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

by Christy Barritt

  CHAPTER 24

  “You forgot to see Mrs. Baker.”

  Hannah’s accusing words reached through the noise and my daydream to pull me back to the OMS cafeteria.

  On Fridays it was extra noisy as people made and bragged about their weekend plans. I had been waiting ever so patiently for Becca to arrive so I could do just that. I had a date to brag about.

  “You better see her during lunch so you don’t space it out again,” Hannah continued. “It’s about Pixie, her dog, and it is important.”

  “Has he been kidnapped?” My senses immediately went on full alert.

  “No, but she is pregnant,” Hannah explained impatiently. “She needs a pet sitter Saturday, and for some reason Mrs. Baker thinks she should hire you.”

  Hannah shook her head and moved away toward the Troll Table.

  Mrs. Baker was an eighth-grade teacher who directed our last play, Oklahoma, in which I had a starring role. As starring as an extra without lines could be. But since I kind of saved the play when I uncovered a plot to shut it down, I figured I was the star detective of the show.

  I had no idea how Mrs. Baker knew that besides being the next female lead she’d cast in a play, I was also a professional pet sitter.

  But now wasn’t the best time to talk to her.

  I glanced at the lines of full trays inching their way from the milk pit to the cashier. None of my BFFLs had emerged from the lunch-lady lineup, so I figured that since the line was crawling, I could make it to Mrs. Baker’s room and back in time to brag. Cramming the remainder of my PB&J into my mouth, I hustled out of the chow hall, leaving my juice and apple to save my seat.

  Not that students were lined up to sit at our table or anything.

  “Gabby, thanks for stopping by,” Mrs. Baker said when I walked into her classroom. “I was hoping you’d be interested in pet sitting for Pixie.”

  I half nodded, half shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Normally I’d leave her in the yard, but because we’re supposed to get rain and she is very close to having the puppies, I’d rather have her inside. We’ve cleared out the laundry room and set up a whelping box,” Mrs. Baker explained as she worked a key off her key ring.

  I nodded knowledgeably, hoping to hurry her along. I had no idea what “whelping box” meant, but I could figure it out when I saw it.

  “There’s an old toolshed in the back. Pixie loves to get under it. She’s dug out a depression so she has a cool, shady place to chill, but rain turns her special spot into a doggy mud bath. Since it will probably rain Saturday, the last thing I want is for her to get under the shed.”

  I was trying not to rock back and forth from foot to foot, but my impatience to return to lunch and brag was overwhelming.

  Mrs. Baker must have noticed. “Do you need to use the restroom and come back for the rest of the instructions?”

  “No. Go on.” I steeled myself to hold still and look attentive.

  “Dogs often give birth at night, when it’s dark and quiet, so leave all the lights off so Pixie is comfortable.” Mrs. Baker handed me the key. “I’ll have her food out. Make sure she has plenty of water, but don’t be alarmed if she doesn’t eat much. That happens just before dogs give birth.”

  “Got it,” I said, moving towards the door.

  But Mrs. Baker wasn’t done.

  “Please take her out on a leash when you give her a potty break. I don’t want her scooting under the shed, which I think is her preferred place for the whelping.”

  “I’ll use the leash,” I promised.

  “Like I said, if she’s not eating, it’s a sign the puppies are coming. If the puppies do come, give her lots of space. Momma dogs can be quite . . .” Mrs. Baker searched for an appropriate word. “Aggressive. I don’t think Pixie would bite under normal circumstances, but with puppies and her not knowing you, I don’t want you to take any chances.”

  “I’ll keep my distance,” I promised, trying not to bolt for the door.

  According to the clock I had seven minutes of lunch left. That should be enough to share the news, but since Pete would already be at the table and I couldn’t just blurt it out, I’d have to come up with some clever way to drop my bomb.

  “We should be back by eight Saturday night, so three visits will be plenty, morning, noon, and evening.”

  I smiled and nodded, hoping to save time by stifling a verbal response.

  “Is five dollars a visit enough?” Mrs. Baker cocked her head to one side, waiting for an answer.

  I hadn’t thought about it. I figured there was some standard price, like the seven per visit I was getting from the Wrangleys. Apparently not. I would have agreed anyway since Mrs. Baker was cool and since she was going to give me some fabulous part in the summer drama program and all.

  In the interest of time, all I said was “Great.”

  I had almost gotten out the door when a “Gabby!” stopped me in my tracks.

  Mrs. Baker.

  Again.

  Probably another two million rules and tips.

  I turned but stayed in the doorway. Every second saved was precious.

  “You need my address.” Mrs. Baker scribbled on a slip of paper. “If, for some reason, we can’t make it back Saturday, you could come Sunday, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll need your phone number, just in case.”

  I went back in and waited while she scrounged around stacks of paper on her desk for a battered day timer.

  I arrived back just in time to see Paulette, Brandon, and the adorable Pete wearing his favorite Superman T, tossing their trash. Pete locked eyes with me. He looked hurt. My stomach knotted up.

  “Hey, guys. I had to talk to Mrs. Baker about pet sitting her dog tomorrow.” I forced myself to sound cheerful and natural. “She talked for-ev-er.”

  “Pete thought you’d stood us up, but I pointed out your apple and juice were on the table even if you weren’t,” Paulette said.

  “Where’s Becca?” I asked, noting her absence from our group.

  “Becca sat with the nerds today, and I thought, maybe you were, like, avoiding me, us, or something too,” Pete said.

  “I thought maybe you missed lunch because you were looking for Puddles,” Paulette said hopefully.

  In my excitement about my date, I had utterly and completely forgotten about telling Paulette about seeing Puddles yesterday.

  “I told her about yesterday,” Pete said, still sounding wounded.

  Then it struck me—so far today all I had thought about was me.

  No wonder Becca had switched tables. No wonder Pete thought whatever Pete thought. I had spent last night and today thinking about me and my big first date. Was I becoming as self-centered as the Diva?

  I, Gabby St. Claire, am the worst friend in the world.

  “So, is this job going to interfere with us going to the movies?” Pete’s voice sounded raw.

  “No. No way,” I quickly assured him, hoping I was correct. I realized too late I should have figured that out before accepting the job and the key. “We’re still on.”

  Pete visibly relaxed.

  “You guys are still going to find Puddles, right?” Paulette asked.

  The bell ending lunch rang, and for once, I was totally thrilled to go to class. I needed time to sort all this stuff out.

  CHAPTER 25

  The whole lunch thing made me realize not only that I was selfish, but also that I needed to manage my time more wisely.

  I hadn’t timed anything right, from chasing down gray cars to lunch to finding time for everything. Since the lecture in Econ sounded boring, I decided to invest my time by making a list of everything I had to do Saturday and any potential conflicts.

  Morning: Pocococo & Pixie

  Problem: How close were they? I fervently hoped they weren’t on opposite sides of Virginia Beach. I looked at the address Mrs. Baker gave me, hoping I might recognize it. Relief flooded me. The two locations were practically in each othe
r’s backyards.

  Noon: Pixie

  Two: Meet Pete

  Five: Pocococo & Pixie

  I felt my whole body relax. I hadn’t bitten off more than I could chew, as my mom liked to say. Of course, it didn’t leave much time to look for Puddles.

  “What are some things you have to choose between, Gabby?”

  The teacher’s voice caught me unawares, and I knew exactly how a fawn caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic felt. I was on the verge of panic when it dawned on me that I could actually answer the question and get my brag on.

  “This weekend I have two paying jobs, and”—I paused for effect like any Academy Award–winning actress would do before dropping a bombshell line—“a date, so I can’t do a third thing I’d hoped to do.”

  I smirked at the Diva, who was giving me the customary stink eye.

  “What do you know,” muttered Amy Snyder, a major suck-up Devotee, “Bigfoot must have taken pity on her.”

  The titters of laughter from the Devotees would normally have cut like miniature knives, but not today. Today, I was armored up and ready for any trash talk they threw my way.

  “Donabell?” Mr. C., oblivious to the drama that had just unfolded, had moved on.

  “I thought I was going to have to choose between doing makeovers or making jewelry at my sleepover this weekend, but because of my new friend Wanda, I can do both. Wanda’s uncle owns a store that sells jewelry, and Wanda’s going to bring stuff so we can do both.”

  The Diva had outbragged me. I scowled at her smirking face. Two rows back, Wanda glowed like a radioactive isotope at being publicly acknowledged as one of the select few who’d be at the Diva’s sleepover.

  I did a double take. She was dressed in the same expensive name-brand styles as the Diva. Wanda was remaking herself in the Diva’s image.

  Who cares? Not me. I have a date.

  “But where’s the opportunity cost, Donabell? For there to be an opportunity cost, the next-best alternative not chosen has to be given up when we make a decision.” The nuances of middle-school politics were lost on our middle-aged, balding teacher. Somehow he thought we were actually discussing his topic du jour.

  “That’s easy,” gushed the Diva. “To include Wanda, I had to uninvite one of my lesser friends.”

  I vaguely wondered which wannabe had been cut so copycat Wanda could have her spot. I had no problem imagining the Diva callously uninviting someone. I’d never do that to one of my friends.

  Or had I? I had promised Paulette to look for Puddles, but now that something better—a date and a paying job—had come along, was I cutting her out? Had I somehow done something like that to Becca as well?

  The rest of class and during half of science, I wrestled with my schedule, trying to figure out how I could do it all, and what I was compromising to get what I wanted. I finally gave up, as nothing seemed to gel and Ms. Shernick was breaking us into our groups to do a vocabulary review. I figured since Hannah was one of my partners, it would be a good time to ask what kind of dog Pixie was. I hadn’t paid close enough attention when Mrs. Baker was giving me instructions.

  Big mistake. Hannah went into great detail about how Pixie had once been a racing greyhound, but when she turned up pregnant, she couldn’t race, and something about how Mrs. Baker didn’t want her to be shot and rescued her. That part got fuzzy, since Hannah had a lot of commentary about the evils of dog racing and any kind of gambling in general, and I was tuning her out when something she mentioned grabbed my attention.

  “Especially since Mr. Baker was a navy helicopter pilot before dying in a crash.”

  I blinked in surprise. That made Mrs. Baker some kind of war widow. This new information was like heavy-duty stuff.

  Before I could ask questions, the final bell of the day and week rang. Lethargic, sleepy students came to life and burst from their seats like frenzied bees from a hive. I quickly grabbed my gear and joined the throng.

  During the Friday Freedom Rush, individuals were pushed along like a piece of driftwood or an old bottle on the swelling tide of adolescent humanity, eager to start their weekend. Since the very first time I had experienced it in sixth grade, this rush had frightened me because of the disconcerting sense of powerlessness to fight the current, of being swept along without a choice.

  But today, it didn’t seem so scary. I felt more in control of my life than I ever had. The details, like my schedule, might be messy, but the general direction in which it was heading was finally under my control.

  But by Saturday morning, everything had crashed out of control.

  CHAPTER 26

  On paper, my schedule had looked great: up at 5:30, Pocococo at 6:00, Bakers’ at 6:45. I’d be home by 7:45 tops, with plenty of time to get ready for my movie date and do a second visit at Mrs. Baker’s. After all, Pixie and Poco were mere yards apart.

  What I had failed to factor in was the time it would take to go back home between the two pet-sitting jobs. I mean really, nobody plans to leave Mrs. Baker’s key in their jeans pocket.

  And how could I have known Mom would run a load of laundry for me first thing in the morning, which just happened to include the jeans with the key in the pocket? Finally, who could have foreseen that Mom would have strong objections to me earning more money?

  “Mom! It’s Mrs. Baker, from the play. A teacher! How can you not care I pet sit where the creepy Amos is, but be worried about me at the Bakers?”

  “It is different. I know the Wrangleys, Gabby. I’m there once a week cleaning. I would know if their house was no place for a girl your age to be working.”

  “So, are you implying Oceanside hires axe murderers to teach eighth-grade English and direct plays?” I crossed my arms, knowing I could win this round.

  “I’m just saying I want to know ahead of time where you are and who you are with. That way, if I have any doubts or questions, I can get answers before you get yourself into something you shouldn’t have.”

  Her words brought a chill to my blood. I could feel the plasma freezing in my veins.

  My date.

  Friday night I had debated back and forth about telling Mom. I wanted to, so maybe she would help me with my hair, but I also knew Becca’s parents had said she couldn’t date until she was at least sixteen, and she had to be on the honor roll and a bunch of other random stuff, which basically meant she would never go out with a boy until she was ancient, like twenty-five or thirty.

  So I had opted not to mention it. Just in case. I mean, it was just the movies and during the day. It wasn’t like I was dating Raff or some other juvenile delinquent with a stolen Rolex that matched his ankle monitor.

  “Maybe your father and I have gotten too lax about your comings and goings,” my mom was saying as much to herself as me, which threw up more red flags than Beach Patrol did when a hurricane or sharks threatened the swimmers at the oceanfront.

  “You’re right, Mom,” I quickly agreed in the most mature voice I could muster on short notice. “I should have brought it up. It’s just that . . .” I paused for effect. “Mrs. Baker being a widow and single foster mom, and since you guys met her at the play, I just wasn’t thinking.”

  “A widow? She looked awfully young to be widowed,” my mom said, half-questioning and half-compassionately.

  I went for the kill. “Yeah, I know, right. Navy helicopter crash. I’m sure it must have been devastating and unexpected.”

  I watched my mom’s face soften and could tell I’d talked my way out of the jaws of disaster. This time. I allowed myself to breathe a mental sigh of relief.

  “I hope you’re not charging her, Gabby.”

  “Oh, um, well, she’s the one who suggested five dollars a visit, less than what the Wrangleys pay me.”

  My mom’s brows knit together, so I adjusted my spiel. “But I figure when she goes to pay me, I’ll tell her she doesn’t have to.”

  “That is very thoughtful of you, Tootsie, doing it that way. Otherwise she might have felt
awkward asking you to do it for free.” My mom was all smiles now. “Let’s find that key and get you on your way.”

  While making my second, unplanned morning trip to Bakers’, I got behind even more because I kind of snooped at the Bakers’. It kind of was necessary because I figured I needed to check out the entire house in case Pixie decided to have her puppies somewhere other than the laundry room. I had almost convinced myself that was my sole reason for checking out the lay of Teacherland, but deep down I knew I was plain too curious for my own good.

  Mrs. Baker lived in an older, two-story house. It definitely wasn’t as fancy as the Wrangleys’. I looked for pictures of Mr. Baker, but there was nothing but a folded flag in an unlabeled display case that only hinted at tragedy.

  I also wondered if the Baker residence would be as strange as Becca’s since both moms were teachers. The Chapmans had no TV, healthy food in every cupboard, and a big mat by the entryway because visitors had to take off their shoes and pad around in sock feet.

  Mrs. Baker’s house was boringly normal. In fact, except for the large cardboard box with the sides trimmed to six inches sprawled across the laundry room floor, it looked too normal. Mom would be relieved.

  I figured the cardboard box was the “whelping” box since it was lined with a couple of faded towels and an old baby blanket with a thrift store tag still attached. I’d looked up “whelping” in my school dictionary to discover it had to do with mammals giving birth.

  Just like Poco, Pixie was at the door when I arrived. She didn’t dance around, though, like Poco did. She paced slowly, like it was uncomfortable to move and just as uncomfortable to stop. Pixie was every bit as cute as Poco, so I didn’t cut corners walking and petting her. Walking her, I discovered the back of the Bakers’ was just a narrow alley away from the Wrangleys’. Unfortunately I couldn’t use it as a shortcut on my bike because the passageway would be too tight of a squeeze for the handlebars.

  It was now ten thirty. I supposed I could go home, shower, change, fix my hair, do makeup, and make it back closer to twelve thirty than noon, thus allowing plenty of time to meet Pete at school by two.