“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Corny asks, in this sweet and calm voice.
I confess it all. I tell her about how the plan got started. I tell her about how people reacted, how I felt like I was in total control, and how we brought down Brynne. I tell her about Delia, and how she told everyone about my mother—my secret—and what happened after that. I tell her how much I miss my friends. And how I’d do anything just to have them back, if I only knew how.
She is shaking her head with wonder, and looking like all the anger from yesterday has drained right out of her. “Olivia,” she sighs, her voice heavy.
“I’m really sorry about the training,” I say. But the words fall short of what I feel. Those words work when you bump into someone in the hallway. But they don’t exactly work when you’ve just ruined your life and someone else’s.
“I know you are.” She raises her eyebrows. “But have you told Briana how sorry you are?”
“Brynne, you mean. And I tried,” I tell her, and pick at my cuticle. I can feel her still looking at me. “Okay, I’ll try harder.”
I hear her sigh. “You know, you can’t treat the world like a…” She looks around the room and spots Queso. “Like a Chihuahua.” Queso looks at her like she not only understands English but agrees completely, and jumps into Corny’s lap. “And what’s going on with you and Delia?”
“She tried to apologize, but I wouldn’t listen. I just hadn’t forgiven her yet.”
“Must be the stubborn hound in you.” She smiles. “But you have now?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I say, remembering the conversation I had with my dad. “But I just don’t even know what to do next.”
Corny looks me in the eye. “You know all the steps you’ve been going through to train people?”
I nod.
“Well, here’s my advice. Do the opposite. Forget about being an alpha dog.” I don’t bother telling her that it’s safe to say that that’s been long forgotten. “Step one. Call her. Apologize. Listen to her. Be humble. It’s not about being right. It’s about making things right.” She gives me a hug and says, “Just start right now.”
“What’s step two?”
“Do step one all over again. This time, with Brianne.”
“Brynne.”
“Whatever. You know I’m terrible with names. All I know her as is the nice, little pretty girl who liked my cooking.”
And I really want to believe that underneath it all, that’s exactly who Brynne is.
DELIA ANSWERS the phone. “Hey,” I say. I squeeze Oomlot in closer to me. I really need his support.
“Olivia?” She makes my name a question.
“Yeah. It’s me.”
She’s quiet, so I just jump in with everything I should have said two weeks ago, my heart pumping wildly. “Look, Delia, I’m sorry. I was mad at you for telling everyone about my mother, but I understand why you did it, even though it was dumb. And I was mad at all of them for just knowing, I guess. But I don’t really think you’re a bad friend. I actually think you’re the best one I’ve ever had.” Then I take a breath and add, “I miss you.”
And then she says she’ll have to call me back, but in a way that makes me sure she never, ever will.
Five minutes later—when I’m well into planning a future with only an eighth-grade education because I never want to go back to school, ever—she does call back. I break out everywhere in a sweat of relief. I make a line through where I’ve written “professional poop scooper.”
“Sorry,” she says. “It’s just—I miss you too, but I’m still a little mad. I mean, I’m sorry that I said anything to Brynne—or to anyone. That was wrong, I know. But then you just totally ignored me and blew us all off.”
“I know—I was mad at all of you. You, especially. But I’m sorry too, I’m really sorry.”
She breathes out loudly. “I am too, Liv. I’m sorry.” Then, “I heard you got suspended.”
“You heard? Already?”
“Yeah. Actually, I heard that you got caught shop lifting and were put in handcuffs and hauled off to jail. Oh, and did you know you drink whiskey too?”
I laugh. “I do?”
“Yeah. Apparently you were drunk on it. And you threw up in the police car.”
A snort comes out of my nose, which makes Delia laugh too.
“I hope you defended my honor,” I joke.
“You know, this time? I just kept my mouth shut. I probably should have just done that before.”
“It’s okay. I mean, I was really mad, but you know what? It’s really okay. I mean, it’s kind of a relief, actually, not to have to keep a stupid lie going.”
“But no one in the Bored Game Club is not going to be your friend because your mom’s in a—one of those centers.”
“I guess I know that now. I was just scared of being a permafreak. You know, like tainted somehow.”
“Even if you were a perma-freak, we’d still love you.”
I smile. “I honestly think that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“No it’s not. This is: I’ve been admiring your glossy hair for quite some time now,” she says.
I’m aware of the strange sensation of my lungs fluttering, and my stomach quivering, and my throat shaking, before I realize I’m laughing hard. For the first time in a long time. “You’re right. That is. Thank you. I guess that’s one thing I have Brynne to thank for.”
“What’s going on with Brynne anyway?”
“She found out about the training—I had to tell her. The guilt was killing me.”
“Is she mad?”
“That’s an understatement. She’s livid. I’m a little scared.”
“Well, you really should try to straighten things out with her. Especially with the elections coming up. Not that I really think she can do anything to get things off track at this point, but just because we don’t need any surprises.”
“I will,” I promise. “But Dee, I’m not so sure the whole plan was a great idea. I think we really wrecked her life.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Delia says. “I think everything worked out like it should. Didn’t this whole thing bring out the good side of her? I mean, you got to know her pretty well. What do you think?”
I push aside the thoughts of Angry, Spittling, Janitor-Closet Brynne and try to delve into the memories of Travel-Scrabbling Brynne. Dog-Loving Brynne. Sweatpant-Wearing Brynne. BFF-Wanting Brynne. “Yeah, she can be really nice,” I agree.
“See?” Delia says. “Besides, someone’s going to be the alpha dog in any situation. Wouldn’t you rather have it be us?”
“You’re right,” I sigh. “God, I’ve missed you, Dee!”
“I miss you too, you know? Fall Ball would have been so much more fun if you were there.”
My heart starts to feel warm and glowy. I ask, “How was it anyway?”
“Oh. It was okay, I guess.”
“So you did go with Danny?”
“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” she says. “You know how Brynne used to say he had fart breath?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it’s actually true.”
I laugh. Probably too much. I’m just so relieved to be talking with her. Then I ask, “How about Phoebe and Brant?”
“Oh.” Delia giggles. “Actually, I think Brant’s a little mad. Phoebe ended up spending the whole night talking to Joey.”
“No. Way.”
“Yep,” she says. “Remember how weird he used to get when she brought up Brant? We’re thinking it was pure jealousy.”
I laugh. I mean, wow. I start to open my mouth to tell her what Brynne had said about that date, how it was a dare, and then I decide I’ve done enough harm. I need to leave happiness alone.
“Um, Olivia,” Delia says carefully. “Look, everyone’s still kind of upset. They think you overreacted and then pretty much just abandoned them. But I’ll talk to them, okay?”
Then she tells me she better go, she’s got a
bunch of campaign stuff to do for the final push. I tell her I have to go, too—I’ve got to make that phone call to Brynne. But when I do, her phone just goes straight to voice mail.
It’s her happy voice, which makes me feel worse. “It’s Brynne! Leave me a message!”
So I do. “Hey, Brynne. It’s Olivia. I’m really sorry. Call me.”
I know she won’t. I guess I’ll have to straighten things out my first day back. I tell myself that it will all be okay. I just wish I was more convincing.
MY SUSPENSION IS only for two days, but I never want to have it again. It’s not like a day off. During my sentence, Corny gives me work—scooping poop out in the field and gathering dog hair. The poop, of course, I throw away, but Corny insists I rake the dog hair into large clumps so the birds can grab it by the beakful and line their nests with it. Also, not only do I still have to do schoolwork and homework, but my teachers have given me special assignments that I’m supposed to use to prove that I understand everything they did in class. Which is not easy when you haven’t been in class. It’s just a ton of reading without the benefit of some honor roll student raising a hand and asking the question that you’ve been secretly wondering yourself.
I mean, I hate school and all, but suspension is way worse.
Corny tells me we’re going to go see Kisses, which requires a little prep work on my part. I make myself look in the mirror and practice looking confident, like in the old days when I was first learning how to train. I tell myself that I’m good enough, that I’m smart enough, and so what if I’ve just made a few mistakes? (Okay, a few really horrible ones.) But no matter what I do, I feel like the victim of some bad self-esteem seminar—like one with dancing, life-size puppets that sing songs about cloudy days and sunshine and pretend it’s okay that some of us are dumb and/or ugly. Or stink.
In sixth grade, after one of those assemblies (featuring a puppet playing a ukulele), this girl named Lizzie Buchholz, who suffered from some mysterious odor problem we named bathabus neglectus, decided it was okay to wear the same pair of red-and-blue-striped kneesocks to school every day. Because a loser puppet told her she was fine the way she was.
You couldn’t really blame her. It actually makes sense. Because, really, if you’re fine the way you are, why should you try to change anything? Grades, attitude. Food-chain status. Or, like in Lizzie’s case, hygiene.
But I guess this is where low self-esteem comes in handy. Because at this very moment, all the puppets and ukuleles and ribbon dancers in the world couldn’t convince me that I’m okay. And this is actually a really, really good thing. Because I seriously need to get my butt in gear. Starting now.
Corny stares at me with an amused but puzzled smile as I get into the passenger seat of her pickup. “You certainly look”—she pauses—“ready, I guess is the word. I wasn’t sure you’d be up for it, but this is a nice surprise.”
Especially since my last two days have been so crappy. Literally. “We have the sod?” I ask, although I’m hoping we won’t need it.
“Right in back,” she says, pointing her chin toward the bed of the truck.
“Treats?”
She picks up a biscuit-filled plastic bag next to her and shakes it for me. Then she looks at the bag, makes a hmmm sound, and takes one out for herself. She bites into it. “Hungry?” she asks, offering the bag to me.
I guide her hand away and pretend to stick my finger down my throat to gag myself. It’s only a slight exaggeration.
She shakes her head. “One of these days you’ll have to try one. They’re actually quite good.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say. I take a deep breath. I may get used to bagging poop. I may get used to psychotic dogs. But I will never get used to my grandmother’s bizarre food habits, no matter how human-friendly she claims her biscuits to be. Blech.
“Well, Kisses certainly eats them up,” she says.
“Kisses probably eats her own vomit,” I point out. Not that I’ve seen her do it, but I’m sure she would. Most dogs do that kind of thing.
“Oh, Olivia, that’s disgusting,” she says, like eating a dog biscuit isn’t. My face cracks into a smile, and I’m starting to feel my mood lift.
That is, until I get out of the truck and find that Kisses has not just taken one step back, or two. She has apparently been walking backward for a while now and has wound up in a world where “human” is standard lunch fare and is served on platters, between buns, and in buckets. Her head is low, her body is crouched, and she is oozing out a low, suspicious warning growl like a small but incredibly powerful motor.
For a second I think about getting back into the truck. But then I have a flashback to Lizzie’s putrid socks. Do I really want to be fine with the way I am at this very moment, scared to death of a tiny hairless dog that’s afraid of grass?
I do not.
I notice Kisses’s trembling back leg. Although she howls, I can see she’s frightened. I take a second to correct my body language and let the stench of my own fear waft away. She howls again, lurches forward, but steps right back. I avoid her eyes and stand my ground. Before she can spring forward again, I clap my hands, just once. It distracts her, and she jumps backward. I step forward. She howls but steps back. I take another step in her direction. Her howl turns into a whine, and she turns and runs toward the house, away from me.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Dewey says. “She was doing so well, but lately…” His voice trails off.
“Don’t worry. So she’s had a little bit of a slip. We can make up for lost time,” Corny says. I hope she’s right. And not just in the case of Kisses.
After almost two hours of doing everything we’d done in the weeks before, Kisses finally agrees to go back on the sod, and after several reward biscuits, seems almost happy about it. I nearly cry tears of relief. Kisses also agrees to step out on the stones that I put out on the lawn. But she still seems to think that she’d be risking her life to let one foot step away from the stone. So we’re basically back to where we left off.
You’d think I’d be disappointed, but I’m not. At all. It’s not going to be today, but I know we’ll get there. Kisses will make peace with the lawn sometime soon. I can see her running in the grass, lying in the sun, even wriggling around on her back the way some dogs do when they look like they’re scratching away an itch and having a thrilling time doing it.
And if some ukulele-strumming puppet told me, right here, right now, that I’m fine just the way I am, I might actually, just a little bit, believe it.
IT’S WEDNESDAY, my first day back from my sentence.
The bus slows to a stop in front of my driveway like a cranky old lady—wheezing, groaning, creaking, and generally making me feel like I’m making its day a little harder. I step on board and the bus charges off, and I almost take a tumble into Tamberlin Ziff, who screams loudly and then enjoys all the eyes on her.
“Sorry,” I mumble, although she’s not really the one I need to apologize to. That person’s sitting in a seat alone, about seven rows back.
But as I get closer, Brynne gives me a quick look. Then her face hardens and she lifts her backpack from the floor, placing it on the empty part of the seat next to her. I stop at her row.
“Brynne?”
She doesn’t look at me.
“Brynne,” I say a little louder.
She glances up at me again, with the same hard look. Then I realize she’s listening to an iPod. She turns up the volume and looks away.
“Sit down!” the driver yells in the same voice she used to use on the barkers. I find an empty seat. And then I’m back to reading Car and Driver over the shoulder of Little Kid. It may not be a glory seat, but it’s actually strangely comfortable. One little piece of my old life is back.
I go to my locker and look around. Maria, who’s standing less than a foot away from me at her own locker, doesn’t even glance in my direction. “Hi,” I say to her.
“Hi,” she bleats, avoiding my eyes.
And then I see Mandy. Our eyes meet, and she freezes like she’s in a bit of a panic. I refuse to let her get away, and luckily she’s petrified by shock and the awkwardness of the situation.
“Hi,” I say. I smile. Not too confidently, since I have to show that I’m humble.
“Hi.” She smiles back. It’s a little shaky, but it’s still a smile.
All around us, people are rushing by, greeting her as they do.
So I just say, “I want to help on the campaign.”
She laughs a little. “Well, elections are two days away.”
“I know. I’m sorry I haven’t been around for a while.” My words sound too lame for how I really feel, so I say, “I’m just sorry about everything, period.”
“Yeah, well…” She shrugs. She looks down at her shoes. They’re clogs. “Well, if you hadn’t made me run for president, I never would have done it.” She looks back up at me.
I smile. I miss her so much, clogs and all. And yes, she is the kind of person who can pull it off.
“Can I come back to the Bored Game Club?”
She gets kind of squirmy. “I don’t know. Probably not today, okay? Let me talk to Phoebe and Joey first. Half the school’s been coming to the club, so we’ve been pretty swamped.” But she looks at me sympathetically. That’s the thing about Mandy. She may play at being tough, but at heart she’s like Wonder bread. “But soon, okay?”
I reach forward to hug her. She stumbles backward a bit and then leans in for a squeeze. When I let go, she gives an uncomfortable laugh. “Okay, I’ll see you soon. And by the way?”
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