I drive home, following Vernon’s car, tracing the back of Carver’s head; his messy hair is the most distinct feature of his outline. And to think, just a few weeks ago I thought my biggest worry this summer would be pretending to sip strawberry wine from a plastic cup.
The fog thickens as I drive. The specks of stars go unseen behind the bullying clouds, but perhaps what is out of sight need not be out of mind.
At home, I idle near the curb, waiting for Vernon to drop off Mom, Grandma, and Carver, before I pull into the driveway. Mom and Carver get out from the backseat. Carver rushes over to open the passenger door for Grandma. Her hand lurches out of the car, waving him away. Her tiny patent leather foot touches ground, and Carver leans toward her with his kindness, cradling her elbow and helping her out of the car despite her protest.
The headlights of Vernon’s car illuminate their walk to the door. Vernon backs his car out of the driveway and heads toward the clinic.
I steer into the driveway, turn off the ignition, and linger in the car.
Carver waits with Grandma as Mom opens the front door. Once it’s open, I can see Mom bending down to receive the dogs, petting each one, giving Pip an extra rub on his ear. This is one of the rare moments when I can see myself in her. And I feel sad, because I’ve really done my best in my life to fill the good-hardworking-daughter role Mom has created for me. It’s just that when I step out of that role to be with my friends or save a dog or, most recently, kiss Carver, I feel like I’m doing something wrong, like I have to lie to make it look right to Mom.
Mom allows the dogs outside, where they engage in their sniff-and-pee routine. Grandma is already inside the house, but Mom and Carver stand on the porch, exchanging words. Both of them keep looking at me inside the car. Is she asking him to go home?
Deep breath.
The dogs whiz about the yard, circling the trees, marking plots of grass, running back and forth to Mom and Carver for a rub on the head or a pat on the back.
Carver places his hands in his pockets, looks at me in the car, and starts walking up the steps to the room above the garage. I watch until he is inside, the lights flick on, and the door shuts.
Mom stands at the open front door. She calls the dogs into the house. And they follow, without question. Mom does not have to chase them or yell to make them submit. They just whip their bodies into motion and heed her call.
When the dogs are in the house, Mom shuts the door and walks to the car, waiting for me. It’s my turn.
I step out and into my mother’s arms. Being true to myself and being honest with Mom is a conflict of interest. I understand that. But I can’t lie anymore or stifle myself when I’m scared to ask for what I need. And somewhere between knowing that and being held in my mother’s arms, I feel closer to who I am and what I want.
The relationship between dog and man is a journey, not a destination.
—Michael Kaplan, The Manifesto of Dog
I wake up the next morning under a thin layer of covers, surprised that sleep stole wakefulness so quickly. I don’t remember looking at the ceiling or counting dog breeds last night, only scraping my toe on Fu-Fu and collapsing onto my bed.
Pip has wrapped himself around my left foot, making it impossible for me to move it without pushing him off. I contort my body toward the clock so as not to rustle him. Noon! Saturday.
Last night seems distant, like a page from an old diary begging to be revisited and analyzed. I was someone I had never been last night. One minute I was in a vacant house with Carver; the next minute I was at the police station with my mom. It’s sort of scary how time can be a magic trick, a chain of events appearing and disappearing with sleight of hand.
So it’s Saturday. No school. Probably no work, either, since Mom didn’t wake me up. Pip untangles himself the minute my big toe twitches. His one brown eye glares at me, but he’ll get over it. I change into some shorts, put my phone in my pocket, brush my teeth, and gather the dogs for a walk. Downstairs is a note from Mom saying she’ll see me tonight.
Mom may have let Carver sleep in, too. Maybe if Carver isn’t working, either, he’ll go for a walk with us. It’ll be good to talk with him, especially before we have the “big” talk with Mom.
The dogs follow me outside and up the stairs to Carver’s room. I knock softly. When there’s no response, I give the door a sequence of knocks that range from “Are you sleeping?” to “Open the door or I’ll beat it down.” Otto sniffs the bottom of the door-jamb. I turn the doorknob to see if it gives.
It does.
When I was nine years old, I packed a day’s worth of food and hid behind the latticework of our old backyard. It was a summer day, and in back of the lattice, between the rusted tricycle and the green spiral of the garden hose, was shade. I hid there with a stopwatch to time how long it took for someone to come looking for me. Mom clocked in at 4 minutes, 3.75 seconds—quick, considering I had packed enough supplies for the entire day.
Standing here at the doorway of Carver’s room, I imagine him playing the same game. I wait for him to pop out and yell my time.
But Carver is not here.
There are no open duffel bags on the floor. No clothes scattered about. I check the closet to make sure he didn’t shove everything into its tiny square, but he’s not there saying, “Fooled ya!”
Loss should be followed by weightlessness, but it’s not. All the missing parts—the spark I carry when I see Carver, his smile, the knowing who I am around him—are absent, yet I feel a weight pressing down on my chest.
I go to sit on the edge of the futon. Is he really gone?
On the wall there is only one picture from his collection remaining: the picture of the dragonfly. I reach over to peel it off and notice writing on the back. The squashed all-caps penmanship emboldens the message.
Natalie,
I hope you don’t think I’ve abandoned you. My mom arranged for me to come home. Seems like you need some time and space to work things out with your mom.
I thought about sneaking into your house to say good-bye, but then I realized that it would be wrong, because I would want to kiss you. Maybe I’m weak, but I can’t kiss you good-bye. Only hello kisses for us, Natalie.
Next time we’ll meet in my garden, the moon-viewing one. I didn’t tell you about the dragonflies. Hold on to this one until then.
Love,
Carver
And there’s his phone number.
Pixie collapses. He is gone.
I place the picture next to me on the futon, dragonfly-side up, and let my head drop to my hands. Crying. Loudly enough that Southpaw pokes her warm, wet nose into the crisscross of fingers over my face to lick my cheeks. Pip and Otto nuzzle in to do the same. They listen while I heave and sob.
The dogs’ ears perk at the sound of footsteps trailing up the stairs. Wait. He’s coming back!
“I came home for lunch today,” Mom says, walking through the doorway. I slump in disappointment, tears falling down to my legs. “He’s really gone.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say, snuffling. “Did you ask his mom to make him leave?”
“You think I’d do that?” Mom asks, looking wounded.
“He wasn’t an inconvenience,” I say.
“I didn’t ask that he leave.” Mom lets out a deep breath. “Faith called me at work just now to tell me Carver left early this morning. He took a taxi to the airport, and he’s on his way back home. I’m here to see if you’re okay.” Mom sits down next to me on the futon. “Are you?”
“I’m not sure. I really like him.” I pull my shirt up to my nose and wipe it. “Even without your permission.”
Mom reaches over to place a strand of fading blue hair behind my ear. We sit there for a while, Mom holding me, the dogs curled at my feet with heads down.
I appreciate the quiet, the fact that Mom isn’t drumming the “You’re too young! You’re better off without him! There’s other fish in the sea!” speech into my head. It’s enough for her t
o hold me, to let me be what I am at this moment: heartbroken.
Mom stays with me until my whimpering subsides. Then she stands up and hands me the golden key that Carver left behind. She kisses the top of my head, and I watch her with my parched eyes as she leaves and shuts the door behind her.
All the space I’ve ever wanted is in my hand and it feels empty. Not so empty that I can’t fill it, but enough that it would be an opportune time for Kirby to shout, “Irony!”
Dangling above my head is the disco ball. I stand up, plug in the spotlight, flick the switch on the mirror-covered orb, and sit down on the ground with Pip, Otto, and Southpaw. Southpaw rests her brindled head on my lap, the ooze from her mouth moistening my leg. I rub the coarse hair on her ears and look up at the spinning disco ball.
Tassels of daylight sneak through the drawn shades, blotting out the shuffle of specks on the ceiling. Without the contrast of the light mingling with the dark, it’s difficult to see what’s there.
Dog drool may be a breeding ground for invisible rabies germs, toilet tanks may be hiding places for bags of pot, and feelings may be pretended into near nonexistence. Just because something’s hidden or even shadowed by something else doesn’t mean it’s not there. Knowing this, I pull my phone from my pocket.
I dial Carver’s number. Pixie diligently rubs her own Foo dog with each ring. Then she starts to sashay around the arena of my heart when I hear his voice answer at the other end.
Acknowledgments
Dogs thrive in packs. So do I. Thanks to the following for their support in the breeding of this book.
THE GUIDE DOGS: Kim Douillard, Kathleen Gallagher, Danan McNamara, and Cheryl Ritter for inspiring me to write. Your solid encouragement and affirmation led me toward a novel.
THE HERDERS: Maria Bertrand, Beth Wagner Brust, Jayne Haines, Sarah Hansen, Jenny Moore, and John Ritter for the honest feedback and literary companionship. Without your active nudging and inspiration, I’d be grazing aimlessly in the wrong pasture.
THE GROOMERS: Mom, Dad, Mindy, and Eve for letting “book talk” enter our telephone conversations. Melissa Taylor for her TLC of my children while I wrote. Ellen and Benny for unmitigated joy and laughter. And the hundreds of students I’ve had the honor of teaching: your voices continue to resonate.
THE GURUS: Sandy and Harry Choron; Stanley Coren; Dr. Nicholas Dodman; William Wegman, whose books gave me a deeper understanding of dogs; The Bark magazine, and the staff and dogs of the HSUS.
THE BREEDERS: Happy, grateful, yippy barks to my agent, Steven Chudney, for his efficiency and his belief in me; to the SCBWI for their life-changing organization; for the support of Beverly Horowitz, the fine-tuning of Jennifer Black, and the production efforts of the team at Delacorte Press; and enormous gratitude to my editor, Claudia Gabel, who overlooked her allergy to dogs and gave me the opportunity to revisit my story under her tutelage.
THE GREAT STUD DOG: Mostly, thanks to my husband, Jeremy, who has given me his unconditional love, honesty, and precious room to write.
If you liked Stray,
you’ll love Stacey Goldblatt’s
funny yet touching novel
Girl to the Core.
Here’s a sneak peek. …
Excerpt copyright © 2009 by Stacey Goldblatt.
Published by Delacorte Press,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Books,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
We’re on his couch. Our lips lock, hot and heavy. Hundreds of waterfalls begin to cascade through my blood. My hands rest on his belt loops, just as immobile as they are with the clay. But Trevor doesn’t seem to mind.
Then he starts to run his hand up the back of my shirt.
The waterfalls I felt earlier turn into glaciers. Although it feels sort of nice, I’m scared.
Next he starts to kiss my neck. I want to stop, but there’s a piece of me that wants to keep going because my body feels light as air.
It’s exciting one moment. And terrifying the next. Actually, it’s like being tickled and pinched at the same time. But mostly tickled.
Trevor’s long legs shift on the couch. I wiggle over to the side to give him more room, but when he rolls on top of me, my head sinks into the smooshy sofa cushion. I’m not sure where to put my arms, so I wrap them around his neck. His elbows jut out like pelican wings.
Trevor wiggles his neck loose, allowing me to look into his dark brown eyes. I reach up and finger the thin circle of his earring, his earlobe soft as peach fuzz. I laugh as I begin to trace his mouth. “Your lips are so blue.” Remnants of the snow cone.
“And yours are ruby red.” He kisses me again. “Let’s go somewhere more comfortable.”
I stare over at the clock on the DVR. I’ve got an hour before I should leave for the Banshee.
“Okay,” I say, in keeping with the “easygoing” personality that Trevor seems to adore about me. And it is okay. There’s no need for me to panic, because I haven’t said yes to anything other than getting more comfortable.
He smiles widely as he heaves me up from the couch, and we walk down the hallway, which is decorated with stark black-and-white landmark photos from the cosmopolitan cities his parents jet to: the Eiffel Tower. Big Ben. The Empire State Building.
We whisk into his room, where the afternoon light filters in through the window blinds. He tows me to his bed. We tumble over each other, giggle, and stretch out our legs.
“Molly?” His lips touch my ear as he says it; goose bumps perk along my arm.
“Uh-huh?”
“I love you,” he whispers.
Love? He loves me? My heart thumps inside my chest. He pulls back so I can touch his face, smooth yet whiskery in some spots. “I love you, too, Trevor.”
He leans down again, nuzzles his face into my hair, kisses me on the cheek, then my forehead and the tip of my nose. This feels so good. This is love! We only whispered it, but we said it. Love.
He gets up from the bed.
I wouldn’t mind having him back here with me where my blood still feels pumpy and strong, but I’m grateful that he respects me enough—loves me enough—to stop us from going any further today.
I sit up on my elbows to find Trevor closing his bedroom door. “What are you doing?” I ask.
“Locking the door. Just in case.”
Now I’m freezing all over like a blue snow cone.
About the Author
When Stacey Goldblatt was in high school, she spent every Saturday at a family friend’s veterinary clinic. Currently, she boards in San Diego with her husband, their two children, a dog, and a cat. This is her first novel. You can visit Stacey at www.staceygoldblatt.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Stacey Goldblatt
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Laurel-Leaf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Laurel-Leaf and the colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/teens Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition of this work as follows:
Goldblatt, Stacey. Stray / by Stacey Goldblatt. p. cm.
Summary: Natalie’s mother, a veterinarian with a dogs-only practice, has the sixteen-year-old on such a short leash that, when the teenaged son of her old school friend comes to stay with them for the summer, Natalie is tempted to break her mother’s rules and follow her own instincts for a change.
[1. Mothers and daughters—Fiction. 2. Behavior—Fiction. 3. Identity—Fiction. 4. Dogs—Fiction. 5. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction.
6. Friendship—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.G56449St 2007 [Fic]—dc22 2006031828
eISBN: 978-0-375-89283-7
RL: 6.0
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.0
Stray Page 18