Truth About Rats and Dogs

by Jacqueline Pearce

  I looked down, reddening slightly.

  “Hmm,” Miss Remple said. “So it’s that way, is it?”

  She touched my shoulder again.

  “You don’t have to apologize to me if your passion is somewhere else,” she said, “but I think you need to tell your parents.”

  Easier said than done. I turned to her.

  “Could you talk to them?” I asked. “Please? They might listen to you.”

  Miss Remple sighed and looked tired.

  “I’ll give your parents a call,” she said, “but you have to promise to talk to them as well. Okay?”

  Relief swept through me.

  “Okay,” I told her.

  “Now,” she reached for her coffee mug, “I don’t think there’s any point in continuing the lesson today, do you?”

  “I guess not,” I said, trying not to sound as thrilled as I felt.

  “So I’ll get myself some more coffee and make that phone call,” she said. “And you can head home.”

  My elation nosedived.

  Mom and Dad were not going to be happy about this.

  I scooped up my music books, and Miss Remple followed me to the door.

  “Don’t forget your coat,” she said.

  “Oh, right.”

  She opened the door for me as I slipped on my jacket.

  I felt like I was outside my body, watching myself move.

  This was so unreal. Had I just quit piano lessons?

  “Bye, Miss Remple,” I said awkwardly. “Thanks.”

  “Good luck,” she said, giving me a wave and an encouraging smile.

  I’ll need it, I thought as I climbed on my bike. What were Mom and Dad going to say?

  Complication

  The air was cold and the pavement damp as I headed for home. I pedaled in a daze, not thinking about where I was going. How were Mom and Dad going to react to Miss Remple’s call? Would they let me quit piano? Would they be very disappointed? Would they ground me more? What about practicing for the bike competition? What about Oscar? My thoughts roiled like a dark storm cloud.

  Suddenly a car door opened in front of me. In a flash I realized I was going to hit it. In that same instant I slammed on the brakes and jerked the bike sideways. There was a bone-jarring thud and a wave of pain. Then blackness.

  I woke up in the hospital with Mom and Dad standing over me. I was lying on a stretcher. Pain pulsed through my body. What was going on?

  “Oh, Conner,” Mom whispered, noticing my eyes open. She had tears in hers.

  “How do you feel, son?” Dad asked, leaning closer.

  “Sore,” I groaned, not quite able to identify which parts hurt and which parts didn’t. “How long have I been here?”

  “It’s been about half an hour since your accident,”

  Mom said.

  “My accident?” I asked groggily, noticing that my head was one of the things that hurt—though not as much as my right shoulder and thigh.

  “Someone in a parked car opened their door right in front of you,” Dad explained, sounding angry, but not at me. “The doctor says you managed to hit sideways somehow instead of hitting straight on and flying over the handlebars.”

  “That’s right,” the doctor said as she stepped up to the stretcher. “In these types of accidents, cyclists tend to suffer head and upper body trauma, but you seem to have gotten off better than most.”

  Dad reached out to rest a hand on my head.

  “He’s good at bike maneuvers,” Dad said proudly.

  My eyes darted to Dad in surprise.

  “So nothing’s broken?” I asked, turning my gaze back to the doctor.

  “Nope,” the doctor said. “Just some nasty bruises.”

  She leaned over me and shone a flashlight into my eyes.

  “But you did hit your head on the pavement when you fell after the impact with the door,” she pointed out. “And you have a bit of a concussion.”

  “I thought I didn’t hit my head.”

  “Not initially and not at high speed,” the doctor explained. “Plus, you were wearing a helmet. But we do need to keep an eye on you for a bit.”

  “Are you sure he’s okay?” Mom asked, her voice anxious.

  “He’ll be fine,” the doctor said.

  “There’s no internal damage?” Dad asked.

  “It doesn’t look that way,” the doctor answered. “But

  I’d like to do some tests to be on the safe side.”

  “What happened to my bike?” I asked, trying to sit up, which I immediately regretted. Pain and blackness washed over me.

  “You better not try getting up quite yet,” the doctor said, noting the look on my face.

  Mom and Dad pressed closer.

  “Don’t worry about your bike,” Dad said. “It’s okay.”

  I wanted to ask how much damage there was to the bike, but I was suddenly very tired. The room was getting blurry. I closed my eyes.

  When I opened my eyes again, the doctor was gone. I was in a different room and lying on a proper bed—at least a proper bed for a hospital. The room was dim, and Mom was sitting in a chair by the window.

  “Mom?”

  She jumped up and came to stand by my bed.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked softly, reaching out to touch my face.

  “Better.” My whole body no longer felt like one big bruise. The soreness now seemed to be concentrated in my shoulder and thigh, and my head no longer hurt.

  “That’s good,” Mom said with a smile. “The doctor gave you a shot of pain medication. It must be working.”

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s gone downstairs to get some coffee,” Mom said.

  “He’ll be right back.”

  Coffee. My stomach did a flip-flop as I suddenly remembered the smell of Miss Remple’s coffee and perfume. The piano lesson! It all came back to me then. Had Miss Remple called Mom and Dad? Were they mad?

  Would they let me quit piano?

  “Miss Remple—” I began, struggling to sit up.

  “Shh,” Mom said, easing me back down. “Miss Remple called us about your piano lessons. We’ll talk about it later. I don’t want you to worry about anything right now.”

  Her voice was soft and comforting. Not mad at all. I lay back down and closed my eyes again.

  “Just rest now,” Mom’s voice continued. “Think of being in the hospital as being on a holiday.”

  A holiday? My eyes popped open, and I tried to get up again.

  “How long am I going to be in here?” I demanded.

  “Just until they’ve done some tests,” Mom said. “Maybe overnight.”

  “I can’t stay overnight! I have to get home and feed

  Oscar.”

  Gently, Mom pushed me back down again.

  “I said I didn’t want you to worry about anything,” Mom said firmly, but with a smile. “Your Dad and I will go home and check on Oscar.”

  “But you don’t know what to feed him.”

  “We’ll figure it out. He’ll be fine.”

  Her hand rested on my chest, its weight comforting. I closed my eyes once more and this time drifted into sleep. At the edge of my consciousness, the worries hovered like the shadows in the corners of the room.

  Release

  By the next morning I was feeling foolish about being stuck in the hospital with nothing but a slight headache and bruises. My whole body felt kind of stiff when I got up to use the bathroom, but at least I could do that now.

  I wondered if I’d still be sore for the bike competition— or if I’d even have a bike to ride.

  I pressed the controls on the side of my bed to raise myself to a sitting position and pointed the TV remote at the small television fixed to the wall in front of my bed.

  My parents must have dished out some extra money to get me this private room with a TV. When I pressed the On button, voices filled the room, but they weren’t just coming from the TV.

  I turned to see Eri
ka and Mercedes walk through the door, followed by Jake, who hung back a bit, looking embarrassed.

  “Hey,” Jake said, pushing forward. “Pretty extreme way to get out of piano lessons.”

  Everyone laughed, which eased the awkwardness, though the comment felt a little too close for comfort to me. I flicked off the TV.

  “How did you guys know I was here?” I asked.

  “I called your house,” Jake answered. “Your sister told me what happened.”

  “Then he called me,” Erika added.

  I looked at Jake with surprise but didn’t say anything.

  “So what did you break?” Jake asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “You’re really lucky,” Mercedes said. “My cousin ran into a parked car once. Broke his nose, and his whole face had to be bandaged up.”

  “I didn’t run into the car,” I pointed out. “The driver opened his door into me.”

  “Who’s taking care of Oscar?” Erika asked.

  “My mom and dad, I guess.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow.

  “Or maybe they asked Jenna to do it,” I said.

  “Maybe they took him back to the shelter,” Jake suggested.

  Mercedes jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow.

  “Don’t say that,” she told him. “Of course they didn’t take Oscar back to the shelter.”

  A nurse walked in with a stethoscope around her neck and a blood pressure cuff in her hand. My friends stepped back while the nurse wrapped the cuff around my upper left arm and began pumping air into it.

  “You’re welcome to stay,” she said to them, but they were backing toward the door.

  “We’ve got to go anyway,” Mercedes said.

  “Hope we see you at school tomorrow,” Erika added.

  “Yeah,” Jake said as he ducked through the door.

  “Have fun.”

  I would have thrown my pillow after him, but I didn’t think the nurse would be too happy if I did. So I sat back quietly and let her finish checking me over.

  My mind went back to Jake’s earlier words. Could Mom and Dad really have taken Oscar back to the shelter? My insides twisted with frustration—like a tied-up prisoner. I needed to get home to check on Oscar.

  Finally, around noon, Dad showed up to take me home.

  We sat in the car in silence for the first couple of blocks.

  Then I took a deep breath.

  “Dad,” I began, “I’m really sorry about piano. I did try my hardest. Honest.”

  Dad was quiet for a moment, and I held my breath, my hands turning sweaty.

  “I know you did,” he said at last, and I let out my breath with relief.

  “Maybe we were pushing you too hard,” Dad continued.

  “Maybe you just need a break from piano for a while.”

  I didn’t think a break was all I needed, but it was a start, and I didn’t complain.

  “Listen,” he said, glancing over at me. “I’ve seen you work hard at things—taking care of that rat and practicing your bike tricks. I’m a bit disappointed with how the piano worked out…but, Conner, I’m not disappointed in you. No way.”

  Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Dad reached out his other hand to give the top of my head a quick rub.

  I leaned back in my seat, a warm feeling in my chest. I realized, as we drove the rest of the way home, that even if I didn’t get to keep Oscar, I was pretty lucky.

  On the drive home, Dad assured me that Oscar was okay and that no one had returned him to the shelter behind my back. All the same, I felt apprehensive as I entered the house and headed to my room. Mom had been alone with Oscar all morning. What if he’d gotten out of his cage and she’d panicked and hit him with the broom or something?

  No, that was a stupid thought. She wouldn’t do anything like that. But as I took the last steps to my bedroom, I couldn’t help feeling something was wrong. Why was the house so quiet? Dad was outside doing something in the yard, but where was Mom? The door to Jenna’s bedroom was closed, and I could hear her voice inside, probably talking on the phone to one of her friends. That, at least, was normal. But my own door was partway open. I never left it like that. I kept it either open or closed, not in-between. As I stepped up to the door, part of the room was blocked from my view, but through the gap I could see Oscar’s cage sitting on the floor. I froze.

  The door on the top of the cage hung open. The cage was empty.

  Sharing Oscar

  I rushed into the room, then stopped short. Mom was kneeling on the floor by the bed, looking down at something on the bed that was sitting on top of a towel. It was Oscar. He was peeking out from a cardboard tube, sniffing the air. Mom looked up, startled.

  “Conner! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  She got to her feet and gave me a hug, careful not to squeeze my sore side.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Mom asked. “Do you need to sit down?”

  “I’m okay,” I assured her, but I sat down on the end of the bed anyway and held out my hand to Oscar.

  As if he recognized me (or perhaps my voice), Oscar took a few steps out of the tube, eager to sniff my fingers.

  “I think he missed you,” said Mom.

  I looked up at her, feeling like something was wrong with this picture.

  “I thought you didn’t like Oscar,” I said.

  Mom gave me an embarrassed smile.

  “I guess he’s not so bad once you get used to him,” she said.

  I grinned. “You actually picked him up?”

  Mom smiled back.

  “I did indeed,” she said, looking proud of herself. “You said he needed exercise, didn’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Although he hasn’t had much,” she commented.

  “Except for his dash to the tube.”

  “He feels safer in there,” I pointed out. “Rats don’t like open spaces.”

  “Oh,” Mom said. “I guess that makes sense.”

  “What did you feed him?” I asked.

  “That stuff you had in that bag by the cage?”

  “All of it?” I asked incredulously. There had been enough food there to last at least a couple of days.

  “Wasn’t I supposed to?” Mom asked. “He kept emptying out his dish, so I thought he needed more.”

  I laughed. “Let me show you something,” I said.

  Carefully, I knelt down on the floor beside Oscar’s cage, my sore shoulder and leg protesting. I started to reach into the cage with my right arm, felt a twinge of pain and switched to my left arm. I grabbed Oscar’s house and lifted it up. Under the house was a pile of food.

  “Oh,” Mom said.

  “He likes to horde things,” I explained. “If I let him loose in the house, he’d collect other stuff, as well.”

  “Hmm,” Mom said. “But you won’t be doing that, will you?”

  “No,” I said quickly, regretting my choice of words.

  Mom seemed to regret hers as well. She sighed and bent down to help me up.

  “I know you’re doing a good job with the rat,” she said.

  “You mean Oscar,” I said.

  “With Oscar,” she continued, smiling slightly. “But you’re going to have to take it easy this week, you know.”

  “I’m fine,” I protested, growing alarmed. “I can take care of him.” Was she going to suggest we return him to the shelter early?

  “I know, I know,” Mom said, holding up her hands. “I’m just saying I want you to take it easy and let Jenna and Dad and me help you with things.”

  “Okay,” I said, relieved. “I will.”

  “Now, do you want me to put Oscar back in the cage for you?” she asked. “I want you to rest.”

  “I can do it,” I told her. “I’m just going to lie on the bed with him for a while.”

  Mom frowned and opened her mouth as if she was going to protest. She probably wanted to warn me about rat germs. But then she looked over at Oscar, who was sitt
ing at the opening to his tunnel, licking his paws and wiping them over his face—as if to show her how clean he was.

  Mom sighed.

  “All right,” she said hesitantly. “But try to keep him on the old towel I put out. I don’t want him peeing on your bed.”

  I rolled my eyes. Same old Mom.

  I climbed onto the bed and stretched out on my left side beside Oscar. Mom started to leave but paused in the doorway and looked back.

  “I do know about some of the things you like,” she said softly and with a nod at Oscar. “I’m sorry if it seems like I haven’t been paying attention.”

  I looked at Mom with surprise. She had heard what I’d been trying to tell her the other night. She appeared to be trying not to cry.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I said quickly, giving her a smile.

  She leaned against the doorframe.

  “And I know you like those bike tricks too,” she went on. “Your dad says you’re good at them.”

  I couldn’t help grinning.

  “Dad said that?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “He also said you’ve got some kind of competition coming up.”

  I nodded, but my face fell as I remembered my bike.

  “If I’ve got a bike to ride,” I said glumly.

  “Don’t worry about your bike,” she said. “Your dad already took it to the bike shop to be fixed. Just worry about taking care of yourself.”

  She waited for me to nod, then smiled again.

  “Okay then,” she said.

  The next moment, Oscar and I were alone. I looked down and held out a finger for him to sniff. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. The thought was bittersweet. In five days I’d have to take Oscar back to the shelter.

  Last Days

  On Monday I was still pretty stiff and sore, so Mom gave me a ride to school. After school, Jenna helped me clean Oscar’s cage.

  “I hope you don’t have to do this every day,” she grumbled.

  “I scoop the poop out every day,” I explained, “but I only change the bedding every couple of days.”

  She groaned.

  “Well, you better feel better soon,” she complained, but when we were finished cleaning, she smiled and offered Oscar a piece of cereal.