Treading Water

by Laurie Halse Anderson

  “It’s okay,” I say. Although I had really hoped to see him. One familiar face would have helped, especially at the beginning. Oh well.

  “I was wondering about those baby ducks,” Nick says. “They doing okay?”

  Sage looks over at me to answer for both of us.

  “The first three we all found are doing well,” I begin. “But that fourth one you found didn’t make it. It died a couple days later.”

  Nick looks seriously sad. “Jeez,” he says.

  His girlfriend looks up from her phone. “What’s this?” she asks.

  Nick answers, “One of the baby ducks didn’t make it.”

  The girlfriend pats him on the arm, “Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

  “Did you guys ever find out who left them in the parking lot?” Nick asks.

  Sage shakes his head. “We’re on our way over to pick them up now, though,” he says.

  “We are?” I knew nothing of this.

  Sage looks my way and says, “Yeah, Dr. Mac called Mom this morning and set it up. Says they’re ready to be sprung.”

  “Cool,” Nick says. “Glad they’re going to your place. Do you think you’ll keep them?”

  This time, Sage answers for both of us. “Naw. We’re just a stop on the road to recovery. My parents work on releasing animals back to the wild or, if that isn’t possible, finding them a permanent home.”

  “If we kept them all, we’d be overrun,” I add. “Plus, they’re meant to live in the wild.”

  Nick laughs. “Makes sense.”

  “Oh, also,” I say, “I might be moving the Environmental Club meetings over here.”

  “Cool. I’m in,” Nick says. He looks at his girlfriend and shrugs. “I think we both are. Keep me posted.”

  Sage taps the steering wheel. “We’d better get going to pick up those birds,” he says. “You oughta come out to our place and take a look around. Visit the ducklings you helped save.”

  “Really?” Nick asks. “That’d be great. I bet I haven’t been to the rehab center since my fourth-grade field trip.”

  Sage and I laugh because it seems like every fourth grader in the county passes through our place on a school field trip. Our dad even has a corny saying that he recites like a king might as the kids get back on their school buses: “Go forth, Fourth Graders, and protect wildlife forever.”

  Girlfriend looks up from her phone again, “What’s this?” she asks.

  “Nothing,” Nick says as he waves good-bye.

  We roll up our windows, and Sage drives out of the parking lot.

  “How’d your thing go?” he asks when we’re out on the main road.

  “Fine. Well, eventually.” I tell him all about the meeting room mix-up. Sage listens and nods and then says something that surprises me.

  “Yeah, I can see that happening. High school kids can be a little self-absorbed.” He shrugs. “I was like that. Do you remember?”

  I think he is still self-absorbed sometimes, but he’s giving me a ride so I’m not going to really answer that.

  “I guess,” is all I say. “How was school today?”

  While we drive, Sage fills me in. It’s been pretty hard for me to imagine how a college day actually goes. I know they don’t have bells to tell them when class is over. And he sometimes has long stretches between one class and another, and he can do anything he wants during that time. Sage tells me he usually either studies or eats. There is a dining hall instead of a cafeteria, and you can just go there whenever you have time to eat. I guess it’s like a restaurant. I know he likes college. High school will be a little like college, I guess.

  “So Sage, what do you think about me moving the Environmental Club meeting? Do you think anybody will be mad if I do?”

  “Why would anyone be mad?” he asks.

  Exactly. Why would anyone be mad? Well, I guess I know who might be. But why should anyone be mad? It’s just a building switch. No big deal.

  I guess I am not paying attention as we drive because all of a sudden we are in front of Dr. Mac’s clinic.

  “We have to be quick,” he says. “I’ve got lots to do at home.”

  I grab the crate from the backseat, and we walk into the clinic. Zoe meets us as soon as we walk in.

  “Hi, Sage,” she says, all flirty.

  “How ya doing, Zoe?” Sage says, crossing his arms in front of him. He smiles at her, which makes her smile even bigger. He glances at me, and I can tell he’s amused.

  “Just great,” Zoe says. “I was wondering if you could help me move a bookcase in the living room?”

  “Can’t you wait for Dr. Mac to help you move it?” I ask.

  “Gran is working on a cat right now,” Zoe says. Then, turning to Sage she asks, “So could you?”

  “I guess, if we can be quick,” Sage replies. “You can help, too,” Sage says to me, uncrossing his arms.

  “Gran needs her help. Come on,” Zoe says, leading Sage through the clinic to the house.

  Maggie comes through the house door and Zoe squeezes by her. Maggie looks back over her shoulder as Sage and Zoe go into the house.

  “What’s that about?” she asks. Maggie is almost friendly. Maybe all is forgiven.

  “Zoe wants help moving a bookcase,” I reply.

  “This minute? She’s been talking about that bookcase for weeks. She keeps rearranging the living room only to put it back the way it was.” Maggie laughs. “She’ll probably make him try one of those kale shakes she keeps trying to give me.”

  “Sage might actually like that,” I say. “But I have the feeling that Zoe is just trying to get his attention.”

  “That’s Zoe,” Maggie says.

  We look at each other in silence for what seems like forever. I want to say I’m sorry, but I’m still not sure what I ought to be sorry for.

  “So,” Maggie begins, “Zoe and Gran think I might have overreacted to what you said about wanting to be in high school. I guess they’re right.”

  “You realize we’ll be in high school together, right?” I say.

  “Yeah, but high school is going to be hard. At least it will be for me,” Maggie says. “I’m not in any hurry to get there.”

  “They have after-school help there, just like at our school. I know, because Sage stayed after a lot for Spanish,” I say. “And you know I’ll help you when I can.”

  Maggie smiles. “Okay, but I’m still not going to weasel my way into that Outdoor Club with you. Let’s not rush things, okay?”

  I’m just going to have to work on getting into the Outdoor Club myself. Oh well. At least Maggie and I have made up. I feel lighter. And then, I decide to tell her what I said to the Photography Club students. Just to clear the air.

  “One more thing, I might have told the Photography Club kids that we’re thinking about moving the Environmental Club meetings to the high school,” I say, as fast as I can.

  “You might have told them?” she asks.

  “I did tell them.”

  Maggie doesn’t say anything. At first. Then, “What?! Why? I can’t believe it.” Maggie is angrier than I’ve ever seen her. “You’re not in charge of everything, you know. It’s not your decision.”

  Before I can answer she storms away. Again.

  Sage is beside me. “What was that about?”

  “I might’ve messed up,” I say quietly. Sage pats me on the shoulder. I swallow hard. We go find Dr. Mac.

  “You’re here,” Sunita says, and waves us back to the recovery room, where Dr. Mac is working on a shiny-coated silvery black cat. I can tell by the way she’s handling it that the cat is sedated so it doesn’t feel any pain.

  Sage whistles. “Good lookin’ cat.”

  “Hi, Sage, Brenna,” Dr. Mac says. “Yes, he is. His owners named him Seal. Looks appropriate, don’t you think?�
�� Dr. Mac finishes wrapping a bandage around the cat’s left hind leg. “However, this little guy seems much more interested in the road than in the water. This is the second time in three years that I’ve had to set a broken bone. He likes to race cars. Ever heard of a cat like that?”

  “No,” I say, “though David’s cat likes to play fetch. Need any help?”

  “I’m good. I’ll be with you two in just a moment.” Dr. Mac finishes by giving the cat a shot and putting him into one of the high cages. She scrunches his blanket up beneath his head. Lots of cats like to rest like that. Seal closes his eyes.

  Dr. Mac removes her gloves and washes her hands.

  “I’ve given your mom all the care info I have. I trust that your family knows a lot more about taking care of ducks than I do. So I know they’re in good hands.”

  I put the crate on the stainless steel table and open the door.

  “All set,” I say.

  Dr. Mac picks up two ducklings and motions Sage to pick up the third. The ducklings look so small in the crate. Their bodies are nothing but dandelion-yellow fluff with marigold-yellow bills and webbed feet. Their feet almost look too big for their little bodies. They stumble over one another, perhaps looking for the heat lamp. They are peeping up a storm, even the one we worried was too quiet before. I close the crate door when all three are inside.

  “Here is a bag of the food I’ve been giving them. It’s from Ambler Feed, if you want to get more. Or, of course, taper and mix in if you’re going to change their feed.” Dr. Mac hands the bag to Sage.

  “Ducks are pretty resilient to feed changes,” Sage says. “I’m sure they’ll be fine, whichever way we go.”

  Sage takes the crate with him. Sunita waves good-bye.

  In the parking lot, I can hear the hard slap, slap, slap of Maggie’s basketball as she dribbles. Even though I can’t see her from this spot, I can tell by the sound that she isn’t taking any shots at the basket. Just dribbling. Slap, slap, slap.

  Chapter Nine

  Mom and Jayvee are in the critter barn when we pull up. They already have the heat lamp on and a bowl of feed set up in the stock tank. Sage and I set the ducklings onto the wood shavings, and Mom slips the waterer in. They drink right away. Dip, lift, swallow.

  “I love ducks!” Jayvee says. “I love their cute mouths.”

  “Bills, sweetie,” Mom says. “They have bills.”

  Jayvee is right—those bills are adorable. I get my camera out of Sage’s car. I might as well get some shots of them on their first day with us. As I walk back into the critter barn, everyone else is coming out.

  “Can you take over the evening feed and clean, Brenna?” Mom asks. “I have to get your brother to his school’s open house. Dad is meeting us there. And Sage has plans. You okay with all this?” Mom spreads her arms toward the open barn door.

  “Got it. No problem,” I say. Mom pats my shoulder.

  “You’re a sweetie,” she says. Then she leans in close and whispers, “We’ll probably take Jayvee out for ice cream after. So we might be a little late.”

  Poe jumps on my shoulder as soon as I walk back in.

  “How you doing, boy?” He nibbles at my ear, and I know he is just fine. But then again, I’ve been ignoring him a bit lately. Poor fella. I really should spend more time with him. Soon.

  Poe stays on my shoulder as I get down to business, refilling bunny hayracks and checking water bottles. I clean droppings out and cuddle each bunny. They eye Poe, but none of them tries to jump out of my arms.

  I feed three orphaned turkey chicks. I move around the barn and check on the snapping turtle, very carefully. I add some greens to his box and move on.

  The ducklings are lying down cuddled up beside one another. They are inches away from their waterer. I bet ducks always like to be near water. They aren’t peeping at all. Are they okay? I don’t think I’ve ever heard them completely quiet. I bend down a little to see them better— Poe adjusts his balance on my shoulder. The heat lamp’s glow shows me that they are all fine, closed eyes, all asleep. I keep the flash off to let them doze and snap a picture of them. This was probably a tough day for them, too. Changes are always hard for animals. And for people.

  Maybe that’s what Maggie and Zoe are worried about. Changes. But we’re not changing schools, yet. We all still do Vet Volunteers together. I just think we can do some new things with some new, older people, too.

  I place Poe back on his perch. I make one last check of the cages and containers. This barn is getting overcrowded. It’s too bad that most people have no idea how many innocent animals are abandoned. I wish I could think of something to make my parents’ job easier. I wish I could think of more than just posters and presentations to help.

  I leave Poe in the barn and go outside to check the fox enclosure. This is usually a busy playtime for them. From my regular spot, I can’t see any of them. They must all be inside the den. I turn toward the house when I catch a flash of copper out of the corner of my eye. I creep toward the fox enclosure.

  Oh no! A fox kit is squirming his way out through the fencing. I run toward it, wishing I had my gloves and some help. But if I don’t get to him quickly, he’ll be out of there and who knows where.

  How is he doing this? And then I see it. Oh no. He has opened up one of my fence patches. I must not have done a good job of repairing it. How will I push him back through and into the enclosure? As I get closer he sees me. He wriggles backward, falls on his behind, and runs to the coop. Whew. That was lucky for me. It would have been terrible if he had gotten out. I run back to the critter barn for gloves, flashlight, and needle-nose pliers. This time, I’ll patch it right.

  As I kneel in front of the fence, it occurs to me that this kit might not be the only one escaping. Even though we try not to let them ever see us, I have to break that rule. I need to check and count the kits. I move to the front of the coop, crouch down low, and shine my flashlight into the open-front coop. Three sets of fox eyes glow in the dark of the small coop. Three. That means one is missing.

  My heart beats fast. How will I find a fox kit now? It’s getting dark. I scan the yard. Where could he have gone?

  It’s hard to think clearly when I’m imagining how much trouble I’m going to get into for not patching the fence right. And what danger this baby could be in. I take a moment to think. A fox is going to be most comfortable on the edges of forest. Well, that is when they’re not staying close to their mothers. So I should probably look over there first. The woods are only ten feet away from this spot. But how will I catch an escaped kit?

  Strawberries. Mom said they have loved the strawberry treats she has placed in the enclosure. Okay, I’ll get strawberries. But how will I actually catch him? I wish my parents were here. Or some of my Vet Volunteer friends. Or Dr. Mac or Dr. Gabe. I don’t think I have time to call and wait for anyone to get here. And I’m not sure how much my Vet Volunteer friends want to help me right now.

  Think, Brenna, think. The raccoon trap! We have a humane trap that my parents have used to catch injured raccoons and skunks safely. I know that foxes are harder to trap, but maybe a kit will be fooled into going into it.

  We keep the traps inside my dad’s workshop. I’ve watched my parents set them dozens of times. I take two traps and a handful of strawberries to the edge of the woods. It seems like a long time ago that I photographed Jayvee’s origami dinosaurs here.

  The traps are the size of a small cat carrier. I set them up about five feet apart on the wood’s edge. I place the strawberries on the inside plate. Once the kit gets far enough in, he’ll trip the wire that closes the door behind him.

  My camera is still around my neck. It would be great to get an action shot of the kit going into the trap. But I don’t dare, in case it scares the fox away. And that’s if everything works out perfectly. I’m starting to doubt the chances of that. But what else can I do?
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  I move away from the traps, about twenty feet. I crouch in the shadows of my dad’s workshop and stay still. I stay there a long time. My calves are tingling and my thighs and ankles hurt. It’s getting so dark that I can’t quite see the traps.

  I’m not sure what time it is. But I must have been here about an hour, and I’m thinking that I may need a Plan B. I’m afraid that Plan B probably means phoning my parents. We’re supposed to be caring for these animals, and I’ve put one in danger. All sorts of terrible things can happen to this baby overnight. My parents will be furious with me. They’ll be disappointed. They might not think I’m mature enough to stay by myself or care for animals unsupervised.

  Then I hear a snap! I spring up and rush toward the trap. I won’t have to tell my parents after all. And then I hear another snap! Have I miscounted? Did two fox kits escape? I slow down and approach quietly. I let my flashlight beam sweep over the first trap. It’s the fox kit! I am so relieved.

  But then, what’s in the other trap? I take a couple steps toward it and sweep the beam across the second trap. Uh-oh. It’s a skunk. I’ve caught a skunk. What are the chances that I would catch one animal, let alone two, only moments apart? Now what? Things just keep getting worse.

  The kit is between the skunk and me. If the skunk sees me and sprays, he’ll get the kit, too. I think about approaching from another angle. Maybe I should go into the woods and come out right behind the fox trap. Still, the skunk might see me and get scared. A scared skunk sprays. But if I get down on my hands and knees and crawl up to the trap, I might be able to grab the trap without the skunk seeing me. This would mean crawling through the woods. Crawling over roots and rocks and logs quietly. That’s going to hurt.

  But I have to do it. I sweep out past my dad’s workshop, hoping that the skunk hasn’t noticed me. Then I creep through the woods until I think I’m directly behind the fox trap and still far enough away from the skunk. I drop down onto my hands and knees and crawl as quietly as I can. I stop every once in a while and listen. The roots and rocks jab my knees. It’s a good thing I have gloves on because all of these twigs would hurt more than they already do. My face breaks an invisible spiderweb as I crawl on through. I hope the spider isn’t in my hair. I brush the webs away from my mouth and keep crawling.