I’ll try again. Just once though. One more try.”
6
Hector the River Rock
A river rock anchors itself in earth, and what might have been sharp edges are now honed. Chipped off by the world. Worn down, you might even say. But stubborn. Steadfast. River rocks wish only to plant themselves in a go go go world.
Hector is just such a rock. He’s used to everyone else’s pace feeling different from his. So after he enters the trailer with his bike in tow (he always wrestles his bike into this tiny space), Tessa asks, “Group counseling again?” Hector just shrugs and says, “All right.”
For Hector, the lace curtains are closed tight. Sunlight still seeps through the holes, but it’s mostly dark. Hector likes calm dark.
“Can you bring your hoverboard?” Tessa asks. “I know it’s likely bulky, but Beatrice is really excited to see it.”
“I’ll bring the hoverboard,” he says. “That girl needs to see it float.”
He lays his dark furry head on my belly and closes his eyes. We’re tired, I feel. Not sleepy. Weary. My eyes droop and burn. I yawn. And we agree to whatever Tessa asks, because that’s easiest.
7
Nothing in Common Except
Humans move through time by slicing it into seconds, minutes, hours. Dogs move through time in a rainbow of colors: days begin with pink, then yellow, then white, orange, lilac, blue, purple, black. Humans would see a lot more beauty in their world if they saw it through rainbows instead of timepieces.
Tessa and I move through several rainbows before another group meeting with the Knot, the Shadow, the Waterfall, the Rock. This time Tessa places a chessboard, a deck of cards, and some clackety dice on the tables. “We’ll play some games first, then we’ll move into doing a group sand tray,” she tells me. She tells herself.
Caleb arrives first and sets up the chessboard, gingerly placing the pieces on their squares in a way that reminds me of when Tessa says, “Stay, Luna.” He sits, lean and knobby as a pile of sticks, waiting for an opponent. I sit next to him, as erect as he sits. We feel as jittery as crickets.
“Has Luna had dinner, Ms. Tessa?” Caleb asks. He looks at her, not me.
Tessa smiles. “She has! Thank you for asking about her, Caleb.”
He nods once, like he can check that item off a list he has inside his head.
Amelia and Beatrice squeeze through the doorway at the same time. “Dude. Sorry about that green paint,” Beatrice says to Amelia. “I really did like your painting.” Beatrice has new hair today, a pop of pink like Tessa’s bubble gum.
Amelia shrugs but smiles down at her cowboy boots. Her sundress swirls around her as she sits near the cards and begins sorting them by their pictures. She twines her fingers into the ropes that wind around her head.
Tessa looks at her wrist-collar, the one that slices up the seconds. “I guess we should go ahead and get started—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Beatrice says, knocking her knuckles on the table. “Where’s the other dude? The kid with the bike?”
“Hector,” Tessa says. “I’m not sure. But it’s time for us to start, and—”
“I bet that hoverboard of his doesn’t work,” Beatrice says, leaning back in her chair. “So he’s blowing us off. Just didn’t come! Hmmph. I didn’t know that was an option.”
Caleb nibbles his lip. He is trying not to say the words that sit on his tongue, but rushing water often can’t be stopped. “No one’s forcing you to be here.”
Beatrice snorts. Leans farther back in her chair and balances one shoe on the opposite knee. She is showing the others the teeth on her shoes, and it makes me think of growling dogs.
“Au contraire, friend,” Beatrice says. “My mom is most definitely forcing me to be here.”
A little prick stabs Tessa at that remark, a jab from a thorn. “We’re all here to learn and grow. Now, before we begin, I have to tell you—”
Shouting from upstairs slices through the air like a sharp knife. “What are you doing here, Steve? This isn’t your night! I have Caleb on Tuesdays!”
Caleb sits even more erect, if that’s possible. I know from past meetings that this is Caleb’s mother’s voice. He burns like a hot road. I move toward him, unsure if he wants me near.
Footsteps pound overhead. Another voice, a man. “You thought you could just change him over to group counseling and not tell me?” This is Caleb’s father speaking. Shouting.
“Steve, his counselor recommended . . .” The next few shouts are muffled by footsteps and moving furniture. A chair? I cock my head at Caleb. His neck is taut, but he shows no emotion. The rush of water inside him is strong, drowning out everything else.
All eyes in this basement look up to the grungy water-stained ceiling. All eyes avoid looking at each other.
Tessa crumples like a ball of paper, hearing the yelling from above. She clears her throat. “So, kids,” she begins. “This obviously isn’t ideal, but—”
“Surely one-on-one counseling would be better . . . ,” Caleb’s father yells, then fades. There is more pounding of feet, more grumbling of voice.
“Hey, listen, I agree,” says a different woman’s voice through the ceiling. “If my insurance would keep covering the one-on-one sessions, you bet your sweet bippy my girl would be in those. There’s not even enough chairs in this crappy room for all of us to sit and wait.”
Beatrice pushes up suddenly from the table, her metal chair screeching like a hawk as she shoves it backward. She jabs a finger at the ceiling. “My mother, ladies and gentlemen.” This knot is tight.
Now a fourth voice chimes in from upstairs, another male voice: “Everyone, everyone! No need to shout. Quiet down. Quiet down.”
At this Amelia stands, gestures at the voice through the ceiling, and curtsies with her long, flowy skirt. Bowing, I think humans call it, but this doesn’t seem playful like a dog’s bow. Caleb sucks in a sharp breath. Amelia and Beatrice doing this, each claiming their own yelling voice, has somehow slowed the rush of water in his head. But no one dares talk. The Knot, the Shadow, the Waterfall: all await the next shout from above. There always seems to be another shout from above.
Tessa senses how much these yelling adu
lts are dampening her session, staining it like the rusty water blots staining the ceiling overhead. As the voices continue shouting, she stands. She’s an angry bee, buzzing mad, which is rare for Tessa. “I’m going to tell them to quiet down, okay? Their behavior is an unwelcome interruption. Please, go ahead and start playing a few games. I will be two minutes.”
Tessa dashes up the stairs two at a time, saying, “Excuse me, folks? We need to chat a second. . . .”
Beatrice cracks her knuckles, surveys the room. I try to get a read on her, but she’s clenched tighter than a fist. She stalks to a bright red plastic hook on the wall, pushes her sleeves up to her elbows. “If I pull the fire alarm, that’ll hush ’em up.”
The Shadow shrinks, folds in on herself. Amelia does something I’ve never heard her do: she wails like an injured puppy. Shakes her head. No; shakes her whole body. Her eyes are wide, her face pale and clammy. I dash to her side, lean against her. We are all pulse and saliva.
Beatrice holds her hands up, palms out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she says, walking backward away from the red plastic. “I won’t do that. I promise. I’ll . . .” She scans the room again, a hawk searching prey. She spots it.
Beatrice pushes one of the white plastic tables, and it moans across the concrete floor. It slams against the far wall. Amelia has collapsed into a nearby chair, but she’s stumbled away from the blister of panic and is now watching the Knot pull tight.
Caleb picks at the hem of his cargo shorts. “What are you doing?”
Beatrice grabs one of the screaming metal chairs and places it on top of the table. She tests her shaky creation, then climbs up this pyramid. It wobbles and sways. She clicks the latch on the small dirty window near the basement ceiling and props it open. Hot Texas air pushes inside. It matches Beatrice’s anger.
“I’m going to find that kid. That . . . Herman.”
“Hector,” Caleb says. His forehead crinkles. “Why? To see a crummy hoverboard?”
“YES, to see a crummy hoverboard!” Beatrice snaps.
She is standing on a chair on a table on the floor, and she wobbles. This whole decision wobbles. Alarm blooms in Beatrice’s chest as she sways atop the chair, but she regains her balance. Beatrice always somehow regains her balance. I love her for that.
“No,” she says, changing her mind from the top of her creation. Humans do that a lot: say yes and no to the same thing. “Because I’m sick and tired of people claiming to be something they’re not! Because I’m sick and tired of people giving up on me!” She realizes that was too loud, though, because she pauses for a moment, breathes, and her voice drops to a low, hissing whisper. “That kid was so excited to show us his invention. Don’t you want to know why he blew us off? Don’t you want to know why he doesn’t want to be friends with us?”
The three of them stand in silence, a tense triangle: the Knot teetering high above them, the Shadow and the Waterfall looking up at her. Those three things—Knot, Shadow, Waterfall—have very little in common.
Except, perhaps, this. This wondering: Why does everyone give up on me? Because the Shadow now nods. Amelia’s jaw is taut, and she nods. Yes. Yes, she too wants to know why Hector doesn’t want to be friends.
Beatrice beams, scrambles through the basement window. Her tank top rips on the rusty metal frame as she scrambles out, and she mutters a word that makes Caleb blink repeatedly.
Amelia scales the table-chair mountain as though she were made of air, and she hoists herself gently out the window.
This is far, far outside of the routine Tessa and I have built. My tail droops with worry.
The Knot and the Shadow lean back through the window. “You in?” the Knot says to the Waterfall. “Because if you are, you gotta come now. I figure we’ve got about two more minutes before Tessa finds out we’re gone. She and our parents will come looking for us.”
Caleb chews on his bottom lip. Looks at me. Looks at the window. “My parents won’t come looking for me,” Caleb mutters, and he begins to climb. He really doesn’t need the chair; he’s tall enough to pull himself through the window just by standing on the table. “Do you even know where Hector lives?” he asks as he kicks his legs to propel himself up.
No no no! I plead. My clients—my humans—have found the broken place in the fence where they can escape. They are puppies, scampering away, far from home, and they’re not even chipped! How will they find their way?
I have to go with them. I can’t let them wander away without me. It is my duty to protect them. I made a promise to do exactly that when I began my training. Plus, my heart is too twined with their hearts. I whine and leap atop the table. It wobbles, sways, and I whimper more. The plastic feels cold and weird on my paw pads.
“Luna, NO!” Beatrice says, looking inside at me teetering on the table. “Stay!” She gently lowers the window back down. Through the glass I can see their feet still standing there, I can feel them figuring out their plan.
“You’re not our dog, Luna! Stay!” Caleb says. That part stings. Of course I’m their dog.
I’m their dog.
If I go with them, I will most certainly give up all the credits that I’ve earned toward being a therapy dog. I am four visits away, three if this meeting counts. A whisker away. Almost.
Will they still let me be a therapy dog if I go?
Will they let me be one if I don’t?
I try to remember if we covered runaway clients in my training. My instinct tells me: I can’t let them just wander away. These clients, these humans—I love them. They are my pack. My duty. They are still full of holes that haven’t yet been filled, and my job is to fill them. To guide them. My job is to be their moon.
I jump atop the chair, and it trembles like a mad dog. I have a choice: leap for the window or crash to the floor.
I leap. My front paws and head push through the still-unlatched window. The edge of it crashes against my shoulders. My back legs kick kick kick frantically, and I knock over the chair. It clatter-crashes to the basement floor.
“Luna!” Caleb and Beatrice both shout. They realize they have to pull me through to join them, rather than let me fall backward onto the hard concrete floor. They tug and pull. I kick and whine. And I make it through.
But there’s no time to catch my breath. Beatrice looks in at the mess I made kicking over the chair. “Tessa’s coming,” she whispers as we hear footsteps inside. “Let’s go!”
And we run.
8
Pickle Pressure
We run downhill, down a wide, paved road covered in Texas grit. Cars parked in a large lot bounce sunlight all around, looking like a cluster of stars and amplifying the heat. Candy-colored storefronts blare music and people bang out drumbeats on plastic buckets. I feel Amelia’s heart pull toward the rhythm. Food smells tickle the air: tacos and pastries and burgers.
“Luna,” Beatrice huffs. “You can’t come with us. Go away.”
I can’t leave them. I know my duty.
Humans sleep in doorways and slump against street signs. I try to feel what they feel, these tired humans asleep on the streets, but the emotion around them is fuzzy static, as hard to sort through as sand. My forehead wrinkles; I hope they find the rest they need.
When I glance back up the street, past our yellow church on the hill, I see Austin’s famous pink dome peeking between sleek skyscrapers. Tessa always smiles at that dome when it catches her eye. She calls it the Texas State Capitol, says with breathy awe that it’s the largest state capitol building in the U.S.
“Luna!”
I hear Tessa’s voice weave around buildings, slice through smells. My heart pulls to it. But the kids must hear it too, because Amelia grabs Beatrice’s wrist and pulls her into a tight, stale alley. It is wet with things other than this morning’s rainwater, dotted with fuzzy mushrooming cigarette butts. Caleb shudders to run through this grime, but he follows. Amelia splashes through this alley and pushes against each of the doors. At last, one is open, and she scoots
through a creaky wooden entrance, still gripping Beatrice by the wrist. Caleb and I follow.
Inside, in the dark, we pant, both me and my humans. Caleb looks at his mud-spattered shoes and mutters, “Aw man! I left my backpack back there.”
This darkness is odd. My spine tingles. My fur prickles. A grumble rolls around in my belly.
The kids press their backs against the wall, suck in heaving breaths. I can sense the goose bumps that rise on their skin as their weak human eyes adjust to this dark, dark room.
“What IS this place?” Caleb breathes.
The light in here is blue-black, and it makes all the colors look juicy. Overripe. The pinks burn too pink, the greens glow. The lights point up at a looming massive beast, peering through tall grass with wide eyes and huge nostrils and giant, grabbing hands.
Amelia stumbles backward. This monster? So . . . musty. I sneeze: wachooo!
Beatrice reaches up, slowly, slowly, toward the beast. I growl. She looks at me, winks. “It’s okay, Luna.”
Beatrice knocks thump thump on the beast’s plastic nose. “King Kong,” she says. “How’d you get in here?”
“Better question,” says Caleb’s muffled voice from around a curtained corner. “How do we get out?”
It is a dark maze, this building, and around every corner is another odd beast: A human with sharp, pointy teeth. “’Sup, Dracula?” Beatrice says, flicking her thumb against one of his fangs. A thing that is half-man, half-dog. “Wolfman! Always a treat. Milk-Bone dog biscuit treats, to be exact.” A beast in an odd helmet, with too-long arms. “High five, aqua dude. Or, well, high three,” she says, reaching down to smack his weird, webbed fingers.
At every turn, my hackles rise, and another figure looms. But they’re all still. Plastic. Dusty. Fake. We pass a display with a small wooden box inside and a sign that Caleb reads aloud: “‘Museum of the Weird employees: never, ever, ever open this box!’” He cocks his head like a puppy. “Museum of the Weird. People pay to see this stuff?”
Luna Howls at the Moon Page 3