Luna Howls at the Moon

by Kristin O'Donnell Tubb

  He pauses, looks at that wrist-collar of his. “But we need to hurry, you know? It’s already seven forty-five. We’ve still got about . . . mmm . . . two miles, I think? We can make two miles in an hour, but—”

  Beatrice waves her hand like she’s swatting away a pesky fly. “Plenty of time.”

  Caleb’s forehead creases. “It’s not. But we do have time to eat.”

  They climb the hill, now on the opposite side of the lake from our church. From home. It’s the soft purple part of the day but it’s still very hot. I pant; these kids sweat. It’s the part of summer when summer has lasted too long, blazed too bright, and you can’t remember what cold feels like. The leaves are crisping around their edges, but they haven’t yet whispered goodbye to their trees. Everything is thirsty.

  It appears we are now going to a convenience store, whatever that is. No one actually says, “Let’s go there,” or “We can get food from that place.” Here’s the thing: humans are really good at filling in the blanks when it comes to words. They sometimes don’t complete their sentences, the rest of their words stolen by the wind. They sometimes don’t even use words, but instead bob their heads or point their fingers or shrug their shoulders. It can all be very confusing to a dog. Why don’t humans always talk since they can? I’d talk nonstop if I could. And how are humans so good at hearing words that aren’t there, but so bad at listening to feelings that definitely are?

  There is a neon-white building buzzing at the top of the hill, and we approach it. Cars zoom in and out, and the air smells like exhaust and gasoline. As we get close, the doors slide open like a magic trick. Caleb turns to me.

  “Sit, Luna,” he says. He even uses the hand gesture for sit: a cupped palm. He’s been paying closer attention to Tessa than I realized. “Stay.” He shows me his palm, like a stop signal.

  I plop my booty on the hot sidewalk and whimper as Amelia slides through the magic doors. They’re going in without me?

  Beatrice scowls. “What are you doing?” I grumble to match Beatrice’s question.

  Caleb points to a sticker on the magic door, a dog behind a circle and a line. But I don’t look anything like the dog on that sticker. That dog looks like Zeus, this diabetic alert dog I once met, all pointy ears and long bushy tail. This store doesn’t want Zeus inside, but they don’t say anything about Luna. “No animals allowed.”

  Beatrice folds her arms over her chest. “Luna doesn’t have to stay out here. She’s a service dog. They can go anywhere.”

  My tail droops to the hot sidewalk. I skootch a bit more toward the door. Technically, I’m not a service dog.

  “Technically, she’s not a service dog,” Caleb echoes. “She’s a therapy animal. Federal laws don’t grant therapy dogs the same access as a service—”

  “Oh, hush,” Beatrice says. She tugs on my collar. “These store people don’t know that! Move, Luna!”

  Caleb sighs. “The correct command is come, Luna.”

  “Come, Luna!”

  I glance at Caleb, but he’s not that worried about winning this fight. So I walk inside the convenience store behind Beatrice. The doors heesh open with a giant dragon hiss, and I jump.

  The floor is sticky-grungy and cold and it ticks under my toenails. The too-white lights remind me of the horrid church basement; they hum and flicker and pop. It’s cold in here, compared to the warm Texas evening outside. But the smells! Hot dogs that spin inside a glass case. Some kind of meat wrapped in corn husks. Popcorn!

  Beatrice unties the flannel shirt around her waist and puts it on over her arms. She and Caleb and Amelia all grab food: chips and candy, sodas and water. The trio gathers at the back of the store, next to the humming cold closets lined with rows of gem-colored plastic drinks.

  “Okay,” Beatrice whispers. “Here’s the plan. Gimme your stash. I can cram some of the food in my cargo shorts and probably in my waistband. My flannel will cover most of the lumps. Caleb, you’ll need to cram at least one cold drink in your underwear, capisce?”

  “Stealing?!” Caleb hiss-whispers. Terror floods through him. It smells like poison.

  “Shhhh!” Beatrice’s eyes flare. Amelia calmly takes the food cradled in everyone’s arms. She walks away.

  “We are not stealing that food,” Caleb loud-whispers, arms folded. Here he is: the Waterfall at full force. There is no containing water once it has made up its mind what it wants. “That’s illegal. I thought you had money.” His shoulders fall. “My money’s in my backpack. Back at the church you made us leave.”

  Beatrice rolls her eyes, so I heavy sigh to echo her irritation. Her impatience smells like burnt toast. “I didn’t make you go anywhere. And no, I don’t have money! I never have money. Look. This is one of those ethical situations Tessa is always talking about.”

  “Ethical situations?” The rush of Caleb’s waterfall tapers slightly.

  “Yes. Do we borrow a teeny, tiny snack from this neighbor of ours, or do we starve to death and die?”

  Now it’s Caleb’s turn to smell impatient. His impatience smells more like scorched marshmallows. “That’s a biased poll. You can’t ask the question that way.”

  “I just did. So on the count of three, vote: borrow or starve. Ready?”

  “No, I’m not ready! Jeez. I have all sorts of money in my backpack. Back at the church you made us leave.”

  “I didn’t make you leave, and that doesn’t help us now. Okay. Vote on three. Borrow or starve. One, two . . .”

  A loud, two-note whistle cuts the air like scissors. We all swing to look at it. Amelia leans around the corner; a plastic bag full of lumpy things dangles from her wrist. She raises her eyebrows, teasing.

  Beatrice blinks, then beams. “You bought our stuff?”

  Caleb feels relief. Relief is the feeling you have when your human finally comes home after being gone forever, like for six hours or ten minutes. Like finally getting to lick their face after their face has been gone all day. Like peeing.

  “Thanks, Amelia,” he says. We walk to the front of the store.

  “Hey!” a woman wearing glasses that make her look like an insect leans over the counter. “Get that mutt outta here, kids. C’mon!”

  I look over my shoulder for a mutt.

  “We’re going, we’re going!” Beatrice snaps. She slides her fingers under my collar. “Come, Luna!”

  Me? I’m the mutt?! I feel anger bite at my tummy. I feel a growl rolling around inside me like a heavy ball. It feels like instinct rolling over duty.

  The woman smacks the counter with her palm when we pass, and I jump. We duck back through the hissing magic dragon doors. The heat hugs us. Why humans prefer refrigerated rooms to warmth I’ll never know.

  Amelia rummages around in the bag, doles out goodies. Beatrice unpeels the wrapper off a bar, sinks her teeth in. It’s chewy and gooey. “Mmmm. Chocolate. My favorite food group.” Caleb nods, takes a bite of something similar.

  Chocolate? These kids are eating poison! I have to stop them. I paw at Beatrice’s boot, but she doesn’t notice me. I whine.

  Stop eating that! I shout. You’ll have to go to the vet and they’ll feed you charcoal to make you throw up on purpose!

  Silly protagonist. Sandpaper’s voice comes from across the parking lot. Chocolate is only bad for dogs.

  I watch the kids. Their eyes roll back in their heads. They were so hungry and now they’re so happy. I . . . I knew that.

  Beatrice shakes up a soda, opens it with a SPLOOSH! Caleb takes deep, calming breaths, trying to overlook her messiness. She chugs soda, then burrrrrrrps with gusto.

  Caleb’s frown deepens.

  “What?” Beatrice says with another tiny burp. “It’s bubbly.”

  Amelia rustles in the plastic bag again. She withdraws a long brown stick wrapped in plastic. When she unwraps it, the glorious smell of deeply salted meat tickles my nostrils.

  She snaps off a piece of this stick, hands it to me. I inhale it and it is GLORIOUS. Smoky and salty and meaty.
Amelia giggles and offers me another pinch of this mystery meat. What is this amazing stick and why aren’t I eating it at all times? I drool.

  Amelia rustles through the bag once more and digs out a blue plastic pouch. She rips open the top and it smells so fishy it’s like a punch in the snout.

  Amelia crosses the convenience store parking lot toward Sandpaper. She gently lays the open pouch next to him, at the base of a gas tank. His tail twitches, but he pauses.

  Our hero is unsure of these humans’ intentions, he narrates.

  Ahem, I sniff. I’M the hero here?

  “Aw, sweet kitty,” Beatrice says around a mouthful of drooly chocolate. “Go ahead. Eat!”

  Amelia balances on the toes of her cowboy boots. She nudges the tuna packet closer to Sandpaper.

  “Go on. Take it, kitty,” Beatrice urges from across the lot.

  Tuna, Sandpaper purrs, sniffing the pouch. Protagonist, can your humans be trusted?

  What? I ask. Of course! Would I be here if they couldn’t be trusted?

  Yes. Dogs are notoriously bad judges of character, Sandpaper says, still smelling the package. They trust everyone.

  You’re the bad judge of character! I say, as frustrated as a stone of kibble stuck between my teeth. You’re the one who can’t be trusted!

  Are you suggesting I’m unreliable? Ah, but I do love a good unreliable narrator, Sandpaper says. He licks the tuna out of the pouch. The four of us gather and stand there next to the gas pump, eating and watching this one-eyed cat, just as cats prefer.

  A car rumbles up to the tank. It spews black smoke out its backside, and it’s painted not-shiny like other cars, but a flat, dull color, like on walls. And someone has painted different-colored shapes all over it: triangles and squares and circles. Sandpaper teeths the pouch of tuna and scurries away.

  The humans inside the car tumble out in clumsy glee. They take the hose from the tank and put gasoline in their car. They tip up silvery cans to their lips and put what smells like gasoline in their bellies.

  Caleb clears his throat, an attempt to ignore this shuddering, lurching car. He turns to Amelia. “Did you ask the clerk for directions to Zilker?”

  Beatrice scoffs around a huge wad of gum. “Of course she didn’t. She doesn’t talk, dude.”

  Caleb’s face shadows pull down. “That’s rude.”

  “What? She doesn’t! That’s not rude, is it, A?” Beatrice spins, slinging an arm over Amelia’s shoulder. “Them’s the facts, jack.”

  Amelia isn’t angry. In fact she seems . . . amused? Amused is what dogs feel when humans coo at them in a high-pitched, squeaky voice.

  One of the guys from the car burps loudly. They notice at last we are here. I feel my kids shrink under their gaze. I don’t like it.

  The driver, a young man in a red hat, crooks a smirk at us. “What are y’all? Scooby and the gang or something?”

  His friend spews a laugh while sipping from his silver can. He wears those dark glasses that humans wear in bright sunlight even though the day is now lilac. I don’t like it when humans wear glasses like that. It’s harder to tell what they’re feeling when I can’t see their eyes. “Those meddling kids!” They share a sly smile.

  Mr. Red Hat tilts his chin up at me. “That your dog?” He and his friend are older than my kids here but younger than Tessa. Teens.

  “Yes,” Beatrice and Caleb both answer. Amelia nods. My spirit leaps and sings like a cricket. I’m their dog! But it’s a brief cricket song, because my whiskers tell me something is very off about these two teens.

  The friend of Mr. Red Hat sniffs. “Good hunting dog, I bet.”

  “Luna doesn’t hunt.” Beatrice stiffens. She’s the Knot. She reaches down and slides her fingers under my collar again. It’s a bit too tight. Chokey. I gag.

  “Sure she hunts,” the red-hat human says. “Dogs’ll do whatever we tell ’em to, right, Bryce?”

  Mr. Dark Glasses, Bryce, nods slowly. “I’d train that dog to fetch every dove I kill.”

  And there it is again: the memory of me leaping up, grabbing that pigeon in my jaws. Snap! I can feel the image hover over us, a movie in each of our minds. I didn’t even know I could do that. I didn’t want to. I just . . . did. It’s what happens when you let instinct take over. I feel shame: sick and green, like I’ve eaten too much grass.

  How did these people I don’t even know make me feel bad about myself?

  Dark Glasses Bryce sucks his teeth and leans against the car. He looks at us in a way that makes me feel like I have the mange. The fur along my spine prickles.

  “Hey, I know you!” the teen in the red hat drawls. He leans sideways, looking at Amelia’s lowered eyes. His speech is slow and thick in his mouth.

  Amelia shakes her head at a grease spot on the parking lot.

  Bryce pulls his dark glasses down to the tip of his nose. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right, Luke.” He pushes himself off his colored-shape car, crosses to her. He reaches toward Amelia’s face, but she shrinks away.

  “Don’t do that,” Beatrice says through clenched teeth.

  “Nah, listen,” Bryce says, fully removing his glasses and hooking them into the collar of his T-shirt. His eyes are red, and he’s leaning toward Amelia. “You’re that kid whose house burned down. Yeah, a couple blocks from our high school. All the clubs gave y’all clothes and food and stuff. And then you . . . ah, what? Something happened.”

  “She stopped talking,” said Red Hat Teen. He’s bouncing on his toes, which I think is odd, this joy about someone who stops talking. “That house was destroyed. And the fire department said it was arson. Somebody started that fire, man. It wasn’t some accident.”

  Bryce leans in farther. Amelia arches backward from him.

  “Cut it out,” Caleb squeaks. He has a knot in his throat. We lick our dry lips.

  Bryce ignores him. “You still don’t talk, huh?” he whispers at Amelia. Something about the way he says it—it’s not full of sadness, like a lot of people feel around Amelia. It’s not even full of pity. It’s full of . . . fascination? And it scares me. The fur on my spine stands taller.

  Bryce’s eyes narrow. He leans in, over her ear. “You start that fire?” he asks Amelia. She recoils like she’s been punched.

  “STOP IT!” Beatrice yells. “C’mon, guys.” She pulls me by the collar, and it hurts a little. I hack a cough. I’m confused why she doesn’t trust me to follow them. Haven’t I done that all day?

  Bryce snorts, and the red hat guy does too. “Easy, kid,” Bryce says, putting his glasses back on. The way he says kid to Beatrice, even though he’s only a few years older than her, reminds me of Goliath. “No harm, no foul. Y’all need a ride somewhere?” Something about the way he says this makes a new growl roll around in my stomach.

  “No,” Beatrice and Caleb say again, and Amelia shakes her head. I realize that all three of them agree when these hair-prickling boys are around. Beatrice tugs me again, too hard.

  “Let’s go,” she says. And we leave, but the eyes of those two humans follow us.

  15

  Surprise Feels Like a Snorf of Black Pepper

  Caleb looks over his shoulder a couple of times as we walk toward the trail that will take us to Zilker Park. At least, we think it’s the trail that’ll take us to Zilker Park. We seem less certain now that we don’t have a blue screen.

  Caleb feels nervous. Nervous feels like frogs jumping around inside your belly, all slimy and floppy. But after a few steps, when the triangle-painted car stays put at the gas tank and the fellas stay put at the triangle-painted car, his frogs calm a bit. He turns to Amelia.

  “You okay?” he says.

  Amelia sighs. That is not a yes and not a no. She burns with embarrassment, and it smells like scorched cocoa. But Amelia’s embarrassment isn’t tinged with white-hot anger, as I thought it might be. As embarrassment so often is. No, instead it is colored with pink frustration. At herself. Because NO, she doesn’t talk. And NO, she doesn’t know why. But he
re’s the thing: she didn’t need any words to communicate that to me.

  Beatrice scowls around a huge wad of gum. “Buncha jerks.” She digs into the deep pockets on her shorts, pulls out a chunk of plastic. She beams like she’s showing the others a new squeaky toy.

  Caleb sees it and flicks his eyes back uphill at the gas station, at the car still sitting by the pump. “Is that their gas cap?”

  Beatrice grins like a stretching cat. “Yeah. That old junker of theirs won’t get too far without one.”

  Caleb’s brow furrows, and so does mine. Beatrice tosses the plastic cap in a rusty, stinky metal box as we pass it. It clangs against the bottom in a way that makes me cringe.

  “I don’t think that was a good idea, Bea,” Caleb says. “Those guys don’t seem like the type to laugh something like that off.”

  “They don’t get to talk to Amelia like that,” Beatrice says. She pops her gum like it’s a nail getting hammered, like bam, we’re done discussing it. “So. Are we headed in the right direction for Zilker, Mr. Navigator, sir?”

  Amelia digs inside the white plastic bag from the convenience store. She pulls out a thick, folded piece of paper.

  “A map! Good idea,” Caleb says.

  Beatrice grabs the map out of Amelia’s hand, unfolds it. It’s colorful, with blue lines and red lines and green lines and gray lines. It looks like gibberish, but then, most things that humans put on paper look like gibberish to me.

  Beatrice stops. She clutches the open map in her fists, staring at it. I feel her heart skip faster but I don’t know why.

  Caleb leans over her shoulder. He turns the square map one notch to the left. “It can be easier to read a map like this—”

  Beatrice yanks the map out of his hands. The large colorful paper rips.

  So does Beatrice.

  “I KNOW how to read A MAP!”

  Beatrice looks at the ripped map. I feel her anger boil over like pasta on a stove. She rips the map further. Then more. Then again and again and again. Her teeth are tight and her eyes are arrows.