Dog Sense

by Sneed B. Collard III

  Before Luke can answer, our teacher steps to the front of the room.

  “Good morning, class,” Mrs. Minneman chirps as we all settle in. “What a glorious day! Have you ever seen a day so beautiful?”

  A couple of the kids mutter, but then I hear a clear voice exclaim, “No, Mrs. Minneman. It feels like spring today.”

  My head snaps toward the voice. I can’t believe I didn’t notice her the day before. Two rows to my right and one row forward sits a girl with shoulder-length brown hair that shines like silk, even under our classroom’s fluorescent lights. She’s wearing goofy red-rimmed glasses that date back to The Brady Bunch era, but beneath the red rims, she’s got a face that could be in the movies. Smooth skin. Cheekbones that could belong to a princess. Thin—but not too thin—straight lips that seem ready to curve into a smile. More than her looks, though, it’s the way she holds herself that catches me. She’s sitting up with her shoulders back, and she looks directly at Mrs. Minneman. What is it about her, I wonder. But then I figure it out.

  Confidence.

  Mercifully, the rest of the day passes quickly and without too much pain. I manage to avoid any questions about The Watsons Go to Birmingham. We dress for P.E. and play soccer—a sport I didn’t realize they had in Montana, but one I’m more or less okay at. I spend most of the day dreading math class and wondering if Brad will pick up where he left off with Luke and me this morning. When I walk in, though, I’m relieved to find he’s not even in class. Neither are Tapeworm and Maggot, and I figure they must have cut school to torture little old ladies, blow up mailboxes, or perform some other helpful civic activity.

  After school Luke goes to the office with me to see if I can get switched to another math class. I talk to the vice-principal and she’s pretty nice—nicer than Mr. Krauss or Principal Goode. She looks up my transcripts and test scores from California and tells me she’ll see what she can do. She adds that it might take a few days. I only hope it happens before Brad comes back to class.

  After leaving the vice-principal’s office Luke and I head for my grandpa’s house, which I guess is mine now, too.

  “Hey, Luke,” I try to ask as casually as possible, “who’s that girl in English?”

  “What girl?”

  “You know, the one with the red-rimmed glasses.”

  Luke gives me a blank look, and I wonder if he’s ever thought about a girl in his life.

  “You know, the one who told Mrs. Minneman what a nice day it was at the beginning of class.”

  Luke thinks another half second. Then recognition shoots across his face. “Oh, you mean Catherine.”

  I wait for more information, but Luke still isn’t catching on.

  “Well, what’s her story?” I press.

  “Her story? I don’t know any story. Hey, look! There’s Streak!”

  I sigh, but then smile as I see my dog looking at us from under the apple tree in the backyard. His ears point straight up as usual and he watches us like the world depends on it.

  I open the gate to the backyard, and Luke closes it behind him.

  “How’s my boy?” I croon, bending down to pet Streak, but he wants none of it. He’s ready to play. I untie him and he rockets through four circuits of the backyard before bringing me a tennis ball that smells like moose turds. I wrench the ball from his mouth andfling it across the yard. When he fetches it, Luke takes over. I can see that they’re both in heaven, and I let Streak chase down five or six throws before asking, “So, you said you’re pretty good with a fence?”

  “I didn’t say I was good,” Luke says, accidentally tossing the ball into a tangle of rosebushes. Streak dives into the thicket like it’s water and emerges with the ball in his mouth.

  “Well, here’s my problem,” I say, walking over to the gate.

  Luke follows, almost tripping over Streak, who doesn’t want to give up the game. Luke laughs. “He is such a Border collie. They’re so bossy.”

  “Yeah. Anyway—”

  “I’ll bet he can clear that gate like it’s nothing.”

  “Exactly,” I say, grateful I don’t have to explain every detail. “The question is, what can I do about it?”

  “You thought about replacing the gate?” Luke asks.

  “I was hoping for something simpler.”

  Luke studies the gate for a moment, then looks around. “What’s in that shed?”

  Streak follows us into Grandpa’s toolshed. Luke rummages around, finally pulling out some scraps of chicken wire, some baling wire, and a six-foot length of rebar. He hands me some wire cutters and a sledgehammer.

  Half an hour later, Luke—with my feeble assistance—has added two feet to the height of the gate. Even more amazing, it doesn’t look half bad.

  “Wow,” I say. “I could never have figured that out.”

  “Aw…that was easy,” says Luke, and he means it. “I’ve had to throw together animal cages and fences lots of times.”

  “You have? How come?”

  “Uh, well…” Luke stops, like he isn’t sure he wants to tell me. Then he says, “Well, my dad, he’s a vet.”

  “A war vet?”

  Luke shakes his head. “A veterinarian. At least, he was.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know that,” I say. “What—”

  “Anyway,” he cuts me off, “that’s how I know about fences. I should be getting home.” Luke is opening the newly improved backyard gate when I remember the second part of the idea I’d had earlier.

  “Wait. Since you helped me with the gate, I thought maybe I could help you with math. That is, if you want me to.”

  Luke’s face brightens. “You mean it?”

  “Sure. I’ve had a lot of this stuff already. Maybe I can give you a few pointers.”

  Luke looks so grateful that I shift my eyes awkwardly to look at Streak. “It’s no big deal,” I tell him.

  “That’d be great.”

  Chapter Six

  From then on I end up spending a lot of time with Luke. We eat lunch together and usually go to my house after school. One day I suggest we go to his house instead of mine—just for a change of pace. “I don’t know,” he says, tugging on his earlobe. “It’s kind of messy over there.”

  I laugh. “Haven’t you seen my room?”

  I expect Luke to laugh, but his shoulders sag and he seems to crawl down inside himself. “It’s probably not…a good idea.”

  I start to ask why, but I can see he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  So in the afternoons, we end up at my house. We play with Streak and do a little jawing with Grandpa. Then I help Luke with his algebra homework. Luke has a hard time grasping that x and y aren’t mysterious supernatural powers. They just stand for things that aren’t known. But when I tell him to think of haystacks instead of x and grizzly bears instead of y, we have just enough breakthroughs for Luke to scrape out C’s on the tests.

  If only I were so lucky in English. I manage to finish some of The Watsons Go to Birmingham and even write a two-page essay on it, but when Mrs. Minneman hands my paper back, a neatly drawn D decorates the front page. Next to the grade is a note: “I want to know what you think about the book, not what you think I think!”

  I slump down in my desk, shaking my head. “Oh, man.”

  “How’d you do?” Luke whispers to me.

  I show him the paper, at the same time noticing a large A- on the front of Luke’s.

  “You should have read the whole thing.”

  “I need CliffsNotes,” I whisper back to him.

  “Mrs. Minneman’s on to that stuff. If you really want to be humiliated, write a paper from CliffsNotes or borrow one from the Internet. She’ll make an example out of you.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I mumble.

  But it does matter. I glance over at Catherine talking to the girl next to her and think, I’ll bet anything she gets straight A’s in here.

  Ever since that second day in school I’ve been watching Catherine. I watch her in En
glish class. I watch her during lunch and keep an eye out for her between classes. And I’ve noticed she does some funny things. Like tapping her fingers, for instance. When Mrs. Minneman is speaking, Catherine taps her fingers quietly on her leg. Her fingers barely move; no one else seems to notice. At first I think she’s just doing it because she’s bored. Then I realize that she’s actually counting the syllables coming out of our teacher’s mouth. Before I know it, I’m doing it, too. On Thursday I come up with 949 syllables, and after class, I want to go up to Catherine to ask if my count matches what she got. Then I realize that if I do that, she’ll know I’ve been watching her.

  The next day during lunch I see her and a bunch of other girls sitting together on a bench. Suddenly her friends get up to go and Catherine is sitting all alone. Before I know what I’m doing, I get up and walk toward her. At the last minute, though, I veer off, a thousand reasons why I shouldn’t talk to her swirling through my head.

  I don’t know what it is about this girl that makes me so nervous. Back in the fifth grade, I “went steady” with Debbie Foxen. We passed notes to each other and we held hands once, but I wasn’t obsessed with her or anything.

  Catherine’s different. Every time I see her push her big red-rimmed glasses higher on her nose or tuck a strand of her silky brown hair behind her ear, I feel tiny needle points all over my skin. I wish I could get up the nerve to go sit down next to her at lunch, but then I think, What if she laughs and walks away?

  I miss California.

  But that afternoon, I do get some good news. True to her word, the vice-principal has gotten me switched to a more advanced math class, one that’ll teach me more than to count to ten. The class is in the room right next to my old one, so as soon as the last bell rings Luke and I meet in the hall and head out of school just like before. Unfortunately, as we walk down the steps of Big Sky Middle School, Brad Mullen, Clyde Crookshank, and Harold Dicks appear from behind a pickup truck.

  “Well, well,” Brad sneers. “Look who’s here—California Boy.”

  Clyde and Harold snicker. Luke and I try to keep walking, but Brad plants himself in front of us.

  “We’ve missed you, California,” he says.

  That’s been no accident. Taking Luke’s advice, I’ve done everything I can to stay off of Brad’s game trails the past couple of weeks. I guess it hasn’t been enough.

  “So where you been?” Brad says, bunching the front of my T-shirt in his fist. “Just because you’re in the brainy math class now doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.”

  Tapeworm and Maggot get a big thump out of this joke. I notice that today Brad’s breath smells like decaying fish.

  “Just around,” I tell him, my heart hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it.

  “Around, huh? I think you’ve been avoiding me, you little chicken gizzard, and I…don’t…like…it.” He puts his face close to mine, and I can’t help noticing his mouthful of brown teeth and bleeding gums. I’ve already been in Coffee long enough to recognize the signs of a die-hard tobacco-chewer.

  “I haven’t been avoiding you,” I tell him, trying to draw away, but his fist holds me like iron. “I have a different schedule.”

  Brad looks at Harold and smirks. “A different schedule—like he’s a goddamn stockbroker or somethin’.” Both of the Parasites laugh and Brad turns back to me. I can tell he’s looking for an excuse to clobber me, but not giving it to him is currently Guy’s Number One Priority in Life.

  “Aw…Brad, ease up,” Luke ventures. I admire his courage, but it only feeds Brad’s violent creativity.

  “I’ll ease both of you up my fist,” he snarls. “You both make me puke. Especially you, Calf Crap. Think you can just come to my town and do what you want? Why don’t you get the hell out of Coffee, anyway?”

  Show me the way, I think as Brad shoves me to the ground. He gathers up a good mouthful of tobacco juice and spits, hitting me right in the chest. I’m shaking with adrenaline, but at the same time I’m amazed what a good shot he is. It’s too bad spitting isn’t an Olympic sport.

  “Get the hell out of here,” Brad says, his bullying quota temporarily satisfied. “And don’t be avoidin’ me anymore or I’ll come find you.”

  Neither Luke nor I say much as we walk back to my house. When we get there I say, “You mind if we skip the math lesson today?”

  Luke shrugs. “That’s okay. What’re you going to do tonight?”

  “I don’t know. Not much.”

  “Yeah, me either.”

  Then I ask something that’s been on my mind. “Hey, Luke?”

  “Yeah?”

  “A couple of weeks ago, Brad said your family almost ruined this town.”

  I see color rush into Luke’s face.

  “I don’t believe him or anything,” I quickly add. “I was just wondering why he’s so mad at you. I mean, I see why he’s mad at me—being from California and all—but you’re one of the nicest people in this town.”

  Luke tugs on his earlobe. “It’s nothing,” he says, looking away.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s none of my business.”

  And it isn’t. After my dad left, my mom, my teachers—and even one of my mom’s friends—were always asking how I felt about my father leaving or if I wanted to talk about it. At first I tried to answer their questions. I tried to tell them I felt like someone had run over my chest with a steamroller. Sometimes I even let myself cry in front of them. Then I realized that no matter how much I talked or what I said, no one really had a clue what I was going through. They just wanted me to talk to make themselves feel better.

  That doesn’t mean I don’t want to know what happened to Luke. It’s just that I understand that whatever happened, he’s had to deal with it on his own. It’s his own business if he does or doesn’t want to talk about it.

  We stand there for another moment. Then I say, “Well, see you tomorrow?”

  Luke stares at the ground like he almost wants to tell me something, but instead he nods. “Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow.”

  After Luke leaves I drag myself into the house. Streak greets me before I can close the front door. He jumps up, wagging his stump, but not even his wet dog kisses cheer me up this afternoon.

  “Guy, that you?” Grandpa hollers from the kitchen. For an old man he’s still got an annoyingly powerful set of lungs.

  “Yeah, Grandpa.”

  “Come say howdy, son.”

  I’m not much in a “howdy” mood, but I drop my pack and walk in with Streak nipping at my shoelaces.

  “Do me a favor. Get me some grapes to graze on,” Grandpa says as I enter the kitchen.

  I take some grapes out of the refrigerator and rinse them off under the faucet, then put them on a plate and hand them to Grandpa.

  “Thanks, son. So, how was the old brain factory today?”

  I shrug. I’ve got my head in the refrigerator again, looking for something to drink. There isn’t much. We’re all out of root beer and I’ve drunk enough of Mom’s cranberry juice to last a lifetime.

  “Well, you look like you fell into a hole,” Grandpa continues, popping a grape into his mouth. “And in my experience, that usually means girl trouble, bully trouble, or both.”

  I look at Grandpa, surprised that he’d know such a thing. “It’s nothing,” I tell him.

  “So you’re sayin’ you been chewin’ tobacco and spit-tin’ on your own shirt?”

  I’d forgotten about the shirt. Again I shrug and try to hide behind the open refrigerator door.

  “Guy, do you think you’re the only person who’s seen trouble before?” Grandpa asks. “Your friend Luke—his family’s been through more barbed wire than any dozen families oughta have to go through with that gold mine business.”

  I straighten up. “What do you mean? What gold mine?”

  Grandpa puts up his hand. “Never mind. That’s a story for him to tell you when he’s ready. But I can see as plain as winter wheat you’ve got things on
your mind, and sometimes spreadin’ the weight around can help. Have a seat and tell me about it.”

  With a sigh I close the refrigerator door and lean back against the kitchen counter. Up until now, Grandpa’s been pretty good about staying out of my business. He’s never grilled me about my dad leaving or anything like that, so I decide to cut him some slack. He probably just wants the company.

  “Well, there’s this girl I like,” I begin, “but she’s not my big problem.”

  “Your big problem is Brad Mullen.”

  I stare at Grandpa and this time, I’m not surprised. I’m shocked. “How did you know that?”

  “You forget where you’re living, buddy boy. Everyone knows about the Mullens around here. Trouble sticks to them like manure on—what’s that stuff they use to fasten clothes?”

  I think for a moment. “Velcro.”

  “Yeah, like manure on Velcro.”

  “Why is that?”

  Grandpa shifts his lower jaw thoughtfully to one side and stares up at the kitchen light. “Can’t say for sure. Maybe the Mullens have bad genes. More likely it’s money. Money isn’t everything, but when you don’t have enough for the basics, trouble seems to find you a lot more often. And for one reason or another, the Mullens have been poor a long time.”

  Grandpa pauses and then says, “Anyhoots, I’ve still got buddies down at the Union Club. They tell me Brad’s got it in for the new kid.”

  “That’s an understatement,” I say, finally sitting down at the table. “He’s just looking for an excuse to punch my clock.”

  Grandpa chuckles and I find that a little annoying, considering we could be talking about my departure for the next world.

  “That sounds like a Mullen,” Grandpa says. “So what’s your plan?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I guess sooner or later I’m going to have to fight him.”

  “That’d be how a good Western would end—with a big showdown. A good fight—especially a good sacrifice. Yep. That ought to be a real crowd-pleaser.”

  I don’t quite like the tone in Grandpa’s voice—and I definitely don’t like the word sacrifice. “What do you mean?”