The Disappearing Dog Dilemma (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries)

by Christy Barritt

  “Please make sure you have a firm understanding of the concept of opportunity cost so your homework is done correctly. Divide a page in your notebook into two columns, with one column labeled ‘choice’ and the other ‘opportunity cost.’ List at least five choices you make today and the corresponding opportunity cost for those choices. We’ll be using those lists in class tomorrow before handing them in. Use the remainder of class to work with a shoulder partner to start your lists.”

  As usual, the Devotees (the Diva’s inner circle of suck-up friends) gazed at her, begging with their eyes, “Choose me! Choose me.” I could have barfed. The people around me paired up, leaving me and Orange Hair to work together.

  I sighed. It could have been worse. I could have been stuck with the Diva.

  CHAPTER 17

  Taco Tuesday only happened once a month, so the extra-long lunch line stretched around the OMS cafeteria like Mr. Fantastic’s arms. Students were extra loud and antsy, with more than the usual cutting in line because of the menu.

  Becca and I sat in stony muteness, waiting for our BFFLs. I switched to bringing my lunch in fifth grade when Dad started “borrowing” my lunch money. I figured it was one small way I could contribute to Dad’s sobriety. Becca routinely brought her lunch because her parents were health-food nuts. They probably classified tacos with arsenic and Twinkies.

  As the silence between us continued, I resolved that I wasn’t going to be the first one to speak. She was the one who acted like a jerk at lunch yesterday and then never bothered to call last night and apologize. I would wait her out. Even if the tension was building like a tidal wave.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. I tried staring.

  Becca never looked up.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. I scooted my chair back loudly.

  No reaction.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. I slurped my drink.

  Nothing.

  A wave of relief swept over me as Pete, Brandon, and Paulette dropped their trays down. An unexpected fourth tray hit the table.

  I glanced up to see a strange girl with blonde bobbed hair pulling out a seat across from Paulette. It was Orange Hair. Except now it was an uneven blonde. Definitely a home job.

  “Hi, I’m Wanda, Gabby’s partner in Econ,” she said with forced cheerfulness and a fragile smile.

  I could have mentioned the partnership was a one-time thing and that didn’t entitle her to invite herself into my BFFL group, but I kind of felt sorry for her. The Diva’s comment about her orange hair had probably shamed her into dyeing it the moment she got home. Plus, she’d mentioned something to me in class yesterday about her parents being divorced and how hard it was to be the new girl.

  “Hey,” Pete mumbled around a mouthful of taco. Today his hair had been gelled into little spikes in front. He had on a faded black hoodie with Captain America and Thor half washed away.

  “Wassup?” Brandon nodded in recognition and inhaled two-thirds of a taco.

  Wanda plopped herself into the seat. Her shoulders dropped as some of the tension in them faded away. Maybe she was just looking for a place to belong.

  I pulled out an apple before addressing my BFFLs. “So, I got a bike last night,” I said super casually.

  Out of the corner of my eye I watched for Pete’s reaction. I wanted him to be thrilled and suggest spending our lives together, pedaling down the ribbon of road we called life into a glorious sunset, the lyrics of People Will Say We’re in Love playing softly in the background.

  He gave me a thumbs-up with the hand not shoveling another taco in his mouth.

  “Where?” asked Becca, with ice framing the word.

  I maintained my composure but inwardly smirked that she’d spoken to me first. “Short version is I got a deal on my wheels.”

  The long version went something like this:

  Last night, Amos had stopped pumping iron long enough to give me $110.00, claiming the extra $2.00 was a tip from Poco. I figured it was from his guilty conscience for scaring me to death, then almost getting me fired. When I showed my mom what I’d earned, she hustled me right out the door to a thrift store two doors down from where she worked.

  A skinny Goth girl had greeted my mom by name, making me think my mom came here often. The employee pulled out a beat-up, fat-tired mountain bike that had been blue at one time, but now looked like someone had sandpapered off most of the paint and dragged it through the Great Dismal Swamp, in case it wasn’t ugly enough.

  Goth Girl had insisted it was one sturdy bike, a great buy at only seventy dollars.

  Before I realized what was happening, my mom had said we’d take it, I’d paid, and then we were out the door.

  I had to admit, after trying it out, that the bike rode well. Now all I needed was a riding buddy. Somebody blond and . . .

  “You should have waited for the police auction,” Becca commented with a snit in her voice.

  “Well—” I started.

  But Becca continued. “By the way, my dad said the missing Irish setter was found at the Virginia Beach Animal Control. He was reunited with his owners last night.” She paused, then added, “That’s in case anyone here still cares about missing dogs.”

  Thanks a million, Becca. Brush my big news aside with a thinly veiled slam on my BF. Have you been taking lessons from the Diva?

  “That’s great!” Bran said.

  Just like flipping a light switch, Becca turned on a smile.

  “I would just die if someone kidnapped Puddles or Mr. Jangles.” A touch of fear stained Paulette’s voice.

  “Are they dogs?” asked Wanda.

  “Puddles is. Mr. Jangles is my horse.”

  “You have a horse?” Wanda’s mouth opened. Good thing she hadn’t started scarfing down her final taco yet. It would have been see-food gross. “Wow.”

  “Mr. Jangles isn’t likely to go missing since horse rustling went out with the Wild West, stagecoaches, and cowboys,” Becca said with her mother’s ask-a-stupid-question tone. “However, dognapping is alive and well on the East Coast, so maybe you ought to make your dog less of a target by keeping her at home.”

  “I do,” said Paulette. “I don’t board her, ever. She even sleeps in my room.”

  “Does she still wear that ruby collar that matches your bracelet?” Becca’s voice contained more than a touch of annoyance.

  “Yes,” Paulette said timidly. She held up her left hand. Even in the harsh cafeteria light it sparkled like liquid fire encircling her wrist.

  “Wow,” said Wanda with admiration. “Nice bling.”

  “It’s not bling,” Paulette corrected. “It’s the real deal, as Daddy says. He got it for me on my thirteenth birthday, and it has one ruby for each year that I am old.”

  I didn’t know how much rubies cost, but my mom had gotten $200 when she pawned her engagement ring to bail Dad out after he got a DUI. I wasn’t supposed to know about the arrest or the pawnshop. But after overhearing Mom talking to some lawyer, I had snooped around.

  The diamond in Mom’s ring was smaller than any of the rubies in Paulette’s bracelet. I was no math genius, but even I could figure out that if pawnshops paid maybe 50 percent of an item’s value, Paulette was walking around with at least five grand on her arm. Wanda must have been doing the math as well.

  “Does the dog’s collar have thirteen real rubies, too?” She reached out to touch the bracelet.

  “Yes, except her collar is leather, not gold,” Paulette said.

  Gold. I hadn’t figured in the cost of real gold. Her bracelet was probably worth two of our vans, with my bike thrown in to pay the tax.

  Noise from the Mocha Loco table caught my attention. I glanced over, hoping none of them were noticing this display. No such luck. One of the younger toadies leaned toward Raff, talking and pointing in our direction. I quickly grabbed Paulette’s arm and pulled it down. No sense drawing the attention of that crowd.

  After Oklahoma I had taken Paulette under my protective wing. Sure, she had money and looks, but she wa
s a few puppies short of a pet shop in the brain department. How in the world she’d managed not to have such an expensive bracelet stolen was beyond me.

  “Do Puddles a favor and get her a plain collar from Walmart,” Becca told her. “You’d hate to have someone dognap and ransom her like they did Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s dog.”

  “Oh no. Poor Elizabeth. I didn’t know her dog was stolen.” Sincere worry etched Paulette’s voice. “Is she the eighth grader with braces in chorus?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Becca snapped. “Browning was a famous, dead poet we read about last year.” Her tone drew everyone’s attention at the table. “I just used her as an example because, even if my dad had named names of local people and recent cases of people holding a pet for a ransom, I wouldn’t dish.” She stared straight at me when she added, “I can keep a secret.”

  She snorted, stood, and grabbed her trash, shoving it into her nearly new brown bag. I watched in disbelief as she stormed off to deposit it in the trash.

  Becca never, ever threw away her brown bags until they had so many holes and tears they resembled tattered tan rags. That was another weird thing about her family. The Chapmans recycled everything, including the Sunday comics, which they used as gift wrap. They even reused bubble wrap. What kind of freak parents forbid their kids to pinch bubble wrap so they can reuse it?

  Something was seriously amiss for Becca to trash her bag. And what was she implying about keeping a secret? I hadn’t blabbered anything. Was she just acting like she had inside info? I glanced over and noticed Paulette’s bottom lip quivering, tears starting to well.

  “I dunno,” I said, shrugging. “It’s not like hot sauce set her off.”

  It was a lame attempt at humor and fell flat. Becca was nice to everyone. For her to snap at someone kind of defenseless like Paulette worried me.

  Everyone nodded and got back to either eating or making small talk.

  Pete leaned toward me. “Now that you have a bike, what do you say we head over to Animal Control after school? Unless you have other plans.”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean, no, I don’t have other plans, but yes, I can,” I said, wishing once again I could press rewind and start again.

  Brandon pretended to be engrossed in his fifth taco, but I could see he was holding in a smile.

  I wondered if he knew about Pete and me and Saturday. I wondered if he and Pete had talked all about it like Becca and I had. If they had discussed it, I doubted Brandon had read him the riot act and warned him away from me.

  Tonight Watson and I were going to have a chat.

  Dear Watson,

  Does “opportunity cost” mean giving up a best friend when a boyfriend comes along?

  CHAPTER 18

  “Sweet ride,” Pete said.

  His sleeve touched mine, and I fumbled with my bike lock.

  “Pet sitting must be good money,” he continued.

  “I can’t complain.” It took three tries before I wrestled off the lock. Finally, I climbed on my new bike. “I thought after we hit Animal Control we might swing by Paws and Furballs. They aren’t all that far from each other.”

  “Good excuses to glide the ride?” Pete joked as he swung onto his blue mountain bike.

  The chill March wind was at our backs, subtly pushing us away from school while running its icy fingers under my jacket. Pete’s comment had presented me with a dilemma. Although this trip wasn’t about my ride, it wasn’t exactly about missing dogs either. Did that make it a date? More disturbing: Did that make me a hypocrite because I was acting like it was about the dogs when really I just wanted to hang out with Pete?

  We coasted into Animal Control, a bleak off-white building with fences on the left side and out back. Someone had painted large murals of cats, dogs, birds, and a couple of rabbits on one side, but it must have been ages ago, since the paint was faded, peeling, or missing in splotches. Muffled barking emanated from inside. Pete used his cable lock to secure both of our bikes after we parked.

  I was glad he was bent down so he didn’t see the stupid smile plastered across my face. I couldn’t help it. It seemed gallant and all, but it was almost a symbolic experience: our bikes, joined together. Like Pete and me. I had to pretend to brush my hair out of my eyes when he stood to face me so he didn’t see me grinning like the village idiot.

  He held out his hand. My heart skipped a beat, but I took it. He interlaced his fingers in mine, and we headed inside. Together. For once I was happy about the awful weather. My hands would not perspire in this cold.

  It went downhill from there.

  Apparently, the police had already asked Animal Control to be on the lookout for the two dogs still missing: Fluffnstuff and some guy’s pit bull. The harried counter clerk treated Pete and me like bothersome toddlers, barely making eye contact and answering in a clipped, annoyed tone. Pete and I exchanged glances, rolled our eyes, and left.

  We hadn’t pedaled out of the parking lot before Pete’s chain fell off. I tried to help as he fiddled with it, but words like sprocket, cog, crank set, and bike cassettes were all lost on me. I got grease on my hands, jeans, jacket, and even in my hair because the wind kept whipping my frizzy locks into my eyes.

  “I’m gonna have to call someone to come get me,” Pete grumbled. “Not to keep complaining, but I’ve told Dad like a bazillion times that I need a new crank set ’cuz this one is too worn to hold the chain. But he can’t take a couple of minutes to take me to the store and help me put it on. It’s always ‘after Lana’s this’ and ‘maybe if Lana that.’”

  We walked back inside, Pete not offering to hold hands. I tried to decide if it was because of the grease or his mood or if I had done something wrong. The grouchy lady at the counter ordered Pete into the restroom to wash his hands before she’d let him touch the phone.

  I glanced at the clock—4:15. I’d have to be at Wrangleys’ no later than 5:00. While Pete called his dad, I tried to clean up in the restroom that smelled of mildew and old papers. Glancing in the grubby mirror, I was horrified to find grease smeared under one eye and on my cheek. I looked like a half-raccoon mutant. After some painful scrubbing, the grease came off only to be replaced with cherry-red splotches.

  “Dad’s gonna swing by after he picks up Lana,” Pete said with a sigh. “Since her tap class ends at 5:00 p.m., it’s gonna be dark by the time he gets here.”

  I have to tell him I can’t wait. I have to pet sit! said my brain.

  I can’t desert him, not now. He might break up with me, said my heart.

  As the voices in my head warred back and forth, stupid Mr. C.’s voice chimed in with “Opportunity cost is giving up the second-best alternative to obtain something else.” In my mind’s eye I grabbed a remote control and switched him off. There had to be a way to keep both job and boyfriend.

  “Pete, Pocococo’s—” I started.

  Pete grabbed my arm and pointed at a white van with Pollack Laboratories emblazoned on the side. Instead of parking, the vehicle pulled around to the back of the building.

  Our eyes met. We nodded and ever so casually made our way around the side of the building, hugging the wall. The van disappeared around the final corner. Like spies, we scuttled to the edge of the building, squatted low, and peered carefully around the bend.

  I was aware of Pete’s hand resting on my back, his minty breath, and the tension that surrounded us.

  The van backed up to the service door, and a man in white coveralls hopped out from the driver’s side. He rapped on the back door and, without waiting for a response, opened the back doors on the van. The building door opened, and Mrs. Harried Clerk came out pulling a German shepherd on a short leash.

  Pete and I stared at each other, and then back at the scene unfolding. I was sure we were thinking the same thing. People’s pets were being forked over for testing purposes. I wondered if purebred animals were somehow better to experiment on.

  Harried Clerk went inside, and the man forced the dog inside the
back of the van, closing the doors with a clang that sounded like prison doors slamming shut. He hopped back in the still-running van and pulled away.

  Right toward us.

  We scrambled up and dashed toward the front. The van was too quick. We’d been spotted.

  “They’re closing now,” called the driver through his half-mast driver’s side window.

  I was momentarily speechless but managed to wave weakly. Pete did that guy head-jerk thing, hands casually stuffed in his pockets like the side of Animal Control was a regular gathering place for teens.

  I doubted we fooled the guy. He knew we’d seen whatever had gone down. Fortunately, he kept on driving rather than eliminating us witnesses on the spot.

  “Maybe we should report this.” Pete raised his eyebrows. “Do you think?”

  “Maybe. I mean, he came after hours to the back door. But who do we report it to?”

  Pete shrugged. “I dunno. Becca’s dad is a cop, right? Ask her.”

  I briefly thought about telling him Becca and I weren’t exactly on speaking terms, but that might lead to talking about stuff like Becca thinking Pete was mixed up in the dogs’ disappearance. I decided to play it safe and postpone that conversation until I’d thought more about it.

  “Pete, I gotta go pet sit. But I don’t want to leave you here alone in case the van guy comes back.”

  Pete stared at me like I’d spoken in Martian.

  “In case he comes back to get rid of witnesses,” I clarified.

  Pete laughed and squeezed my hand. “I can take of myself, but you go on. I’ll call you if anything else happens.”

  I wanted to point out that if anything happened to him, like being maced and kidnapped in the back of a dog-stealing drug company van, or if Harried Clerk unleashed the proverbial hounds to tear him to shreds, he’d be unable to call me. But then I recalled an article Becca and I had read in USA Girls about always playing along when guys acted macho.

  Mr. C.’s words haunted me once again as I pedaled out of the parking lot. Apparently the opportunity cost of stroking a guy’s ego was letting him get killed by dognapping goons.