A minute later, Loba was bounding along beside me with my yellow iPhone in her mouth.
She offered this, too, at my feet, her tail almost flying off.
I stared at the phone with a mix of joy and nausea. “Good dog, Loba,” I finally said. Without checking it, I jammed it in my pocket and kept running. I didn’t stop until I almost crashed into a young father pushing his son on a bike with training wheels.
“Ian!” the dad said. “Where ya been? You okay?”
I worked hard to focus on his face and realized it was my dishwasher friend from school. “Oh, hi, Danilo. Yeah, I’m … I’m fine. Just a little busy.”
“Cool video, man!” He noticed Loba. “Is that her? The famous Loba?”
She came over and licked Danilo’s hand.
“There’s your answer,” I said.
“You busy working on another video, man? That was so cool. How did you do that part where—”
“Uh … maybe later, okay? I just need a—”
“A break, right. I get it. You artist types.”
Danilo’s son was rocking his bike. “C’mon, dad, let’s go.”
“I didn’t know you had a kid,” I said. “Does he like to play with bows and arrows?”
Danilo looked at me funny, like I was drunk or something. “Sorry, what?”
“Forget it.”
They continued down the hill. Both father and son waved back at me. “Hasta prontisimo, man,” Danilo yelled. “See ya soon!”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Father and son. Outside playing together.
What a concept.
By the time we made it to the top of Nose Hill, the wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped by, like, ten degrees. Crazy Calgary weather. I plunked down on a bench, thinking: what a nice place this would be to sleep for a week—when I was assaulted by a screaming monkey ringtone.
Damned if my iPhone still worked.
I pulled it out and checked missed calls and text messages. There were over two thousand of them. I let out a massive sigh, realizing I hadn’t checked anything but my blogs since I started to make the video three weeks ago.
Two hours later, I was still sitting on the bench going through my messages, when a crack of thunder exploded over downtown Calgary. I lifted my head and saw a wall of black clouds rolling off the mountains. I buttoned up my jean jacket and dove back into my messages.
Just two hundred more to go and I’ll … Wait a minute. Where’s Loba?
Another screaming monkey. Incoming from Mom.
“Yup,” I said.
“Where have you been, Indio?”
I stood up and scanned the trails in all directions. “Nose Hill, like I said.”
“Did you hear that thunder? You should get off the hill right away. Remember that woman who was hit by lightning up there?”
“What woman?” I saw a flash of fur darting through the grass and started running toward it.
“About twenty years ago, I think. Whatever. You need to come home.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, stopping in my tracks when I saw it was a coyote.
“Right now, Indio.”
“Yeah, yeah. Be right there.”
I spun around and around, looking frantically for Loba.
“Indio, what’s wrong?”
“I’m okay. Loba just took off after something.”
“You’ve lost Loba?” Mom cried.
“No, no, she’s just … I’m coming home. Bye.”
I shoved the phone in my pocket and ran. “Loba!”
I ran over to another clump of trees. “Loba!”
Down to the pond where she found the rabbit. “Loba! Loba!”
Next to the fence along the road where my shouts were drowned out by rush-hour traffic. “LOBA!”
Back up to the bench … where I found her proudly sitting beside a Calgary Flames ball cap that I’d lost up there months ago.
I buried my nose in her fur. I smothered her with hugs. I was crying again. “Good dog, Loba! That’s my sniffer dog. Where did you find that? Good dog, good dog.”
Another crack of thunder, closer. The first drops of rain.
“Let’s go,” I said to Loba, slapping on my ball cap. I started down the trail, leaning over my phone, dealing with more messages. All of them about the video. Good, bad, ugly. Reading, responding, deleting.
The rain came down in buckets. Cars streamed past me, sending up angel wings of spray. I was almost at the intersection when I opened a text from Monica, now the school president.
RUOK? sorry to hear your blog got hacked. fng evil stuff ! luv your video!! didn’t no u played guitar. would luv to learn some time. u r HOT! can I have your autograph ?? news flash: grumpy grimsby tinkering with our phone guidelines. trying to water down while u r away. we need u here Ian. miss u! xoxo
I glanced up at the traffic light as it turned green. I was back on my manic channel, levitating across the intersection, held aloft by Monica’s words. Hugs and kisses! Wow! I started thumbing her a quick response when I heard a train-sized horn behind me and a screech of brakes. I looked back just in time to see a dog rolling sideways under a big red Coke truck.
“LOBA!”
I ran back across the intersection against a red light.
“LOBA!”
Cars started honking at me from all sides, among them, an orange Mustang with a cell phone sticking out the driver’s window, pointed right at me.
DR. POZNIAK
The smell of dog pee and floor cleaner had me reeling in my chair. Mom sat beside me, her fingers wrapped in mine like she was holding me up. The way I felt, she probably was.
A vet technician walked into the waiting room, all smiles. “Good news,” she said. “Loba is going to be fine.”
I felt Mom’s fingers relax. “Gracias a Dios,” she said. “Thank God.”
“She’s one lucky dog,” said the technician. “And tough! Rolling under a Coke truck like that? But no broken bones. Just a dislocated hip. We’ll need to put her under to—”
I jumped out of my chair. “Put her under! You mean, like—”
“No, no. Just an anesthetic so we can pop her leg bone back into her hip.”
“Didn’t you already give her anesthetic?” Mom asked.
“That was just a mild sedative to keep her calm for the X-ray. And some pain killer.”
“Is she in a lot of pain?” Mom asked.
“Likely not. Just a precaution.”
“Isn’t that kind of overkill?” I said.
“Routine procedure,” the technician said, as she moved down the hall. “Would you like to see her before we fix her up?”
I ran down the hall after her and pushed open the operating room door. Loba looked pretty stoned but was able to lift her head and wiggle her tail on the stainless steel operating table.
The bearded vet, Dr. Pozniak, was filling a syringe beside her.
More drugs.
I took Loba’s head in my hands and gave her a final nuzzle. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry, girl. You’ll be okay. I promise.”
The vet gripped a loose fold of her neck and stuck in the needle. “This won’t take long,” he said in a thick European accent, “but we’d like to keep her overnight for observation, if that’s all right with you.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”
“You can pick her up tomorrow at …” Pozniak looked at his watch. “Oh, tomorrow’s Sunday, so you’ll have to come after one o’clock when we open.”
I watched the light fade from Loba’s eyes as the anesthetic kicked in. She slowly lowered her head onto both paws. Even doped up, she didn’t take her eyes off me once. Just before they closed, Loba shot me a last pleading look, begging to stay by my side forever.
The phone call came the next morning at 11:53. I picked up the landline after one ring. “Hello.”
I heard Mom pick up on the kitchen phone.
“Good morning. This is Dr. Pozniak.”
Why’s he calling? I thought they opened at one.
Something rough and heavy dropped in my stomach. I let Mom do the talking, since my throat was suddenly dry as dust.
“Good morning,” she said. “What’s up? Is Loba okay?”
“We kept her under observation all night,” the vet said, “and she appeared to be sleeping comfortably.”
“Is she okay?” I whispered.
“Well, this comes as much of a surprise to me as to you. After all, she only had a dislocated—”
“IS SHE OKAY?” I yelled.
“I’m sorry to tell you that your Loba died overnight.”
An arrow skewered my heart. I was the dead jackrabbit on Nose Hill.
“WHAT?” Mom shrieked. “How? Why?”
“It may have been shock, or internal bleeding that we could not detect, or—”
“You killed her with all your drugs!” I yelled and slammed the phone down.
Whatever took her that night, I knew the real truth. I was the one who killed her. The one who walked blindly across that busy intersection, my nose glued to my phone, totally forgetting Loba, who was searching for me in the crush of cars.
And thanks to the marvels of cell phone technology, and the darkness of Morris’s jealous soul, my crime was posted on both of my blogs. Seconds after it happened, the world could watch one of the Internet’s most famous dogs get creamed by a Coke truck.
REMAKE
Part of me knew I was insane. Maybe always would be. All the shrinks and doctors and rehabbers I’d seen the past few weeks told me I was getting better.
You’ll get through this, they’d say. You can do it.
So why did I still feel like a crazy person? I’ll tell you why. My best friend was dead. Worse, I killed her.
How could I be so stupid?
Her last look at the vet’s. Begging to stay by my side.
I hated myself.
Then there were my other so-called friends. Where were they when I needed them?
They ignored me.
I’d dropped off their screens. Even Monica’s.
Online or walking down the halls at school, it was the same vibe.
Who’s Ian?
Who’s Indio, for that matter?
No one knew the shit I was going through. No one cared.
If they weren’t ignoring me, they were crucifying me. All I got was hate mail. I couldn’t believe the names they called me. The most common was dog-killer. The only happy faces I got were from people paid to look after me.
My addiction rehab team.
Years ago, back in Xela, when I felt really lost or lonely, I could always find a loyal friend in my guitar. Always there for me, never judging, healing my wounds. Whether I played blues, Bach, or Berlioz, I always felt better after playing guitar.
That escape hatch wouldn’t open for me now. Just looking at my guitar made me want to puke.
The choice was clear. Plan A: kill myself. Or Plan B: a total remake.
Plan A was pretty tempting, especially on those mornings when, even with my meds, just getting out of bed for a pee gave me panic attacks.
But this wasn’t one of those mornings. Even though it was pissing rain and the sky was dark and gloomy, I was okay with another day alive.
That crazy raven was back, hanging out in the crabapple tree. He was making bizarre gurgling sounds that actually made me laugh. Made me laugh! First time in ages. That crazy raven stretched a wing out to me and pulled me out of bed.
So Plan B it was. For now, at least.
Time for a fresh selfie.
I decided to start with my hair. With the right app, I knew I could fake anything. Give myself shark teeth, a lion’s mane, or maybe a ponytail and gorgeous black ’stache like Juan Carlos used to have. Before he shot that …
Actually, no. Nix that. The Latin Indio was dead. Crucified.
I wanted to do this right, do it real. I had to get a haircut.
Maybe I’d shave my head like a monk in mourning. Or get that spiked Mohican cut I’d never had the balls for.
Whatever. I would know what to do once I was in the chair.
Time to redefine myself.
Again.
I glanced out the window as I pulled on my jeans and GOT2TEXT T-shirt.
No raven.
For a second, I had a prickly feeling it was never there.
“So where’s Dad?” I asked Mom between mouthfuls of Lucky Charms.
Mom’s smile was squarer than normal. Purple half-moons swung under her eyes. “Where else on a Saturday morning? At the track.”
“Pissing away my inheritance.”
She stopped cleaning dead things out of the fridge and looked at me. “You know he’s been under a lot of stress lately.”
“Oh, and I haven’t?”
“We all deal with stress in different ways. You have your … music,” she said hopefully. “He has his—”
“Gambling.”
“It’s a hobby, Indio.”
“Like your shopping’s a hobby?”
She turned away, reaching deep into the fridge.
I stared at her back. “He steals Guatemalan gold, rapes their land. Your land! He leaves a trail of blood behind him, then blows all his loot on horse racing?”
“You know he’s invested in schools down there. Remember, he bought those fancy computers for your high school in Xela.”
“Which I hardly used because he made me practice so much.”
“And he built that technical school in Siete Platos near the mine.”
“Uh-huh. To help the villagers blow up more mountains and drive bigger trucks so Dad could steal their gold faster.”
Mom huffed into the fridge. “What about all those guitars, Indio? You know he likes to invest in nice guitars.”
“Which he never plays.”
“Well … he is busy these days.”
“Yeah. Busy suing your people for stepping in front of his bulldozers.”
Mom absentmindedly wiped her face with the yucky fridge rag. “Don’t start that, Indio. They’re your people, too, remember!” She suddenly looked away, then ducked back into the fridge.
It hit me that I was not the only alien around here. Mom had to be homesick for Guatemala.
“Nice to see you up so soon,” came Mom’s muffled voice. “You planning something?”
“I really need a haircut.”
“Sure, Indio, but—”
“I need it bad, Mom. What car did Dad take?”
“The Porsche.”
“So I can have the Range Rover?”
Mom popped out of the fridge. “It’s in the body shop. Dad found a little ding on the passenger door. You know how he fusses with his toys.”
“So then …”
Mom checked the ceramic holder beside the fridge. A line of Mayan mamas held keys in their outstretched hands. Her fingers landed on a blue-and-white key ring stamped with the letters BMW. “Looks like it’s the Beemer.”
“Yess!”
Mom tossed me the keys. “You be extra careful, now. You know how Dad hates it when—”
“Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone breathe on it.”
“And please, please, no texting and driving.” She pushed the morning’s paper across the table. Her finger tapped an article with the headline, Hang up your phone or risk killing someone—like I did. She shook her head. “So tragic. You really should read this, Indio.”
I shoved the keys in my pocket. “Later, Mom. Anyway, you know I’ve reformed. After all you spent on rehab? Besides, who am I gonna text? All my friends abandoned me.”
Mom pulled something green and furry out of the fridge. It might have been a tortilla. Or a pancake. She held it at arm’s length like it might bite.
We both started laughing.
“You kinda missing Katrina?” I asked.
Beemer trip
As I pulled out of the garage, it felt like I was backing into a carwash. The rain pounded on the fogge
d-up windshield. Even on full blast, the wipers couldn’t keep up, and I had to guess where the driveway ended and the street began. The headlights clicked on automatically, tricked into thinking it was nighttime, not eleven in the morning.
Just before I hit the gas, I noticed a pretty pink rock tucked in beside the stick-shift. I held it to my face, studying it in the dim light—then chucked it in the back seat like it was a dried-up dog turd.
A glittering piece of gold ore stolen from Diadora’s backyard.
I inched my way past Edgemont’s mansions. Rainwater poured off their roofs in torn sheets. I turned on to Shaganappi and tucked in behind a red river of taillights.
I was relieved to see that Nose Hill was hidden under a bank of clouds. I didn’t know if I could ever look at it again, let alone walk up there.
The traffic opened up. I floored it. My body jammed into the leather seat. Huge sheets of water rose up beside the car. I couldn’t drive fast enough to shake the memories.
Loba rolling slo-mo beneath the Coke truck.
An orange Mustang filming the crime scene.
Loba’s last pleading look at the vet’s.
Dr. Pozniak’s phone call.
I squeaked through an orange light and took an exit for downtown, aiming for a teen hair place that got high ratings online. I thought I’d memorized the address, but my fried brain was like a sieve. I fished in my pack for my iPhone.
“Siri, launch Calgary Yellow Pages.”
I’m not texting, Mom. Just asking directions.
“Yellow Pages launched, Indio. How can I help you?”
“Address for Razor’s Edge Salon, please, Siri.”
I got an instant response, but couldn’t make it out through the pounding rain. I thumbed up the volume. “Repeat, please, Siri.”
“What was that, Indio?”
It sounded as if a giant mining truck was pouring gravel on the car. I glanced up through the moon roof. Hailstones the size of golf balls. My stomach clenched. Dad would really and truly kill me if his beloved Beemer got dented up.
I had to get out of there, but how? Tuck under a roof? Pull a U-ee and book it for home?
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