Stray

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Stray Page 1

by Stacey Goldblatt




  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM LAUREL-LEAF BOOKS

  DEENIE, Judy Blume

  GIRL, BARELY 15: FLIRTING FOR ENGLAND, Sue Limb

  HOT, SOUR, SALTY, SWEET, Sherri L. Smith

  IMAGINARY ENEMY, Julie Gonzalez

  THE PRETTY ONE, Cheryl Klam

  SKIN DEEP, E. M. Crane

  WHEN YOU WISH, Kristin Harmel

  For Cheryl, who said I could,

  and for Beth, who showed me how

  A dog that exhibits improper conduct is a social hazard.

  —Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog

  Fun used to be simple.

  “C’mon, Natalie,” says Laney. “Show us yours!” She’s bouncing on the couch with her shirt off and wine spilled down the legs of her hip-hugging pajama pants. Since fruit is the grading scale, Laney’s are judged to be cantaloupes. So far, hers are the biggest.

  “No, thanks,” I say. I can’t just merrily yank up my T-shirt in front of a group of girls who probably won’t have the courtesy to wait and laugh at me behind my back. Nothing has changed between the beginning of seventh grade and tonight, the last night of our sophomore year at Portola High School, to convince me that these girls aren’t like a clannish pack of Chihuahuas, who, like all creatures popular and elite, don’t fancy other breeds.

  Not that I’m escaping humiliation entirely. During truth or dare, I had to lick Candace Mortin’s pinkie toe.

  But choosing “truth” would have been worse in the long run. This is not a crowd who’d be plucking questions from the “what’s your favorite color?” category. No, they’d blast right over to some million-dollar question about fornication. And although I am proud that I haven’t subjected myself to some blistery sexually transmitted disease, I’m not carrying around a banner proclaiming my virginity.

  The only reason I’m here in the first place is that my best friend, Nina, was invited. I shoot a glance at her. Besides me, she is the only girl fully clothed. But she’s no help, screaming lyrics a cappella into a half-empty wine bottle with Maryann McClure, the hostess of this evening’s debacle.

  Laney interrupts Nina and Maryann’s duet. “Your turn, Nina!”

  With fingers still curled around the wine bottle, Nina hikes up her tank top. “Lemons!” Maryann announces.

  “Not lemons,” Laney says. “Those are peaches!”

  “Yes!” Nina yells, pumping her fist. “Stone fruit!” She unrolls her shirt back down over her belly and dramatically points a finger at me. “Natalie, you’re up.” She is kidding, right?

  “Yeah, Natalie. C’mon,” says another girl. “You’ve seen ours.”

  Actually, I’ve been trying not to look. And not once have I shouted a fruit, although I do think Kelsey Pearson’s are definitely bigger than kiwis. But I saw hers only because she catwalked like some runway model in my direction with her boobs aimed at eye level.

  Laney swerves her hips toward me. “You haven’t even had anything to drink, have you?”

  I am going to have to do this. There will be prolonged laughter, because I am dressed like a hobo. My strawberries are tucked underneath three layers: a sweatshirt, my Pug Lovers Rescue T-shirt, and a bra so old it looks like it’s been used in numerous games of tug-of-war.

  They are starting to chant. “ Nat-a-lie! Nat-a-lie! Nat-a-lie!”

  Outside the sliding glass door, Maryann’s basset hound starts howling. She walks over and shoves the door open. “Shut up, Bogart!” She gives him a hard slap on his snout. “Stupid dog.”

  Jen Wexler covers her mouth and starts running toward the bathroom. “She’s gonna puke!” someone screams.

  The girls flock toward her.

  Taking advantage of Jen’s attention-getting sprint to the toilet, I slip outside with my backpack in tow to join Bogart. The wrinkles bunched on his face slink back when he looks up at me; with his short legs, his long stocky body could be compared to a coffee table. I bend down to offer him my palm and receive a tail-wagging response.

  In a matter of minutes, Bogart and I are sitting in a wicker lounge chair on the back patio, hidden from the party inside. We gaze at the full Thursday moon in its veil of coastal fog. I stroke his long velvety ears as he rests his head on my stomach. His droopy eyes look at me as if I am his universe.

  If only I could attract boys the way I attract dogs.

  The night was bound to go awry because I am not a card-carrying member of this popular crowd. My being here is partly a result of Nina’s down-on-her-knees begging me. But I think there was also a hint of hope that maybe, just maybe, I’d have a good time with these girls.

  The truly amazing thing about all this, though, is not that I was invited. It’s that Mom let me spend the night here despite her not getting the opportunity to screen and fingerprint Maryann’s parents, who, contrary to what I told Mom, are not here.

  When I stopped by work this afternoon, Mom called me into her office and questioned me with suspicion, pushing for a clear and accurate character sketch of Maryann. It was a must-embellish situation, so I told her Maryann was an honor student and treasurer of the Good Samaritan Society.

  I’m just hoping that my mother doesn’t gain access to Maryann’s report card or thumb through my yearbook and discover that the young Samaritans of my high school did not band together to form a club.

  Bogart’s throat quivers against my leg as he lets out a snore that rivals the deep chortle of a pig: at least the night wasn’t a complete waste of a lie.

  I am not compulsive about lying. Having lived with the betrayal of a cheating father, I value the truth, so even though I hate that Mom is overbearing, I do feel obligated to be honest with her.

  That said, to maintain a shard of a social life and prevent Mom unnecessary grief, I entitle myself to withholding or fabricating information two times per season, which gives me an allowance of eight lies per year. I have yet to meet my quota but it’s nice to have the wiggle room should I need it.

  And I needed to lie about Maryann. There is no benefit to Mom’s knowing that Maryann got sent home from school last year for violating the dress code (how was Maryann to know that it wasn’t appropriate to wear a thong under a short skirt?) and that she is the type of girl who has pet names for guys’ wieners (a lovely tidbit confessed during tonight’s truth or dare session). Mom is better off without this information.

  Voices rise inside the house and the contest continues with an upsurge of energy. “Tomatoes are too a fruit, you dork!”

  I got out of it this time, but if this is the direction of my social life, I’m going to have to stop being a walking advertisement for the rare and endangered straight-edged sixteen-year-old, even if that means filling a cup with wine and pretending to drink it.

  I hate to admit it, but I might be good at pretending. It’s just that no matter how hard I try to pretend, it never feels quite real.

  I release a heavy sigh. Bogart licks my hand because he understands. Most dogs do.

  To a dog, a crate does not represent entrapment but safety.

  —Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog

  When I wake the next morning, my fingers try to untangle the web of brown hair that’s hanging in front of my eyes.

  The sun is locked in a tomb of clouds. Bogart conducts a search-for-food mission in my backpack. We’re still in the lounge chair on the patio, but I feel like I’ve been shrouded in morning dew.

  A mound of bras lies over my stomach, and an empty raisin box is positioned in the crook of my arm. This is devastating. I thought my chest would at least qualify for the berry category. But reality is staring me in the face: there is no unit of fruit smaller than a raisin.

  I look at my watch. 6:49 a.m. Friday. Officially the first day of summer vacation. And I need to be at work by eight o’clock this morning.
/>   Bogart nudges underneath my chin. “You hungry, boy?” I inspect the yard and find a mold-laden water dish with about an inch of murky water in it. Besides a disappointed cockroach, there’s nothing in Bogart’s food bowl.

  A muffled version of “Yellow Submarine” pipes from my backpack. Kirby’s ringtone. I still have his phone. Yesterday after school he put it in my bag so that it wouldn’t get wet while we were running through the sprinklers on the football field: a last-day-of-school tradition.

  I flip open the phone. “Hello?”

  Kirby’s voice trails from the other end. “Where are you?”

  “Maryann McClure’s backyard.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Kind of,” I answer, not wanting to dismiss the presence of Bogart (who has just collapsed in exhaustion at my feet).

  “Told you.”

  “Told me what?” I ask.

  “That you’d end up having a horrible time.”

  “What’s that got to do with me being in Maryann’s backyard?”

  “You’re out there because those girls are oxygen-hogging alpha females. You had no choice but to retreat outside for some fresh air.”

  “Who are you, the host of a National Geographic special?”

  “Nope, just a friend who tells it like it is,” Kirby answers. “So, are you okay?”

  “I’ll live.” My phone starts barking inside my backpack, the Little Angry Dogs ringtone. The realistic shrill of yipping dogs sends Bogart into a delirious bout of howling. “My phone’s ringing.” I hold Kirby’s phone between my shoulder and ear and try to shush Bogart so that he won’t wake everyone up.

  “Why am I not surprised to hear a real dog barking in the background?” Kirby asks.

  “Gotta put you down for a minute, Kirb, hold on.” I throw his phone onto the bra-strewn chair. Fortunately Bogart’s howl stifles because his nose is now sheathed in my backpack as he sniffs around for the tiny bundle of dogs he believes have come to life in there. I find my phone and answer. “Hello?”

  “Good morning. Just wanted to make sure you’re awake.” Mom.

  “I’m up.” Doesn’t she understand that I am capable of waking up without the alarm clock of her voice piercing my eardrums?

  “Do you need me to come and get you?”

  “Actually, Kirby’s going to swing by and pick me up.”

  “Don’t be late,” Mom says. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I reply, but she’s already hung up the phone.

  “So I’m coming to get you?” Kirby asks when I pick up his phone again.

  “I do have your phone. And I need some help.”

  “I will forgo the drop-off box in order to assist you, Nat.”

  “Thanks for making the sacrifice, Kirb.”

  Kirby’s mom, Eve, owns and runs Rescued Threads, a used clothing store and one of the coolest places in all of Beacon, California. For Kirby, early-morning scavenging through the drop-off box, a huge lime-colored Dumpster, is like Charlie’s search for the Golden Ticket in a Wonka candy bar. He’s found many a prized possession going through the drop-off box: an old pair of cowboy chaps, a vintage Ramones Rock ‘n’ Roll High School T-shirt, and a vest made out of yarn and bottle caps.

  Kirby and I arrange to meet at the corner in eight minutes.

  Before I leave the yard, I peek through the sliding glass door. Limp girls lie passed out on the floor as if they fell where they were standing because their batteries died. Nina is curled on the couch with a sweatshirt draped over her tiny body. I am tempted to tap her on the shoulder and whisk her away. But unlike me, Nina is comfortable with those girls.

  Somewhere along the timeline of my human development, I missed an important socialization period. My dad told me one time that a puppy needs to interact with at least a hundred people and a hundred dogs in the first two years of its life for it to become “socially flexible.” Maybe people do, too. This may explain why I am socially stunted and on the outside of Maryann’s house looking in.

  Bogart follows me out the side gate. He is officially a runaway dog. There is no choice but to save him.

  We wait on the curb, watching a few cars hum by, until Kirby’s rusted yellow Civic hatchback arrives, whirring like a windup toy.

  Bogart and I burrow into the passenger side.

  Kirby’s messy brown hair is trying to escape from his hooded sweatshirt. “Morning, glory.” He looks at Bogart through the thick lenses of his black-rimmed glasses. “Another one? Didn’t you just save a dog like a week ago?” I nod. “You’re such a slut.”

  I return Kirby’s phone to him, then fasten my seat belt. Bogart sits pouched on my lap like a baby kangaroo. I can’t put him in the backseat because it was ripped out in one of the car’s previous lives.

  “This is Bogart, Maryann’s dog.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Kirby says to Bogart. He reaches over and shakes Bogart’s chunky paw, noticing his overgrown claws. “Those are some long-ass nails you’ve got, buddy.”

  “Poor guy is being neglected, aren’t you, handsome?” I rub Bogart’s thick neck with my hands. He looks back at me with saggy-eyed appreciation.

  “Where’s Nina?” Kirby asks before shifting into gear.

  “Sleeping on Maryann’s couch and clinging to a wine bottle for dear life. It was her microphone.” I tell Kirby about the wine-bottle karaoke scene as he guides the car onto the stretch of road ahead.

  “Anything else?” Kirby asks.

  “If you must know, I was asked to flash my hooters.” The car swerves to the left, and Kirby tightens his grip on the steering wheel. Note to self: stay away from discussing boobs with Kirby. At least while he’s driving.

  “Well, then,” he says, pushing through the awkwardness. He clears his throat. “How bout some tunes? Franz Ferdinand?”

  “I’d love some.” Kirby turns up the volume, and music thunders through the speakers. The car may be run-down, but the same cannot be said for the stereo system that is stashed away in the glove compartment.

  Serenaded by Franz Ferdinand, we drive several blocks. When we turn the corner onto my street, I can barely see my two-story house at the end of the cul-de-sac. As we get closer, it looks whitewashed and bare, surrounded by a moat of yellow dandelion weeds.

  Next door is Laney Benning’s house, its generous porch winding around the front. I wonder if Laney’s mom, Trina, Beacon’s number-one-real-estate-agent-third-consecutive-year-running, can imagine her own daughter encircled by empty wine bottles or if she’ll wake picturing Laney in the safety of a pink sleeping bag with a crumpled can of Coca-Cola in her hand.

  Kirby points his thumb toward Laney’s as he parks in front of my house. “What was she doing last night?”

  “During truth or dare she shared that she made out with two different guys at Austin Keely’s party.”

  “Fun!” He nails the sarcasm and turns off the Civic.

  My mom’s car is gone, so she’s already at work. “I’m gonna go upstairs real quick.”

  “Hurry.”

  “Stay with him?” I ask.

  Kirby looks at Bogart and groans. “It looks like his skin is sliding down his face.”

  “Watch it. You’re looking at a breed that’s the second-best sniffer of all dogs. All dogs, Kirby.”

  “Impressive. Who’s the first-best sniffer?”

  “The bloodhound.” I open the door of the car and slide Bogart from my lap to the passenger seat. “I’ll be right back.” I leave Kirby and Bogart in their boy/dog face-off and scurry down my driveway.

  My grandma Livia is no doubt at the kitchen table—her white hair still coiled around curlers— buried in her People magazine with a pasty bowl of oatmeal in front of her. A funneling tornado couldn’t pull her away from celebrity gossip.

  I scramble up the dilapidated wooden steps that lead to the room above the garage, and unlock the door.

  I’d like to think we all have an inner geek. That, really, the geek is just the part of us that we f
ear no one will accept, so we keep her a secret. There is not enough space in my dinky bedroom for my inner geek. She prefers the ample square footage in this room above the garage.

  Save for a futon; a stereo system with turntable; five boxes of record albums; Fu-Fu, my Chinese Foo dog; a few stacks of my back issues of The Bark magazine; and a first-edition copy of Dad’s debut book, The Manifesto of Dog, the room is empty.

  This is where I nurture my inner geek, where she sings along with the voices on Dad’s records. Where she looks at herself in the mirror, pretending to be outgoing, and says things like “Hi! I’m Natalie!” My cheeks totally puff up like beach balls when I say it, which is a good enough reason to avoid introducing myself to people—guy people. (Like, say for example, Taylor Newcastle, who unfortunately just graduated. Missed opportunity. Story of my life.)

  I have to do all this singing, impersonating, and geeking with the door open, since Mom doesn’t condone closed doors, but having the room to myself is worth it.

  I don’t have permission to sleep here or be in here after Mom goes to bed at night, but she said I might be able to start fixing it up this summer, a privilege earned by sweating for good grades and major begging the past couple of months.

  As always, when I first enter the room, I reach down and pet Fu-Fu, the cement Foo dog that Dad sent me from China a few years ago. He was on the Chinese leg of his book tour promoting The Manifesto of Dog: Jui-wan tzen da chuan-lai suo-tser (The Most Complete Dog Manual) in Chinese. Fu-Fu is actually part beast, part dog and is said to cultivate success and repel evil. This is reason enough for me to rub her enthusiastically each time I walk through the door. I would put a saddle on her and gallop her around the room if I knew it would bring me good luck, but I’m not that desperate. Yet.

  I change into my jeans (low at the hip), pluck a fresh beige T-shirt (of the mother-approved shows-no-skin-above-the-waistline-variety) from my backpack, and deodorize. I grab a bag of dry dog food from underneath the sink in the small bathroom and make it back to Kirby, who drives us toward Highway 101.

 

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