Carver scratches his head as if he’s confused—or has fleas (doubtful, I know). “Well, I’ll leave the door open for you,” he says.
I start down the steps with Fu-Fu. Her sharp cement ear is practically poking up my left nostril. I get the feeling someone is staring. Peeking over Fu-Fu, I see Laney Benning on her porch. What a turnabout. Now she’s watching me.
Dogs differ from wolves because of their dependence on man.
—Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog
With each load of records I carried last night, Carver would make another stack at the bottom of the stairs so I wouldn’t have to climb all the way up to the room. At first I thought it was a considerate gesture, but then I realized he might have been trying to get me out of his silky, perfectly floppy hair. I’m still on the fence about it.
Aside from taking the dogs for numerous walks, I stay holed up in my tiny yellow bedroom on Sunday, redecorating. My bedroom is the size of Nina’s walk-in closet. In SAT analogy-speak: ROOM ABOVE THE GARAGE: 190-POUND ENGLISH MASTIFF :: MY BEDROOM : 5-POUND JAPANESE SPANIEL.
I can literally sit on the edge of my double bed and open the door to my room with one foot and slide the door of my closet closed with the other. And now that I’ve emptied the contents of the room above the garage into my bedroom, it’s even more claustrophobic. In the event of a Southern California earthquake, the chances of my survival are slight. Mom can burden the guilt of that one as far as I’m concerned.
My bedroom space is limited, but I do what I can, rearranging bookshelves and pushing my bed toward the opposite wall, where I can look out the window and have a clear view of the room above the garage.
Now that my bed is an observation deck, I plan to keep watch over the room in case Carver chooses to smuggle pickaxes and jackhammers up the stairs. He might turn out to be some good-looking rebel vandalizer from hell who hides behind a strong command of the English language. You just never know kids these days.
Whoa. I sound like my mom.
I spend a few hours alphabetizing Dad’s albums (Abba to Frank Zappa). Having never outgrown my crayons, I decorate the cardboard boxes and shove them against the wall, creating a lovely makeshift casing for the records.
The final touch is Fu-Fu, whom I situate at the foot of my bed. It’s possible I’ve had her in the wrong place all along. Perhaps this is why I have not reaped my fortune.
* * *
Kirby, Nina, and I are to meet at the corner of my street Monday morning for the first day of our U.S. History summer school class. We live in an isosceles triangle from each other, Nina being the farthest point from Kirby and me. My street corner is central for walking to school.
Once I get close enough and out of the fog, I spot Nina and Kirby. They’re sitting on the ground, leaning back to back against the stop sign. Two blue-headed misfits. Nina’s hair is tied in two separate braids on each side of her head. She looks like a renegade Girl Scout.
Nina yowls a big yawn. “Hey, Nattie.”
“Hi, you two.” They get up from the ground.
Kirby rubs his eyes. “Tell us, Natalie, why are we spending six weeks of our summer vacation going to school from the godforsaken hour of seven-thirty a.m.?”
“Yeah,” says Nina. “Do tell. I’m too tired to remember.”
I gladly explain. “Next year the two of you will be kissing my feet in appreciation because you will have what is called a free period.” I put my arms around them. “Translation: an entire school year to sleep in during your nonexistent first period. Plus, this is the only way to guarantee being in the same class together. It’ll be fun.”
“Fine.” Nina jumps in place. “I’m pumped! Let’s go.” She leads us down the sidewalk and toward Portola High.
Kirby says, “Well, you missed the new reality show, the one called I Want My Dog Back.”
I wince. “Oh, how’d that go?”
“Mrs. McClure had to pry Bogart out of my mom’s arms.”
“What’d you do last night?” I ask Nina.
“You won’t believe it,” she answers.
The three of us crowd the sidewalk, Nina in the middle. “What is it?” Kirby asks impatiently.
“Settle down, spazmo,” Nina says. “I was going to hang out with Laney and Maryann last night, right? So we meet at Maryann’s and Laney says to me, ‘I have a surprise.’ ”
“She had a zit?” I say jokingly.
“Ha.” Nina continues. “We walk over to Juniper Street and she takes us to the door of this house that her mom is selling. Apparently, the house is empty.”
Kirby raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? And she took her clothes off?”
“Let her talk, perv.” I reach behind Nina and playfully nudge him. He zips his lips and we keep walking.
“So she knows the access code to that little box on the doorknob and is like, ‘We can go inside.’ ”
“Did you go in?” I ask.
“I did,” Nina says.
“What did you do in there?” Kirby asks.
“Hung out. Played hide-and-seek. It was kinda neat, like our very own clubhouse.”
Kirby fixes his gaze on me. “And where were you, Natalie?”
“My mom’s old roommate’s son showed up on Saturday.”
Nina stops and gives me a push on the shoulder. “And you didn’t say anything! Talk. Talk!”
“Who’s spazzing now?” Kirby says.
I roll my eyes. “His name is Carver and he’s just a guy. A regular guy.”
Nina wags her finger. “No, we don’t categorize people that way. A guy fits into one of two categories: you’re interested or you’re not.”
“I disagree,” says Kirby. Apparently, he’s ready to jump into the discussion.
Nina turns to him. “Let it go. I’m talking to Natalie here.” She can always get him to back down.
I think about it for a second. These are my two closest friends. Part of me wants to spill, but this is too complicated. Admitting any interest in Carver would only acknowledge that I’m attracted to him. Already I have a nymphlike creature performing acrobatics inside my stomach and doodling “Carver” on the lining of my aortic valve. Still, I’m trying not to like him, and I don’t need Nina as part of the pro-Carver campaign. She’ll only convince me of how great he is if I tell her I’m even remotely interested. “Not interested.”
“Bummer!” Nina stomps her foot. “I totally pictured the two of you hitting it off. How great would it be to have the guy you like living on the premises?” Glad I didn’t mention I was interested. We resume walking.
When we walk into the half-full classroom, Laney is at a desk in the back, with Maryann sitting beside her. I guess they want a free period next year, too, unfortunately.
They wave at Nina, motioning to a desk they’ve saved for her. With grace, she points to Kirby and me, a sign that we have her for at least the next few hours.
There are a few recognizable incoming seniors, who are obviously retaking the class. Then there’re Richard Belstone and Christopher Dowling, who are seated in the front row, looking ready to expand their minds.
Nina and Kirby sit next to each other. I sit behind Nina.
In a few minutes, the classroom has filled. An elderly man walks through the door, looking like what one might find next to the word “codger” in an illustrated dictionary. He walks to the front of the classroom dressed in navy blue dress pants and a white short-sleeved button-up shirt.
The eye-catching piece of his wardrobe is a pair of red, white, and blue suspenders that look as if they are truly the only things holding up his pants. He holds no briefcase, no coffee cup.
He turns to the white board and writes “Mr. Klinefelter.” The stool he drags out from behind the podium scrapes along the dull linoleum floor. Positioned front and center, he sits on the edge of it, his white socks peeking out from his polished black dress shoes. “ ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with cer
tain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.’ Anyone?”
Richard Belstone’s hand thrusts up into the air. Mr. Klinefelter gives him a nod. “The Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776.”
Mr. Klinefelter juts his thumb forward. “You are correct, young man. Now, why might our declaration set us apart from other nations?”
Someone taps my shoulder. I turn around. The sleepy, sheep houndish-looking guy behind me holds out a folded piece of paper, a note. I take it and hide it in my hands under the desk.
Richard and Christopher raise their hands to answer the teacher’s question. “Rhetorical, boys. Rhetorical. Think about this one.”
I lean back in my seat, unfolding the note beneath the desktop. “Who is that guy in your upstairs room?” She doesn’t have to sign it.
It’s from Laney. Poor thing didn’t have my cell number to text me, so she had to resort to pencil and paper.
“Freedom!” Mr. Klinefelter shouts, answering his own question. He slides off the stool and walks over to the window.
I’m not going to write back. I’m decidedly not thrilled about Carver living in my room, but I have the “freedom!” to keep him a secret.
At work, Carver gets to leave early. About two hours later, as Mom and I drive home together, we turn the corner onto our street and I see two silhouettes standing under the globe of the streetlight at the end of the cul-de-sac. As we get closer, it’s clear, true— self-evident even—that Laney is in pursuit of happiness. She has found my secret.
Digging is a dog’s effort to fill a void.
—Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog
Pip, Southpaw, and Otto have been trained to release any object in their mouth, be it bone, ball, or tennis shoe, when we say “Drop!” I want to shout “Drop!” to Laney right now because she’s got Carver pinned underneath the streetlight in that metaphorical jaw of hers.
Mom and I step out of the car. I can hear the phone ringing and the dogs barking inside the house. I sprint past Mom up the walkway, unlock the door, and clamor to grab the phone in the kitchen. The dog entourage swarms and hobbles behind me.
“Hello?” I hurry to the living room, phone in hand, turn out the light, and peep through the slats in the wood shutters to get a clear view of Laney and Carver in the street.
“You turned off your cell again.” It’s Kirby.
“I was at work.”
“You are not going to believe this.”
Outside, Laney tosses her hair. Carver shifts his weight to the right. “Can I call you later, Kirby?”
“The dog is back.”
“What?” I’m having a hard time paying attention to him. With a thin, graceful hand, Laney points down the street, toward town.
Kirby says, “Bogart. He was scratching at my front door when I came home.” Laney and Carver start walking down the street, away from the cul-de-sac.
“I can’t believe it!” I really wish I was referring to Bogart.
“I know, I know, it’s nuts. The dog found his way back to us.”
“Actually, bassets tend to wander and can easily backtrack. But you’ll never guess who I’m watching out my window right now. She’s walking down the street with Carver, swaying her hips like she’s going to strip off her clothes and rub against him. Just guess who it is.”
“Your grandma?” Kirby says.
“ Ha-ha. Very funny. It’s Laney. Where do you think they’re going?”
“Why do you care? You said you weren’t interested in him.”
Carver and Laney are no longer in sight. Instead of running out the door to follow them, I sink into the couch. “It’s just Laney, you know? Is there any guy she hasn’t pounced on?”
“ Ruh-huh,” Kirby says in his best Scooby Doo voice.
“Kirb, you are way too brilliant and intimidating.
She knows you’d reject her.”
“Truer words have never been spoken.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, I’m glad you and Bogart are reunited.”
“Yeah, he’s right here, on my lap. Want to say hi?” I stand up from the couch, finding my own dogs perched next to their bowls. “Can’t. Got to feed my own. Send him my love, though.”
At ten-thirty p.m., I’m in my darkened bedroom, tucked under my covers and wearing earmuff-style headphones that are plugged into the stereo receiver. The record on the turntable spins. I’m listening to Billy Bragg thump the strings on his guitar in “The Myth of Trust,” wishing that Carver could be a guitar-playing exchange student with a thick British accent and anti-Laney sentiment.
It was ingenious of me to move my bed, because I am looking out my window and can see Carver walk up the stairway to the room above the garage. With Laney.
I have taken what’s important to me out of the room, but somehow I still feel violated when Carver opens the door for Laney and she walks inside.
Before he goes into the room behind her, he stands on the landing and turns to look directly into my window. I pull my covers up to my chin. I’m pretty sure he can’t see me; he’s too far away and my room is too dark.
Lucky for me, the belly of the moon is full of milky light, which generously pours down on Carver, allowing me to watch him.
Neutering reduces activity levels in male dogs, not bitches.
—Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog
According to my digital clock, Laney was up in Carver’s room last night from 10:31 to 10:37 p.m. I don’t think six minutes is long enough for any substantial interaction (meaning a game of chess or steamy sex), but given my modest experience with guys, I can’t speak with authority on the subject.
Today in history class, Mr. Klinefelter has dumped salt in my wound by putting together “cooperative groups.” We will be meeting in these four-person groups daily. Daily.
After three minutes with my “cooperative group,” I have decided that “cooperative group” now replaces “jumbo shrimp” as the most blatant oxymoron ever.
I am sitting here in my cooperative group and there is one uncooperative component: Laney. Laney is in my group, which must mean that Mr. Klinefelter dislikes me very much and wants to make my life more miserable.
From afar I can handle Laney, but up close she makes me nervous. Unsettled. When I’m near her, I get the same feeling that I experience when I have to give a speech in front of a classroom full of people. I think it’s fear.
Also in my group: Richard “Ivy League” Belstone and Allison “I’d Rather Be Anywhere Than Here” Meyer.
Poor Maryann. She sits in her group across the room, looking like she’s shriveling, having been severed from her master, Laney.
Mr. Klinefelter has asked our cooperative groups to look through some newspapers and form an opinion about whether biased reporting manipulates the public and thus abuses the First Amendment.
Naturally, Richard assumes the group-leader role. “Okay, Laney, you look through the Wall Street Journal. Natalie, you get the New York Times, and, Allison, here’s the Christian Science Monitor.”
Allison scowls at Richard, narrowing her charcoal black-rimmed eyes. “I’m an atheist.”
Richard takes a pencil from behind his ear and points it at Allison. “It’s not a religious publication. The CIA reads the Christian Science Monitor because—”
Allison interrupts with a grunt and says, “Trade me.” Richard hands over his copy of the Washington Post.
I become my own group behind my fully unfolded newspaper until Laney moves it aside like a curtain.
“I met Carver,” she says brazenly. My heart starts beating faster.
I’m able to mutter only a one-syllable word: “Good.”
“Is something wrong? Are you mad at him?” She says this forcefully, like she’s accusing me of something.
“No.” I swallow hard and feel myself dissolve into my desk. Laney is sitting down, but I sense her circling me, prowling. She is the devil dog Spitz incarnate from Jack London’s Call of the Wild�
�my all-time favorite book. Like Spitz, Laney provokes, snarls, and prepares to bite.
“Hmm,” she says, nodding. “We were hanging out in his room last night.” She pauses for emphasis. I want to tell her that spending six minutes in someone’s room does not qualify as “hanging out.” That’s just “dropping in.”
She continues. “He said you seem like you’re mad at him.” Hair toss. “I told him that’s just how you are.” Ouch! There’s the bite.
“Oh,” I say, stunned. Having slammed me down to size, Laney refocuses on her Wall Street Journal.
I fan the newspaper back into barrier position, but now it’s limp and crumpled because Laney poked at it.
I hate that Laney and Carver had a conversation about me. In my room. I try to distract myself with an article on the all-time-low national deficit, but all I can think about is Laney and Carver. Carver and Laney. Laner and Carvey. I wish I could spit words back into Laney’s face the way she does to me.
I’m no stranger to the scenario of the meek kid on the playground getting bullied by the powerful, more popular kid. Oftentimes in my past I have been that meek kid. The one who in elementary school gave up her place in the lunch line to avoid the tyranny of ponytailed Hannah Hopkins. Without protest, I let Hailey Lansky have my favorite Washington Monument light-up pen that Dad had brought back from his tour in Washington, D.C., only because I was too scared to ask for it back. And just last year, I had to take a zero on a math homework assignment because Maddy Fletcher borrowed my work during lunch and broke her promise to return it to me before sixth period. I never said anything to Maddy about it.
It’s people like me who keep the high and mighty positioned on their thrones. Coward!
For the remainder of class, my stomach growls with fury. Carver and Laney discussed me. Behind my back. This only fuels my anti-Carver fire.
Having no other outlet for my anger, I practically storm home after school, alone. I do not linger at the vending machine with Nina and Kirby after class. I do not get in Laney’s face and tell her to shove the red licorice she’s eating up her butt. I do not pass Go and collect two hundred dollars.
Stray Page 5