Luna Howls at the Moon

by Kristin O'Donnell Tubb

  The map is now bits of paper. Beatrice throws them at Caleb and Amelia. I expect it to be forceful and hurtful, but the paper flutters like bits of confetti at a party. The hot wind carries some of it away into the purple sky.

  “Do you ever listen to anyone other than yourself?” Caleb snaps. “Gah!” He kicks at a bit of paper near his shoe.

  But instead of pulling into a tighter knot, Beatrice’s face falls. Shoulders fall. I feel my forehead wrinkle with hers. “What? I listen.” But it’s not said with Beatrice’s usual pep.

  Caleb sighs, so I match his frustration with a huff-puff of my own. “Beatrice. Not everyone is out to get you.”

  Beatrice chomps her gum like it’s powering her whole body. I expect her to shout about that, the out to get you part. But Beatrice surprises me. Surprises feel like that time I snorfed a bunch of black pepper up my nose. “Why’d you turn the map like that?”

  Caleb blinks. He was expecting her to shout at him too, and now he has snorfed black pepper. “Because it’s easier to read when you point it in the direction you’re facing, rather than reading it like a book.”

  Beatrice bounces on her toes, nods. “Okay. Okay.” I feel her loosen. I’m amazed at how quickly she’s untangling this knot. She’s never backed off this quickly with Tessa.

  And right when I think the name Tessa, Amelia grips Caleb’s arm, points. Just ahead are Tessa and the four other adults, cresting the top of the bat bridge. They haven’t seen us, I know, because I can feel Tessa’s heavy coat of worry from here.

  “We gotta go!” Beatrice says. We run downhill, toward a low white building, down a flight of stairs, and across a parking lot.

  “Are you sure we can get to the trail from here?” Caleb huffs.

  “Yeah. My mom works at that newspaper.” Beatrice motions over her shoulder at the low white building we’re passing.

  We run over a dusty dry patch of ground toward the river, toward a chain-link fence. We turn left and suddenly we’re under the bridge we crossed earlier. The smell of guano hangs in the air.

  Caleb motions for the others to be silent, points up. They press their backs against the cool concrete posts of the bridge. Far above, I hear Tessa shout, “Luna! Amelia? Beatrice! Caleb!”

  My heart twists like a rope toy. One bark and I could lead these adults right to my kids.

  My kids. Earlier, they said I was their dog. They all agreed. They haven’t agreed on much, but that? They all said yes to that. I am their dog.

  A man’s voice—Caleb’s dad—shouts again. “My kid will not be returning to his sessions with you, Ms. Greene. In fact, I expect a full refund of our money to date. This is ludicrous.”

  No more Caleb?

  That won’t work. They have to be together. I know that. I feel it. They are becoming a pack. But they aren’t yet—not quite. They are almost. And I know how frustrating and awful almost is. If Caleb disappears from the pack, it’ll never happen.

  “I cannot believe they are out roaming the streets of Austin with that mutt,” Mr. Caleb’s Dad says.

  Tessa prickles like a cactus. “That dog is a better person than I am.”

  My heart wails. Maybe if I bark now, lead these kids back to their adults, Mr. Caleb’s Dad will change his mind. Maybe it’s not too late for that.

  But here they are, my kids, backs pressed against cold concrete in the growing dark. Their hearts race like rabbits; their breath is short and shallow. They don’t want to be found. I feel this stronger than anything I’ve felt from them. They don’t want to be found.

  I can’t do it. I can’t bark. I can’t be the one that makes them found.

  They are my duty. My quest. Barking—drawing attention to myself and away from them—that goes against all my training. My duty.

  Something slithers over my paw, and I startle. Tuck in my feet. It’s a lizard, scurrying leftrightleft, mumbling to herself hothothot shadeshadeshade. I restrain myself like I’m on a leash; it takes everything I have not to nip at it.

  I think of the bird. Of instincts.

  Bad dog, Luna!

  I should bark. I shouldn’t be here, so far outside of my routine. All this chaos, it’s making me a bad dog. I am itchy uncomfortable. Hothothot shadeshadeshade.

  The adult voices calling desperation into the sky above us fade.

  “This way,” Beatrice says, pointing to the small dot of orange sinking over the lake, painting the water red and pink. “West. Don’t you think?”

  Caleb nods. “This way. I think. And fast. We have one hour to get to Hector.”

  16

  In the Wide, Wide, Wide Open, With Thunder

  It’s the fuzzy part of the day when the sky is orange on one side and purple on the other. The lights from the skyscrapers across the lake flicker on the water, and the surface becomes more like a mirror. Mirrors confuse me. It’s me, but opposite.

  To our left, large hotels line the lake. To our right, daisies pop through the tall grass between the dusty trail and the lake’s edge like my Tessa’s lace curtains. Rows of canoes and kayaks line the shore, colorful as candy. Humans swish paddles through the water, skimming their boats ashore after the show the bats performed for us. Humans jog by, huffing and puffing, their bodies singing with the joy of movement.

  A yellow butterfly tumbles up and lights on my nose. I cross my eyes, trying to see it. It tickles, and it’s dusty. It’s flittery and delightful. Amelia giggles when I sneeze. I didn’t mean to propel it away.

  We walk, and soon, we approach a statue. A statue wearing a hat and a long coat, holding a guitar, holding time still. Amelia stops. Stares. Behind the statue stretches a long shadow. It’s not caused by the sun, this shadow. It is made of metal. It is a part of this art.

  Amelia the Shadow pauses. Runs her fingertips over the art-shadow’s silhouette. This shadow, it’s not the same shape as the statue standing in front of it. The man stands still, but the shadow behind him plays guitar. Makes music. Amelia understands this immediately.

  Beatrice tilts her chin at the figure. “Stevie Ray Vaughan. My mom’s a huge fan.”

  We pause here while Amelia is awestruck. Awestruck is a feeling a bit like getting zapped by a shock collar. But better, usually.

  A row of turtles is soaking in the last bit of sun for the day, lined up on a log like mushrooms. I can’t help myself; I edge closer and sniifffff. Turtles are so interesting, like a lizard carrying a stone home. One of the turtles blinks awake. “DOG!” he yells, and rolls sideways splash into the water. The others follow: “DOG!” Splash. “DOG!” Splash. “DOG!” “DOG!” “DOG!” Splash splash splash.

  I didn’t mean to scare them. I didn’t mean to shoo away that butterfly.

  I didn’t mean to hurt that bird.

  I keep scaring all these things. Is that instinct too?

  “This is the right way,” Beatrice says. It’s not a question, but somehow, it is.

  Caleb nods. “I think so. Yes. We’d know for sure if we still had a map.”

  Beatrice scowls. “Dude. Why are you always so indecisive?”

  Indecisive feels like not being sure if you want to go outside to pee, or if you want to stay inside in the dry warmth. It’s a lot like duty versus instinct.

  I look around. Ducks bob on the glassy river, then take off in a chorus of flappy wet honks. White storks tuck their long stick legs beneath them, unfurl their huge wings, and lift. The birds are all headed to the places where they curl up at night. I should be doing the same, at this color of the day. I yawn.

  It’s past your bedtime, isn’t it? Sandpaper slinks up behind us.

  Yes. I mean, NO. I add that second part because I don’t wish to agree with this bothersome cat who keeps appearing out of nowhere. How does he do that?

  Our protagonist grows weary, Sandpaper narrates. He winks, or maybe he blinks? That whole one-eye thing. It adds to your Unlikely Hero mystique. IF you wind up the star of this tale, that is.

  I huff, roll my eyes. This cat is infuriating
. I don’t understand most of what he babbles on about. We—the five of us now, unfortunately—are near another bridge. Cars rumble overhead like thunder. And then thunder rumbles overhead like thunder.

  Here’s something: I HATE THUNDER. Always have. If I were at home right now, I’d crawl into my safe spot: in Tessa’s closet, under a row of low-hanging clothes. And I’d whine and shiver until the storm passed. It’s worked every time to keep me and Tessa safe.

  But here I am, out in the wide, wide, wide open, with THUNDER. I swallow. Tuck my tail. Peer up at the ever-graying, ever-growing clouds. They skitter across the sky like lizards seeking shade. The storm isn’t here but it’s coming for us, I can smell it. How do I keep us safe here?

  A storm brews on our Road of Trials, Sandpaper says, slinking between tall blades of grass. Tempest-tossed—it’s practically Shakespearean, this quest of ours!

  Hush, you. The thunder rumbles silent. For now.

  Ah, he says, winking (blinking?). And excellent timing: our next obstacle approaches. If I only had some popcorn to watch this plot point unfold.

  I turn, and I run into the back of Caleb’s legs. A man is waving at us from across a wide expanse of grass. He’s running toward us.

  “Kids! Hey, kids!”

  “Uh-oh,” Caleb mutters. “What do we do?”

  Beatrice tightens, but before she has a chance to respond, the man is here. He’s an adult. I know this because of his thick glasses and the stubble on his face and the ink on his skin. My kids smell as scared as thunder. We are scared, I realize, because today we are hiding from adults.

  “Kids, you need a leash on that dog,” the adult says. He points at a sign near the statue. It shows a tiny schnauzer dog trotting happily on a leash. That picture-dog doesn’t look like me. Just like the last picture-dog, at the convenience store, didn’t look like me. Why do no picture-dogs look like me? I shouldn’t have to follow the rules if the picture doesn’t look like me.

  “Oh, that,” Beatrice says calmly. She doesn’t smell calm, so I’m surprised at how milky smooth her voice is. “Luna here is a therapy dog. She won’t leave our side.”

  I won’t, I promise the adult man.

  The man smiles but shakes his head. Why do humans do that so often, say both yes and no at the same time? “No, kids. Listen. I’m a police officer and I’m telling you, you need a leash on that dog.”

  At those words, police officer, my kids all stiffen so fast it’s like a zip of lightning inside a churning storm cloud. Sandpaper clucks in the grass behind the statue. He sounds like he’s really enjoying this.

  “If you’re a police officer, where’s your uniform?” Beatrice demands. Caleb shrinks, bites his lip.

  “I’m off duty,” the man says. His eyes narrow. “Where are your parents?”

  “They’re off duty.”

  The police officer laughs at Beatrice’s reply. All this talk about being off duty has me panicked. Why would anyone wander intentionally from their duty?

  “You do have a leash, don’t you?” the officer says. “Because I’ll need to call an on-duty officer if you don’t. . . .”

  I’m on duty here, I reply. That gets ignored.

  “What’s your name, sir?” Beatrice demands. “How do we know you’re really a cop?” It’s bold. Bold is pretending to be a bigger dog than you really are.

  The officer grins. “Smart, kid. You should ask me that. Officer José Ramírez.” He flashes a badge.

  “That could be fake,” Beatrice barks. Caleb stiffens. His heart thrums like hummingbird wings. He is ever-so-slightly shaking his head no at Beatrice.

  “You’re right,” Officer Ramírez says with a chopped chuckle. “It could be. But it’s not.”

  Another lightning flash. Another cluck from Sandpaper. Infuriating cat.

  Amelia quickly unties the flowery belt looped around her dress. She slips it through the ring on my collar, then raises her eyebrows at this adult man.

  The man sighs. “Okay, that’ll pass.” He motions to the rest of the park. “Now go in there and find your parents, okay? It’s getting dark.”

  “Yes, sir,” Beatrice says. Her shoulders relax a bit.

  The police officer man turns to leave. Beatrice whips toward the three of us, juts a finger at the orange horizon. “So. Zilker Park. That way.”

  The police offer stops. Turns toward us again. Caleb takes a step back.

  Officer Ramírez narrows his eyes. “You guys aren’t headed there now, are you? To Zilker? It’s quite a ways on foot. You won’t get there before dark.”

  “Oh, no, sir!” Beatrice sings. She was a small barking dog a moment ago, and now she’s a pleasant singing bluebird. “We just wanted to know! For when we go there, you know, in the future.”

  “Mmmhmm,” Ramírez breathes. He doesn’t seem convinced by bluebird Beatrice. His eyes dart over these three kids, scanning each of them, landing longest on Caleb. Caleb bites his lip so hard I smell blood. “That park is no place for kids your age after dark. Do not let me find you there, you hear?”

  Beatrice slides between the officer and her other two friends, and I admire her protective stance. Her smile looks like the fake plastic flowers on the tables in the church basement. “We’re fine, Officer. Thank you.”

  The officer sighs like only an adult can sigh. “Don’t make me worry about you kids. Now go find your adults.” He jogs back across the grass. My kids exhale like deflating balloons.

  “What the heck did you do that for?” Caleb demands, shoving Beatrice’s arm. The spark of fear he felt just moments ago is now a flame of anger.

  Beatrice nods, then shakes her head. Yes and no. “I—I didn’t think he could hear me.”

  “Oh, we can all hear you, Beatrice.” Caleb stomps off. “Let’s go.” His words are knives. He is as jittery as a tumbling river. That adult man really shook him up. “I don’t know why we stopped here in the first place.”

  At that, Amelia studies the ground.

  Beatrice huffs, shrugs at Amelia, at me. She follows Caleb.

  Sandpaper chortles, almost to himself: Ah, the poetry! These kids, not knowing if they’re headed in the right direction. It’s almost too delicious, is it not? This quest practically writes itself, Protagonist. They certainly make my job as narrator of this tale much easier.

  I realize Sandpaper is talking to me, but it’s almost like he’s using words to purposely confuse me, like a stick he’s pretended to throw but has instead tucked behind his back. I hate that trick. So I ignore him.

  Amelia stays put for another moment, just like the statue next to her. My whiskers twitch. It seems she’s unsure. Does she want to go home? She is hesitant. Hesitation feels like a pause in the wind, that moment when the leaves stop swishing and all is silent.

  “Come ON!” Caleb says over his shoulder. We feel angry. He’s more angry now, for some reason, than he was when he got punched. More angry than when Beatrice tore up the map. He is a waterfall, pushing forward.

  I tug a bit on my new leash, but the Shadow is planted near the statue-shadow. The one that plays behind the man that stands still.

  Caleb stomps; Amelia stays.

  And this is them, I realize. Amelia lives in the past. Rooted to one spot because it’s easier than dealing with what’s ahead. Caleb lives in the future. Moving fast because it’s easier to ignore things when you’re in motion. Sad is the past. Anxious is the future.

  “What is WRONG WITH YOU?” Caleb shouts suddenly, grinding on his heel to face Amelia. These are vomit words: they surprise him as much as anyone, and as soon as they are out of his mouth, he wishes he could lap them back up. His eyes widen.

  He hesitates, a pause in the wind.

  “I—I’m sorry, Amelia. I didn’t mean that. What I meant was . . .” His eyes glass over. Caleb never cries. Never. I can smell how salty upset he is from here, but I can’t get to him to comfort him, because I’m leashed to the Shadow. Leashes are a real pain in the tush.

  Beatrice loops her arm t
hrough his. “What you meant was, are you coming? Because we’re leaving now, Amelia, and we want you to come too. And we are definitely, most certainly, headed in the right direction.”

  And then magic happens. Way off on the horizon, where the orange dot of sun has now tucked itself in for the night, four neon lights flicker on. They are clustered together like a constellation, low in the sky but bright as stars.

  Amelia points. Beatrice and Caleb spin.

  Caleb’s shoulders drop. He beams. Beatrice jams a fist in the air and shouts, “Woohoo, wouldja look at that! The Zilker Park moonlight tower! This is the right way!”

  Our Merry Band of Five receives their sign from the heavens! Sandpaper shivers with delight. It is exactly the sign they need to continue this quest. And to be walking toward the light! Oh, the imagery here is truly delectable, Protagonist!

  Caleb walks back to Amelia, anxious to sad, and grabs Amelia’s hand. “We want you to come, Amelia. We should go now. We’ve got”—Caleb flicks his wrist-collar toward his eyes, rolling Amelia’s hand with his—“about fifty minutes to get there.”

  It’s dark, and I can feel her worry: when a Shadow enters the shadows, she can’t be seen anymore.

  Amelia runs a light fingertip over this statue’s playful shadow. She doesn’t voice it, of course, but I know she’s saying goodbye.

  One nod of her braided head, one tug of my new leash, and Amelia walks forward, sad to anxious, toward the magic flickering constellation on the horizon.

  17

  Buying the Moon

  Austin’s moonlight towers,” Caleb says as we crunch across the gravel toward the now-flickering constellation of lights. They are low, far. “They were installed in the late 1800s and called moonlight towers because they supposedly gave off as much light as a full moon. They are older than most streetlights.”

  Beatrice yawns bigbigbig. But it’s a fake yawn—she’s not tired. She’s pretending to be bored. She sneaks a peek at Amelia. “How do you even know this stuff?”

  “I’m working on my Eagle Scout badge,” he replies. “Austin bought the towers from the city of Detroit. They put them all around the city because Austin had a serial killer called the Servant Girl Annihilator.”