One-Third Nerd

by Gennifer Choldenko

  I swear she loves me best, but Dakota thinks it’s her.

  We take Cupcake onto the patio and try to show her how to use the kitty-litter box. Dakota squats down in the box like she’s a dog peeing, but Cupcake shows no interest. We try to get Cupcake to squat. But her legs won’t bend.

  Then I get treats and bury them in the kitty litter.

  This gets her attention, and she jumps into the box and begins pawing for the treats, which tips the tray over, dumping the kitty litter out.

  I get the broom from my mom, who is trying hard not to laugh.

  Once we get the kitty litter back in the box, we pick the box up and take Cupcake for a walk. We know where she likes to do her business, so we’ll put the box there just before.

  But the box is heavy to lug. And Cupcake pees before I can get it under her.

  When we get back home, we leave the kitty-litter box outside and I ask Mom: “How did it go with Mr. Torpse?”

  Mom sighs. “He isn’t one to cut us slack, I’ll tell you that. Stay off the carpet. It’s still a little wet.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He came in mad about the explosion and left mad about Cupcake.”

  Cupcake’s head is heavy in my hand as I scratch under her chin. Her eyes are half closed.

  Mom leans down and wipes the dog hair off her pants. “I had her on the patio, but then she started barking. You know how Mr. Torpse hates that. So I brought her in and she peed right at his feet. Any closer and his slippers would have been soaked.”

  “She doesn’t like him. That’s for sure. What did he say?”

  “He said get rid of her.”

  “No!” I say. “Did you explain she’s got, you know, a medical condition?”

  “Mr. Torpse is not interested in our dog’s medical condition.”

  “But there’s no way we’re getting rid of Cupcake.”

  My mom climbs up on the step stool to reach the serving trays. She seesaws her head. “We’ll find her a good home. A place where she’ll have her own yard. She’ll be an outside dog.” She swallows hard.

  “At least let us try the kitty litter.”

  “You’ve been trying the kitty litter,” Mom says as Cupcake turns round and round, then plops on the floor by Mom’s feet.

  Dakota is back inside now.

  Mom sets the trays down. “We have to do what’s right for Cupcake.”

  “What’s right for Cupcake is staying with us,” Dakota declares.

  I remember how happy Cupcake was playing in our old yard. Then I think about how, the second I’m upset, she comes running. She can tell how I’m feeling before anyone else.

  “You’ll give us a chance, right?” I whisper, when Dakota goes into the bathroom.

  “Yes,” Mom says.

  “Can’t we take her back to the vet?”

  “I’ve called the vet several times. She says there’s nothing more they can do for her unless we take her to UC Davis for special tests.”

  I kneel down by Cupcake, rubbing her belly. Her paws are flapping in the air and her tongue is lolling out to one side.

  “Look,” Mom whispers, “don’t get Dakota wound up about this. I don’t have time to deal with her right now. This is between us, right?”

  “Right,” I say.

  That’s the trouble with being the oldest. I know things my sisters don’t. It’s a lot of responsibility. I get Cupcake’s leash and pick up the litter box, but she goes on a sit-down strike. She is not about to pee in that thing.

  I try to think logically. What can we do about Cupcake’s problem?

  Maybe she’s forgotten her house training. Maybe it’s as simple as reminding her again.

  I find her treats and cut them into tiny pieces. Then I take her on a walk, and when she pees, I give her a treat. “Good dog,” I say. Cupcake wags her tail.

  Back at home, Mom is getting ready for the Forty-Sevens’ party tonight. The Forty-Sevens all have Down syndrome, like Izzy, which means they have an extra chromosome. Forty-seven chromosomes, in total. Most everyone else has forty-six.

  Our apartment isn’t big enough for all the Forty-Sevens. Plus, it’s hard to find parking on our street. But the Forty-Sevens and their parents don’t mind. All the Forty-Sevens’ parents are big huggers. Some of the kids are huggers like Izzy, but most of them just say hello.

  I’ve finished hosing down the patio when I hear my old phone buzzing in Dakota and Izzy’s room.

  The text is from Dodge. He wants to come over; otherwise he has to go with Crash to the Sisters in Crime mystery writers’ meeting. He’s told me about those meetings before. He says the other members are sweet old ladies who argue about who has a better way to murder people. Crash is their resident expert.

  Sometimes they meet at Fiorelli’s. That’s how Mom met Crash and I met Dodge.

  I text him a thumbs-up and return the phone to Dakota’s bed.

  Then I get back to thinking up ways to make money. A bake sale? But how are we going to get the money for the ingredients? We could offer to do chores for the neighbors. Or call Dad and beg for our birthday money early. Maybe we could make a hundred dollars that way, but three thousand? Never.

  Dakota and I are filling the drinks barrel with ice when Izzy points to our pink wristbands. “May I have?”

  Dakota runs the ice-cube tray under hot water to get the last pieces out. “I’m going to make a blue one for you. Blue is special.”

  Izzy shakes her head. “Pink.”

  “No,” Dakota says.

  “Why?” Izzy asks.

  “Because it’s not the right color for you.”

  “Why?”

  Dakota gets another tray out of the freezer. “Because it isn’t, that’s all.”

  Izzy frowns at her. “Am smart,” she says.

  “It’s my club! I get to make the rules.” Dakota taps her chest.

  “Shut up, Dakota.” I take off my band and fasten it around Izzy’s wrist.

  Izzy runs to the mirror to admire herself with the pink wristband. Her smile could melt Antarctica.

  I glare at Dakota. “Don’t be mean to Izzy.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Not letting her be a member, what do you think that is?”

  Dakota’s face puckers up like she ate a lemon rind.

  “Anyway,” I say, “we’ve got bigger problems.”

  “Like what?” Dakota asks.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you until after. Mom doesn’t want you to get all wound up.”

  “I won’t get all wound up.”

  “Phone swear?”

  Dakota nods.

  “Text it,” I tell her.

  Dakota takes out the phone and texts her promise to Dodge.

  If I get wound up, Liam gets the phone.

  Dodge is used to this. We always text him our phone swears.

  “If we don’t figure out how to get Cupcake to stop peeing everywhere,” I say, “then Mom’s going to get rid of her.”

  “She won’t. She loves Cupcake.”

  “Torpse said she had to.”

  Dakota leans back on the couch, twirling her glitter nerds wristband, thinking so hard I can see the processing icon spinning around on her face.

  “We’ll get my nerd herd to help.” She smiles.

  “You changed your club name?”

  “On account of you and Dodge,” she admits.

  “Really?” Dakota never changes anything. Once she decides something, it’s set, like your birthday.

  “Dodge is coming over, right?” Dakota asks.

  “Right,” I say.

  Then Izzy and I go outside to wait for the Forty-Sevens. It’s early, but she gets excited when her friends come over.

  Maybe this is weird, but
I like it when they visit too. I have fun around them, like I did back in second grade, when no one noticed what you did.

  We watch as a sleek gray car pulls up in the driveway. A lady in a red flowered dress gets out and knocks on Torpse’s door.

  Mr. Torpse comes out dressed in regular clothes, with wet comb marks in his hair.

  When they get in the lady’s car, Izzy starts running toward them.

  “Izzy, wait!” I shout as she dives for something on the pavement.

  “Mr. Torpse! Mr. Torpse!” she cries, waving a red scarf at the car window.

  Mr. Torpse presses down the window. “What?” he growls.

  “Why, aren’t you a dear.” The lady leans over Mr. Torpse and takes the scarf. “Thank you, honey.”

  Izzy is smiling when she comes back to me. She doesn’t talk clearly, and people sometimes say peculiar things to Mom, like You’ve been chosen for this special blessing.

  Izzy has to try ten times harder than we do at school. Even simple things like opening the door with a key can be challenging. But honestly, I think the extra chromosome makes her nicer.

  I once overheard Mom say she thinks Dakota’s endless crazy ideas have something to do with Izzy. Dakota sees how hard Izzy tries and doesn’t want to be outdone.

  “I’m glad Torpse went out,” I tell Izzy. We don’t need him coming down to complain we’re making too much noise when the Forty-Sevens are here.”

  Izzy smiles. “Torpse the Corpse.”

  The first of the Forty-Sevens, Beatrice and her mom, arrive and we take them inside. Then Dodge and more Forty-Sevens come in.

  Now everyone is saying hello and pouring apple cider and taking the tinfoil off the potluck plates. I head for Dakota and Izzy’s room to find the ukulele.

  Catalina, who has pierced ears and a dozen braids, sees Izzy’s wristband. She runs her fingers over it. “Pretty.”

  “You want one?” Izzy asks, looking over at Dakota. Dakota shakes her head a hair-whipping no.

  Izzy unzips Dakota’s backpack and pulls out the pink wristbands.

  Dakota’s eyes get big. She is about to yell at Izzy, but I shake my head no. Then I point to a pink chair. She makes a face, but she sits down to give herself a time-out. Even she knows not to make a scene at the Forty-Sevens’ party.

  Now everybody has a pink tutu wristband. The bands are a hit.

  We even come up with a pink-armband salute. We all crouch in a huddle; then we jump up and shoot our band hands in the air. It’s pretty fun.

  When they call “Dinnertime,” Dakota doesn’t move from the pink chair. She’s still mad.

  After we’ve cleaned our plates, we go outside on the driveway and Izzy and DeShawn water Izzy’s plants. Izzy, Dakota, and Mom planted flowers in mason jars, but Dakota’s are dead. She said she already understands photosynthesis, thank you very much.

  Izzy and I play with the big ball and the giant Frisbee. Izzy throws and catches okay because she practices a lot. But some of the Forty-Sevens have more trouble, so we play with extra-large stuff.

  Then we go back inside and I pick up the ukulele. I only know a few chords, so mostly I strum and Dodge sings. He sings better than I do. The Forty-Sevens sing along and Emilio dances. I try to mimic his steps and everybody laughs. It’s a relief to be around the Forty-Sevens. They don’t judge.

  Dodge and I make up a song. It takes us a while but we finally come up with something we like. We sing the first line, and everyone else sings it after us.

  “Raise your hand

  (Raise your hand)

  Shake the band

  (Shake the band.)

  Make a tower

  (Make a tower)

  Of nerdy power

  (Of nerdy power.)

  We’re the herd

  (We’re the herd)

  Of the nerd

  (Of the nerd.)

  We have your back

  (We have your back)

  And that’s a fact, Jack.

  (And that’s a fact, Jack.)”

  While we sing, we stand in a circle and raise our wristband arms. Then we make a tower of fists, and when the song is over, everybody fist-bumps.

  The Forty-Sevens go wild. They love this.

  The next time we sing the song, Dakota has turned the chair around so she can see. By the fourth time, she’s joined the circle and is singing with us.

  “Who is Jack?” Izzy asks.

  “ ‘Jack’ is just made up because it rhymes.”

  Beatrice’s mom sticks her head in the door. “Time to go.”

  “Mommy, look.” Beatrice shows her mom the pink wristband. “I’m in the Nerd Herd.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s a club for nerds.”

  Beatrice’s mom stares at Dakota, Dodge, and me.

  “Just a minute,” she tells Beatrice.

  “Yay! I-can-stay! Yay! Yay! Yay!” Beatrice shouts.

  Now we go back to singing our usual songs about octopus gardens and rooms without a roof, until Mom comes back.

  “Liam,” she whispers, beckoning with her finger. “A nerd club? Really? You’re not making fun of them, are you?”

  “No! It’s just that Dakota tried to start a nerd club at school, only nobody came. So me and Dodge became members.” I show her the pink wristbands. “And Izzy wanted a wristband and then everybody else did too.”

  “Oh.” Mom nods, chewing her lip. “Why’d she start the club in the first place?”

  “I started it. Me. Not Liam!” Dakota interrupts.

  “That’s what I said, Dakota. Jeez,” I tell her.

  “You told me to start a recess club to meet kids like me even if there aren’t any. I’m not a partial nerd. I’m one hundred percent,” Dakota says to Mom.

  Mom nods.

  “We need money for the vet. I thought the kids at school could help me think of a way to get it,” Dakota explains.

  “For the vet.” Mom glares at me.

  “This was before he told me,” Dakota says.

  “Before he told you what?” Mom asks.

  I roll my eyes. Then I put out my hand for the phone.

  “Wait, wait, I didn’t get wound up,” Dakota says.

  “Yeah, but you told.”

  Dakota sighs. She digs the phone out of her pocket and hands it to me.

  Mom shakes her head.

  “You can’t give Cupcake away, Mom,” Dakota says. “We all love her and so do you.”

  “I know that, honey.” Mom runs her hands tenderly over Dakota’s hair. “We’ll get through this. All of us together.”

  “Together means Cupcake too,” Dakota insists.

  My mom sighs. “I hope so. I really do.”

  I hand Dodge the ukulele, then get a few more treats and take Cupcake out again.

  When I get back, Mom is cleaning up a yellow puddle by the patio door.

  I get down to Cupcake’s level and look her in the eye. “When’d you do that?”

  She gives me a small apologetic lick.

  “Seriously…you can’t do that anymore, all right?”

  Her deep brown eyes stare back at me. She does understand, doesn’t she?

  “Mom,” I say on Friday morning when she’s scooping homemade applesauce into bowls. “You’re not going to give Cupcake away without telling us, are you?”

  “Of course not.” She sets the bowls in front of us.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Mr. Torpse gave us three weeks, but that was two days ago.”

  “Three weeks!” Dakota yells.

  “I don’t like it any better than you do,” she says, and then turns to Izzy. “Use your spoon, please.” Izzy likes to start every meal with a taste on her finger.

&nb
sp; Mom kneels down, runs her hand over Cupcake’s head, and scratches under her chin. Cupcake puts her paw over Mom’s hand so it won’t ever move again.

  “I’ll take her out every five minutes,” I say.

  “Every minute! Every second!” Dakota yells.

  “I know!” Izzy waves her spoon in the air. “We make a toilet-shaped rug.”

  “Gross, Izzy,” Dakota says.

  “You’re gross,” Izzy says. “You keep my pee in the peanut butter jar.”

  I laugh. “Good one, Izzy,” I say.

  “Wait, wait, wait. I have an idea, but it’s a secret.” Dakota is wearing a sparkly pink striped shirt and boots that look like slippers. She’s so excited she jumps out of her seat.

  Mom and I exchange a look. The last time Dakota had a secret idea, she shaved off her eyebrows to see if they served a purpose on her face. And then the school nurse called my mother. And since there is only one school nurse for the whole county, that was a big deal.

  Mom sighs. “Do you want to tell us a little about your idea?”

  Dakota gives a wild shake of her bed-hair head. “Nope.”

  * * *

  After breakfast, Dakota, Izzy, and I head for the bus stop.

  I’m hoping Dakota will forget about her nerd club now and go back to doing whatever she did before at recess. Something no one will notice. Aren’t nerds supposed to be quiet?

  On the bus, I notice Dakota’s mouth is moving. Oh, great. Now she’s talking to herself.

  At school Dodge and I discuss my Bigfoot collection. I have the best one of anyone I know. Okay, maybe it’s the only collection of anyone I know, but still. Bigfoot is a giant hairy guy who hides in the forest.

  Dakota is always telling me there’s no proof that Bigfoot exists. Izzy believes, though. She gets as excited as I do if anyone finds a new footprint.

  Dodge and I are discussing this when Moses walks by.