New York, New York!

by Ann M. Martin

  “Is he your collie? Did you lose him?”

  “No. I’m looking for a pet for my children.”

  “Well, Sonny is very good-natured,” I assured the man. “He’s gentle and he loves to play. And even though he’s a stray, he’s healthy. I took him to the vet. No mange or anything.”

  “How old is he?” asked the man.

  “Three.”

  “Three months?”

  “No, three years.” Sheesh. I had put that on the sign. Didn’t the guy read?

  “Oh. Sorry. I guess I’m not interested then. I’m looking for a puppy for my kids.”

  “Okay.” I hung up. Sonny was sitting beside me. I bent down to scratch the spots behind his ears. “You wouldn’t have wanted to live with that family anyway,” I told Sonny. “The father is an airhead.”

  By Wednesday, though, I almost wished that the airhead had decided to take Sonny. But only because no one else seemed to want him. The Cummingses liked Sonny all right, but they were serious about not getting a pet. Mr. McGill was interested in Sonny, but didn’t see how he could care for him by himself. “Who would walk him while I’m at the office all day?” he asked.

  Good point.

  * * *

  On Wednesday, in an attempt to un-tizzy myself, I decided to take Sonny for a walk in the park, just the two of us. I was clipping his leash to his collar when the phone rang.

  “It’s for you, Kristy!” called Laine’s mom.

  “Okay!” I looked at Sonny. “You wait right here,” I told him. “When I come back, we’ll take our walk. Maybe I’ll buy you an ice cream.” I ran to the kitchen, where Mrs. Cummings handed me the phone.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Hello?” answered a small voice. It belonged to a child.

  “Who is this?” I asked. I didn’t think it was Karen or Andrew.

  “This is Brandon.”

  “Brandon?”

  “Mm-hmm. I saw your sign about the dog. I want one. Mommy and Daddy said I could have one. I’m nine years old. I’m very responsible.”

  I smiled. But then I remembered the other phone call. “The dog’s name is Sonny,” I told Brandon, “and he’s three years old. He’s not a puppy.”

  “Oh, good. So he’s trained, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Phew. Daddy doesn’t want to have to train a dog. He says it’s too much work. Especially in an apartment.”

  “I guess that’s true.”

  “I’ve been wanting a dog for a long time,” Brandon informed me.

  “Well, would you like to meet Sonny?”

  “Sure!”

  “Great. When?”

  “Right now. I want to meet him right now.”

  I hesitated. I’d been hoping that Brandon couldn’t see him until the next day. Then I could spend a little more time with Sonny. I also knew that the sooner I met Brandon’s family and saw their apartment, the better.

  “Okay,” I said to Brandon. “Where do you live?” (Maybe he lived in Minnesota. Or in a building that doesn’t allow pets.)

  Brandon gave me his address. He lived just four blocks from Laine. And, he said, practically everyone in his building had a pet.

  Oh.

  “Mrs. Cummings?” I called after I’d hung up the phone. “That was a little boy who wants to see Sonny. I’m going to walk him to Brandon’s apartment.” I gave Mrs. Cummings the address, and she said she’d come pick me up in an hour. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be with or without Sonny then.

  “Good luck,” called Mrs. Cummings.

  “Well, boy,” I said as I walked Sonny down Laine’s block, “you’re going to meet someone named Brandon. He might be your new owner.”

  Sonny gave me a doggie smile.

  “Be on your best behavior,” I went on. “Mind your manners.”

  Sonny and I reached Brandon’s block, which wasn’t as fancy as Stacey’s. The buildings were smaller, and some looked run-down. But Brandon’s building seemed nice enough. I led Sonny up a flight of stairs and through a doorway. In the vestibule, I saw a panel of buttons. I pressed the one marked 3B — Leech.

  An excited voice blared over the intercom. “Is that Kristy? And my dog?”

  “Yup,” I replied.

  “Okay. Come on up. We’re on the third floor.”

  Brandon buzzed the inner door for me, and I pushed it open. “Come on, Sonny,” I said. The door closed behind us. I looked at the hallway. It was dark and shabby. Also, there was no elevator. “You’re going to get a lot of exercise if you move here,” I told Sonny.

  We walked up two long flights of stairs. Sonny was huffing and panting by the time we reached the third floor. (So was I.)

  I was beginning to peer at the numbers on the apartment doors, when one door flew open and a little boy bounded into the hall.

  “Hi, I’m Brandon,” he announced.

  “I’m Kristy,” I replied, “and this is Sonny.”

  Brandon knelt down. He looked seriously into Sonny’s eyes. “Do you like to play ball?” he asked.

  Sonny stretched forward and licked Brandon’s nose.

  Brandon laughed. “Come on inside,” he said. He took Sonny’s leash.

  I followed Brandon and Sonny through the open door and into a small apartment. A man was standing in front of a couch. He stuck out his hand. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Mr. Leech, Brandon’s father.”

  I introduced myself, and then Mr. Leech told me about Brandon and his family. Mrs. Leech was at work, he said. (Mr. Leech worked at night.) Brandon had no brothers or sisters and was occasionally lonely. His father thought a gentle dog would be good for Brandon, and anyway, Brandon had been asking for a pet.

  While Mr. Leech was talking, Brandon was patting Sonny and tossing a ball to him. I couldn’t tell whether he’d been listening to his father. At any rate, he soon spoke up. “I promise, promise, promise I’ll take extra good care of Sonny. I’ll play with him and I’ll remember to feed him and I’ll walk him a lot. I won’t forget to fill his water dish or anything. Honest.”

  I looked around the Leeches’ apartment. It was small. The furniture was old and worn. But someone had crocheted afghans for the couch, and dried flowers were arranged in vases. Plus, Mr. Leech obviously cared very much for his son, while Brandon already cared for Sonny.

  I smiled at Mr. Leech and then at Brandon. I knew I had found the right home for Sonny, Son of Louie.

  “What are you going to call Sonny?” I asked.

  “You mean I can keep him?” replied Brandon.

  “If it’s okay with your dad.”

  “He’s all yours,” Mr. Leech said to Brandon.

  “All right!” cried Brandon. He threw his arms around his father, then around me, and finally around Sonny.

  “So what are you going to call him?” I asked again.

  I could barely hear Brandon’s answer, since his face was still buried in Sonny’s neck. But I think this is what he said:

  “I’m going to call him Sonny, of course.”

  Enough is enough. All right already. ¡Basta! (That’s Spanish for enough, I think.) If I had to draw another building or statue or cardboard box, my head would explode. It would not be a pretty sight. (Of course, I’ve never seen an exploded head, but I can’t imagine that it would be a pretty sight.)

  Wednesday was the next to last day of classes at Falny for Claudia and me. (No Friday classes, remember?) I went, but not because I particularly wanted to. I went because my parents had paid for two weeks of classes and because I liked Mac and didn’t want to hurt his feelings by not showing up. Also, we were taking a field trip to this place called the Cloisters, and I was curious to see actual old buildings that had been shipped to the United States from Europe and rebuilt stone by stone.

  We took a bus to the Cloisters. I sat with Mac. (Claudia sat in the back of the bus by herself, looking pouty.)

  “Read any good books lately?” Mac asked me as the bus lurched through the city streets. He asked me that eve
ry day.

  “I started a new one last night,” I replied. “It’s really good. But it’s very sad. It’s called A Summer to Die, and it’s about this girl whose older sister is dying of leukemia.”

  “Who’s the author?” asked Mac. He had reached into his pocket and pulled out a notepad. He wrote down the title and then waited for my reply.

  “Lois Lowry,” I said. “She’s written tons of good books. I bet your daughter would like them. She wrote the Anastasia books and Find a Stranger, Say Good-Bye, and …”

  Mac and I talked about books all the way to the Cloisters. That was the fun part. The boring part was the rest of the day.

  After I had looked around the museum and seen the ancient monasteries and stuff, I knew I had to start drawing.

  I found Claudia.

  I watched her for awhile as she sketched.

  How does she do it? I wondered.

  I asked Claudia about her work, but she was so grouchy.

  I settled myself in front of the rebuilt corner of a stone building. I liked that corner. It was handsome. But I didn’t feel like drawing it. How boring. I looked around. Mac was nearby. With a sigh, I began to sketch. A few minutes later, Mac was looking over my shoulder.

  “Very nice,” he said. He smiled and went on.

  When he was out of sight, I looked for a long time at my drawing of the stone wall. It was nice. So I added some tufts of grass in front of it. Fuzzy little mounds of grass, the stalks waving in the breeze.

  Then, next to a grass tuft, I drew a field mouse. It was a boy mouse, so I put a cap on his head. Then I erased the top of his body and gave him a baseball jacket. I decided he should wear glasses, like me. I added a pair of round spectacles.

  Then I gave him a bat.

  And a baseball.

  This is Ryan Mouse, I told myself. He’s a country mouse. And he’s waiting for his girlfriend, who lives in a town. Her name is Kara Mouse. No, Angela Mouse. No, Meaghan Mouse. That’s it. Meaghan Mouse.

  I began Meaghan. I gave her a hip mouse outfit — a huge sweat shirt and leggings. But I had to erase the leggings. They were not meant for mouse legs. I gave her high-tops instead. And some jewelry.

  Now, I thought, Ryan and Meaghan are going to have a picnic in the forest. Only — an evil gnome is after them.

  I drew an ugly, warty creature with fangs and claws.

  And then I stopped drawing. I stared at my page.

  I loved it.

  But Mac would not like it.

  I labeled the drawing Field Mice in Deep Trouble.

  I really wanted to finish it, but I knew what I had to do. I returned to sketching the stuff in the Cloisters. I sketched for the rest of the day. I was bored to death. The highlight of the day was our lunch break.

  At lunchtime, Mac and us Falny students took our food outside. I sat next to Claudia. What a terrific-looking lunch she had packed — a Fluffernut sandwich, Oreos, a couple of chocolate chip cookies, and some Fritos. It was not necessarily healthy, but it was tasty.

  “How was your morning?” I asked Claud.

  “Fine.”

  “Your lunch looks —”

  “Hey, you’re not my mother. There’s nothing wrong with this lunch. Anyway, I packed apple juice. And there are raisins in the chocolate chip cookies,” she added defensively.

  “I wasn’t going to … Oh, never mind.” Sometimes Claudia was not worth talking to these days. I stood up and left. I didn’t see Claud again until we were boarding the bus to go back to Manhattan.

  She sat with Mac!

  I thought she didn’t like him, but they talked during the entire bus ride.

  And then a horrible thought occurred to me: Claudia was in trouble. Mac was telling her that her work was no good. I thought her work was great, but I’m no expert. Uh-oh. If Mac was telling Claudia that her career had reached a dead end, she would probably never speak to me again.

  While Mac and Claudia talked, I twisted my hands nervously. I played with my hair. Life with Claudia was going to be torture.

  But when we reached Falny, Claudia looked happy. No, she looked radiant. She was beaming. She smiled at me. And as we got off the bus, she actually spoke to me. I mean, spoke nicely.

  “Mac and I just had the best talk!” she exclaimed.

  “What were you talking about?”

  “Oh, my art.”

  “Yeah?” I said hesitantly. “What did Mac say?”

  “Just that he thinks I’m” (I prepared myself to hear the worst) “very talented. He says my work is really good, especially for someone my age.”

  “He did? That’s terrific!”

  “He also said I have to concentrate on discipline and stuff, but I can live with that.”

  I nodded. I felt confused, though. Mac had been hounding Claudia since our first morning at Falny: “Do it over.” “Work more slowly.” And he had said that my drawings were “nice” or “good.” But he had never said I was very talented or anything like that. What was going on? I needed to talk to Mac.

  “Claud?” I said. “I — I forgot something in our classroom. I’ll be right back.”

  I ran to our room at Falny and found Mac gathering up some sketches and putting them into a portfolio. “Mac?” I said.

  He glanced up. “Mallory. I thought you’d gone home.”

  “Well, Claudia’s waiting for me downstairs, but I have to ask you something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Am I really a good artist?”

  Mac stopped what he was doing. “You’re dedicated,” he replied. “Yes, you’re good.”

  “But am I going to be a great artist one day? And have shows in galleries?”

  “You’re only eleven, Mallory. It’s a little early to tell. But if you’re asking me whether you have Claudia’s talent, the answer is, I don’t think so. If you keep drawing, though, I’m sure you’ll become a better artist.”

  “Good enough to illustrate books?”

  “Maybe.”

  I thought about my field mice, Ryan and Meaghan. I liked them a lot. I was sorry they were in Deep Trouble. Then I thought about the actual drawings of Ryan and Meaghan. I knew they were good. Good for dressed-up animals, anyway, and good for an eleven-year-old.

  “Thank you, Mac,” I said, turning to leave.

  “Mallory, I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed.”

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  And it really was. As I walked outside to meet Claudia, I thought, There are lots of different kinds of art, and I don’t enjoy Claudia’s kind or Mac’s kind. I like my own kind. And I like writing even better.

  I thought of Ryan and Meaghan again, only this time I imagined them in New York City. They went to the Museum of Natural History and scaled a brontosaurus skeleton. They snuck into Radio City Music Hall and watched all the shows for free.

  By the time Claud and I were zooming back to Stacey’s in a cab, I was writing a New York mouse story in my head. I was happy. I was excited. I had a terrific idea.

  I planned to write a book soon.

  On Thursday, I saw Quint again. We went to another special performance of a ballet. This time we saw a production of Coppélia, which I have actually danced in myself. When the show was over, Quint said, “Want to get a soda or something?”

  “Sure,” I replied. (Anything to lengthen the afternoon.)

  Quint walked me to a nearby coffee shop.

  I ordered a diet soda.

  Quint ordered a vanilla egg cream.

  I changed my mind and ordered a vanilla egg cream, too.

  In case you’ve never tasted one, an egg cream is a wonderful drink. It’s made of soda and milk and either vanilla or chocolate syrup. (Surprisingly, it does not have any eggs in it.) I have never had one except when I’ve been in New York.

  The egg creams arrived and Quint and I sipped them slowly.

  Quint didn’t say much. He looked thoughtful.

  So I spoke up. “There are lots of good parts in Coppélia for guys,”
I said.

  “I know.”

  “If you went to a professional school, you could dance in Coppélia. I have.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah what?”

  “You know what, Jessi. It’s everything we’ve already talked about.”

  “I want to hear you say it again.”

  Quint sighed. “Okay. I know I’m a good dancer.”

  “You’re better than just good if your teachers think you can get into Juilliard.”

  “All right, I’m better than a good dancer. I would like to perform onstage in front of a big audience someday. Just like you have.”

  “So?”

  “Come on, Jessi. You know all this stuff.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “I’m not going to audition because if I do get into Juilliard, I’ll never be able to walk down my own street again. Not even with the bowling bag. I just don’t think I can take all the comments and yelling and stuff.”

  “There are all kinds of prejudice, Quint,” I said. “I’ve lived with it. You’ve lived with it. My friend Claudia has lived with it because she’s not such a great student. Mallory gets teased because —”

  “I know what you’re saying, Jessi.”

  “And you’re going to deprive America of your talent because of a few jerks?”

  Quint smiled. “Well, when you put it that way …”

  “Do you want to go to Juilliard?” I asked.

  “Yes, but —”

  “So go! I mean, at least audition.”

  Quint stared into his egg cream for, like, an hour or something.

  “Quint?” I finally said.

  “I’m thinking.”

  After some more staring and thinking, Quint shifted his gaze to me. “You convinced me. I’ll audition. If I get in, then I’ll decide what to do.”

  “You’ll audition?” I screeched, forgetting where I was.

  “Shhh. Yes.”

  “All right!”

  “On one condition.”

  “What?” (I should have known there was a condition.)

  “That you’ll come home with me now while I talk to my parents. I’m not sure what they’re going to think about this.”

  I thought I knew, but if Quint was worried, then I would give him moral support. It was the least I could do.