“Good luck,” I say, leading Streak away. “You’ll need it.”
Brad looks at me, his lips pressed together like a Ziploc bag.
By the time Brad steps up to the line, at least six inches of snow cover the ground—enough for smaller dogs to trip or stumble in. Shep’s so massive he can plow through it, but when Brad pulls back to make his first throw, he heaves the Frisbee way too hard and it goes wild. It careens left, dives into the snow, and rolls toward the sideline. Shep doesn’t even get close and it takes him twice the usual time to retrieve it.
Luke and I grin and give each other a high five. It looks as if my physics lesson on the density of gases is working.
On the next throw, Brad overcompensates and Shep—all set for another long heave—actually over-runs the Frisbee. Again it falls into the snow.
After that, Brad gets the distance more or less right, but I can tell he’s rattled. When the starter yells “Time!” Brad’s completed only three successful throws for 9 points. I only have a moment to enjoy Brad’s bungle, though. Streak and I are up next, and we need 17.5points to beat Brad and Windmill—and that will only be enough if no one does better. My nerves dancing like the swirling snowflakes, I take Streak up to the line and unhook his lead.
“Just take a deep breath and throw like normal,” Luke says from behind me. I glance over at one of the judges to see that he’s watching Brad, and that makes me feel a little better. Before I know it, the starter shouts, “Go!”
The next sixty seconds pass like a blur. I’m in an altered state, like my mind’s been abducted by aliens. I throw. Streak brings it back. I throw. Streak brings it back again. I worry that the snow is going to slow him down, but it seems to energize him instead. His slender, horselike legs whip through the flakes like foam, one throw after another. Three, four, five times—the last one almost reaching the 40-yard mark. By the time the starter calls time, I have no idea how many points we have, but Luke rushes up to us and yells, “You did it!”
The fog lifts from my brain. “We did?”
“Aw…yeah! 17 points exactly—and if Streak had nabbed that last one in the air, you’d have the outright lead!”
It’s not the unqualified victory I was looking for, but it gives me new life.
“Oh, man,” I say, bending down to give Streak a hug. “Way to go, boy!”
“Now all we have to do is hope nobody does any better,” Luke says.
I take a deep breath. “Yeah.”
We don’t have to worry. Streak’s one of the only dogs that does better in the second round than in the first. Even Windmill the Wonder Dog scores only 14 on his second run. After the last dog scrambles through the snow, the judges compare the highest scores from each round. The starter announces, “Congratulations on all of the fine performances by dogs and owners today.Especially in such, um, unusual conditions.”
The crowd laughs and claps.
“After judging all the scores, it looks like we’ve got a three-way tie for first place. In just a moment, we’ll have a throw-off between Windmill, Shep, and Streak. And their owners, of course.”
Everyone again laughs. Luke looks at me. “Are you ready?”
I look down at Streak. “I guess we’d better be.”
Chapter Nineteen
By the luck of the draw, Streak and I go first. At least seven or eight inches of snow cover the ground and it’s falling so thickly I can barely see the orange cones marking the 40-yard line. Not a single person has left, however. Every one of the owners and dogs—not to mention about a hundred spectators and two local TV crews—has crowded around the snow-covered sidelines.
“Are you all set?” the starter asks.
For the fourth time that day I nod and let Streak off his lead. He dashes out in front of me and I worry whether he’ll even be able to see the white Frisbee in this blizzard.
“Go get ’em!” Luke yells.
Then I hear a familiar voice. “Go, Guy!”
I turn to see Catherine in the crowd about twenty-five feet away. She smiles and I can’t help myself. I smile back.
Immediately after that, I hear an exaggerated choking sound behind me. I know who it is, but I’ve come too far to let Brad get to me now.
“Ready!” the starter yells.
I shake out my arms and pull the Frisbee back. Streak tenses, leaning to one side. Puffs of steam shoot out of his open, eager mouth, and his black legs quiver like they’ve got rocket fuel in them, just waiting for the command to launch.
“Set!… Go!”
I release the Frisbee and Streak blasts toward it. It’s a good throw, easily clearing the 30-yard line. Streak snatches it out of the air before making a quick U-turn back toward me. A few people clap.
The second throw also goes well, and so does the third. When Streak comes rushing back to me, we’re up to 10.5 points. But I can see that Streak is having to bound through the deeper snow instead of just running through it, and that’s starting to slow him down. For the fourth throw, I decide to loft it a little higher to give him more time to get under it.
Mistake.
I throw the Frisbee too high and it stalls and slips back. Streak is already beyond the 30-yard line, but now he has to turn and dive back toward the Frisbee. He just misses and I hear the crowd gasp.
As Streak grabs the Frisbee and gallops back to me, I try to pull myself together.
“That’s okay, Streak,” I tell him, but I’m really telling myself.
I decide to throw just like I did before. I cock back my arm and fling the Frisbee toward the 30-yard cones. The entire crowd hushes as Streak tears after it. The only noise is the sound of his heaving breath and his legs churning through the snow. The disc reaches its peak and then smoothly descends, crossing the 30-yard mark. I’m not sure it’s going to be high enough for Streak to nab the bonus, but he gives it a heroic effort, leaping at the last possible moment. His feet barely clear the ground and he drags down the disc for a final 3.5 points.
“Time!” the starter yells.
Everyone around me claps—everyone except Brad, of course. I squat down and pet Streak, who’s happily wagging his stump but obviously wants me to keep throwing the Frisbee. “Good boy!” I tell him.
Luke comes up to me. “Aw…that was good,” he says. “14 points. Way to go.”
But I can tell he and I are thinking the same thing. And for the first time that day, I’m forced to face the unthinkable. I might actually lose this contest to Brad Mullen—and lose our bet, too.
Luke and I walk back into the crowd. “I blew it,” I say.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yeah. I did. I just thought that with the snow so thick…”
“It’s alright. The other dogs are going to have just as hard a time in this stuff as you did.”
“I don’t know, Luke. What am I going to do if Brad beats us?”
Just then my mom appears. “That was great!” she tells us. “You and Streak were wonderful!”
“Uh, thanks, Mom,” I say. She still has no idea what this contest is really about.
She gives Streak a pat, but fortunately resists kissing me in front of everyone. Then she backs up and says, “How about a photo of Team Streak all together?”
Luke and I stand on either side of Streak and I force a smile, which is difficult with my gut twisting like a tornado. If Mom only knew what was going on, I think, she wouldn’t look nearly so proud of us. Of me, I correct myself. I breathe a sigh of relief when she slogs off through the snow again so she can get a good view of the final two contestants. Whatever happens, I don’t want her around for the outcome, especially because I have no idea what I’m going to do next.
I look down at Streak and am again overcome with guilt. Can I really even think about turning him over to Brad Mullen? I’ve been taught to keep my word and all that, but now I have to decide. Do I care more about keeping my word to a bully or to my dog?
The starter calls Windmill and her owner next. Luke and I move
closer to watch. I want to laugh every time I look at Windmill. Her name matches her perfectly. “She looks like a dog designed by an engineer,” I tell Luke.
He laughs. “You’re right. Look at those legs and ears.”
But Windmill’s loaded with talent. When the starter yells, “Go!” she flails through the snow like a high-speed hydroplane. A white cloud kicks up behind her and she zooms in on the Frisbee like she’s got radar.
The spectators love it and there’s no doubt she’s the favorite. Again and again her giant owner tosses the disc. Again and again she chases it down. When they’re finished, they’ve racked up 17.5 points—perfect for the 30-yard distance, and in today’s conditions, pretty much unbeatable.
“Aw…so much for the trophy,” Luke says.
“Yeah,” I say, but I couldn’t care less about the trophy. All I care about is who’s up next.
“Brad Mullen and Shep!” the starter yells.
Brad squeezes by Luke and me, then stops and spits. “Say good-bye to your dog,” he hisses.
Our eyes lock for what seems like a geological era. I see the usual malice in Brad’s eyes, but I also see just a hint of fear. I feel like I should say something, but can think of nothing.
“Brad and Shep!” the starter repeats.
“Look and learn, Calf Crap,” Brad says and takes Shep up to the line. All eyes are on them, even Streak’s.
Brad unhitches Shep from his leash and mutters something to him. Shep wags his tail and for the first time I realize that maybe Brad actually cares about his dog. I don’t know why that surprises me so much, but it does.
“Ready!” the starter shouts. “Set! Go!”
The TV cameras point at Shep as Brad pulls back and lets the Frisbee fly. The throw is perfect. Shep plows after it and somehow even manages to leap into the air to catch it.
Three and a half points.
I guess my psychological warfare wore off, I think.
Shep races back, the Frisbee in his mouth. Brad rips it loose and throws it again. Again, the throw is perfect. Shep doesn’t leap this time, but easily traps it between his jaws.
Six and a half points.
A panic begins rising in me, but I push it down. Brad can’t possibly keep this up…can he?
Brad throws again—this time a monster beyond the 40-yard mark. I’m amazed he would try that under these conditions, but Shep gives it his all and bags it just before it hits the ground.
Eleven and a half points.
“Aw,” Luke mutters. “I can’t watch.”
I feel the same way. As Shep comes racing back toward Brad, panic explodes through me, making me feel weak and dizzy. Man, I think, they are really in a groove. My head swirls as I realize that they’re not only going to win our bet, they’re going to win the entire contest. I just can’t believe this is happening. As Brad pulls the Frisbee from Shep’s mouth, he looks at me and we both know. One more throw and he wins the bet—and Streak.
“Fifteen seconds!” calls the starter.
Brad pulls back his arm and lets the Frisbee go. I hold my breath. The throw is beautiful, out near the 40-yard mark, and Shep bounds after it, snowflakes swirling all around him. In my mind I can see him launching off the ground, rising toward the descending Frisbee, and seizing it in his jaws.
Only he doesn’t.
Instead of grabbing the Frisbee, Shep comes to an abrupt stop. He turns toward Brad and wags his tail, letting the disc fall into the snow next to him.
The crowd turns stone still. Luke and I look at each other, then back at Shep.
“Shep!” Brad screams. “Frisbee!”
Shep again wags his tail and drops his front legs into a crouch.
“He’s playing!” Luke utters in astonishment. “Shep’s playing a game!”
“You’re right!” I gasp.
“Shep!” Brad yells, sounding like a hysterical chicken. He races out toward his dog and Shep dodges him playfully. Brad swears and scoops up the Frisbee. “Shep! Come!” he yells, running back to the throw line. Shep bounds after him, kicking up powder, obviously having a great time.
Brad pulls his arm back, but it’s all over.
“Time!” the starter yells.
The crowd erupts into clapping, laughing, shouting, and hooting.
Luke and I again look at each other.
“I can’t believe it!” I say.
“Wow!” Luke holds up his hand for a high five and I swing to slap it, but miss. We both crack up.
The TV crews swarm around Windmill and her owner, and soon Streak, Luke, and I have our own crowd. All these people start congratulating me and trying to pet Streak. I don’t have the faintest idea who most of them are, but I do recognize a couple of classmates. Catherine is one of them and I try to talk to her, but I’m so jostled and shocked and relieved by everything that I barely manage to say hi. Twenty minutes later, though, as Luke and I pull Streak from the crowd and walk back to the car, Catherine’s face still sticks to my mind like fresh-fallen snow.
Chapter Twenty
That night, we end up staying in Missoula. By evening the storm has dropped over eleven inches of snow—the most in a decade, according to the local news. Luke says that even with a four-wheel drive, we’d have trouble getting back to Coffee. So my mom checks us into a place called the Creekside Motel, and that evening we trudge downtown to an old theater called The Wilma. The theater needs a total overhaul, but Mom loves it. She says it has character. To celebrate our “victory,” she buys us tickets to a new Will Smith movie, complete with popcorn and drinks.
The next day the storm passes, and as soon as the roads are cleared we head back to Coffee. We drop off Luke and then listen to our tires crunch over the snow as Mom steers towards Grandpa’s house. When we arrive, Grandpa is outside with a shovel, trying to dig out the driveway.
“Hey, how are the local heroes?” Grandpa shouts when we pile out of the car. “You and Streak made page three of the sports section today!”
“Really?” I ask him, surprised. “But we only came in second.”
“Second’s good enough for Coffee,” Grandpa says. “Congratulations, boy.”
After Grandpa and my mom go inside, I pick up the snow shovel and keep working on the driveway. Shoveling snow is another first for me and I find that I enjoy it. Each time I fling a shovelful, Streak leaps into the air and tries to bite it. I laugh watching him, and it makes the work go a lot quicker.
As I lift and toss the scoops of snow into a pile along the driveway, though, I feel jumpy, off balance, and at first can’t figure out what it’s from. I thought that after Streak and I beat Brad in the Frisbee contest, everything would be okay. Brad would be off my back and maybe I could start trying to have a normal life around here. But the higher the white wall along the driveway gets, the more I feel that something’s not quite right.
The next morning, I walk to school early. Instead of going to the front entrance, I head for the Smoking Tree a half a block away. Sure enough, Brad and the Parasites are there, chewing and puffing away. Brad scowls as I approach, but he seems to be missing some of his usual “bad attitude.”
“What do you want?” he says.
“I want to talk to you. Alone.”
He spits. “What for?”
“Just for a minute,” I say and take a few steps away from the tree.
“No kissing,” Harold Dicks says with a cackle. Brad punches him in the shoulder and pain twists his face. Satisfied he’s re-established the pecking order, Brad follows me, chewing a wad of Red Man.
“What is it, Calf Crap? Don’t even think about—”
“Look, Brad,” I say, talking low enough so the others can’t hear. “I just wanted to tell you a couple of things.”
Brad keeps his tough face on, but I see a spark of curiosity.
“First,” I say, “I thought you and Shep did real well Saturday. It was only luck that we beat you.”
“You don’t think I know that?”
“Second,
” I say, feeling the tightness in my voice, “I know I won the bet, but you don’t have to shave your head—or Shep’s either.”
Brad stops chewing and spits. “Like I was going to anyways.”
The comment doesn’t totally surprise me, but makes me pause.
“That it?” Brad says.
“No. There’s one more thing. I don’t want you torturing the kids around here next year.”
“Yeah?” Brad asks, starting to chew again. “Who’s going to stop me? You and your lame-ass friend?”
I realize how my last sentence came out and try to put it another way. “What I mean,” I tell him, “is next year could be different for you. You need help in math. That’s something I’m good at. I could help you get through it.”
“I don’t need your damn help,” Brad says.
“We can keep it quiet,” I say. “It’ll be just between you and me. Luke doesn’t even have to know.”
Brad pulls out his tobacco pouch and places a fresh pinch in his mouth. He glances off at the distant mountains and then back at me. Finally he asks, “What do you get out of it?”
“Well,” I tell him. “It’ll be just as easy working on math with you as by myself. Also, I don’t like you and I’m sure you don’t like me—”
“You got that right.”
“—but no one should have to hang around middle school their entire life. Even you.”
Brad chews a few times and spits at a nearby cola can. He hits it dead on. Then he repeats, “That it?”
I nod. Brad returns to the Parasites, and I walk back toward the front of the school to meet Luke. The twist in my stomach is gone.
Things move pretty fast after that. Mrs. Minneman hands our Animal Farm papers back and I am amazed to find a B- on mine. Next to the grade she’s written, “Writing needs work, but very thoughtful. Good job.”
The weekend after the regional Frisbee competition, my mom drives Luke, Streak, and me to the State Frisbee Championships in Helena. Since Streak and I finished second in Regionals, we’ve qualified to compete for the State Championship and the local paper does another story about us going. As expected,Windmill wins the State title for the second year in a row, but we all have a good time. Streak and I finish eleventh out of a field of twenty, and I’m happy with that. But I think it’ll be our last official competition. Luke’s father told me that lots of dogs get injured jumping and twisting to catch Frisbees and I don’t want Streak to end up crippled. Besides, I realize I have just as much fun playing with Streak in the backyard as I do competing.
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