I stroke the top of his head until he’s asleep.
Rita. I forgot to call Rita.
I think about what she said on the phone. I’m sorry, but Mom has totally given me every excuse in the book why it never works out to spend a weekend with Dad. She always blames him. She’s always saying Dad called or e-mailed or texted her at work to cancel, because he’s under a lot of pressure at work, because he’s got to take an unexpected business trip, because he’s come down with the flu. Fact is, she doesn’t want me to spend time with him. All because of the big mustard misunderstanding before the Fourth of July.
He was under a lot of pressure at work. He had a presentation to make for his boss—just like this weekend—so he could land some big promotion before we went away to Cape Cod. He really needed it. Mom liked to spend money. She was always buying something new for the house: some food processor for the kitchen or dwarf Japanese something-or-other for the garden. After a long day at the office, that twelve-dollar jar of mustard really set him off. That on top of the fact that I’d loaded a new video game onto his computer in the den without really knowing what I was doing, and I totally messed up his hard drive. Who could blame him? If only Mom could see Dad’s side of the story, like I’ve been trying to see Old Alf’s.
Except it still doesn’t explain why Reggie freaks out whenever anyone raises their hand.
Better get some rest, Nicky.
I stare up at the stars. I try not to think about the ghosts of I-don’t-know-how-many patriots waking up under the tombstones around us. I just keep counting to a thousand, waiting for morning to hurry up and get here.
wake up to some guy in a green uniform unlocking the front gate to the graveyard. He never even bothers to look over at the tombstones. He just climbs back into his green pickup, whistling, and drives away. It’s a darn good thing. I’m so stiff from the cold, I doubt I could even run away. I rub my neck and check my watch. Just past seven o’clock. As usual, Reggie’s standing guard beside me. I ask him how he’s feeling. He sticks his pink tongue into my ear. So at least he’s not mad at me right now.
I reach for my knapsack and dig out his last can of dog food. I open it up. My cereal bowl is busted into a million pieces, so I empty the food out onto the cement with my finger. Gross, I know, but it’s an emergency. I chuck all the broken pieces of the bowl into the nearest trash can—no breakfast for me today—and wash my hands in a little fountain, making sure to scrub around Rita’s number. Now that it’s daylight, I see there’s a pay phone over by the front gate. I put a quarter in and dial Rita’s number. The call goes directly to her answering service: ¡Hola, es Rita! I’m either eating, sleeping, or in class, so leave a message at the beep. If this is Nicky, keep trying!
I hang up and wander back to Reggie at the tombstone. I take a seat beside him and put my head in my hands to think. Now what?
If I can just get us to Littleton somehow, I’ll call Rita for directions to Dad’s from a phone booth. But how do I get us there? The commuter rail! Dad and I took the train to Boston the day we walked the Freedom Trail and saw the All-Star Wrestling Extravaganza. We caught it home from North Station, right next door to Boston Garden. North Station can’t be too far from the North End, right? They’re both north. Anyway, it better not be. Reggie’s definitely limping this morning.
I count how much money I’ve got left. A little over three dollars. Three dollars and thirteen cents. I wonder if that’s enough for a commuter rail ticket. I shove the money back into my pocket and put on my knapsack. “OK, Reggie,” I say, hooking him to his leash. “I sure hope you’re up for this.” And I do. I really do.
We sneak out of the graveyard. Then I just keep asking everyone we run into where North Station is. At one point we pass through this gigantic open-air market, where all sorts of people are wandering around buying fresh vegetables and fruits.
I ask a guy who has a cartload of apples for directions. While he’s pointing out where to go, I tuck an apple into each of my front pockets. I know—but it’s an emergency!
When we finally get to North Station, I hitch Reggie’s leash to the bicycle rack outside. I pat his head and tell him I’ll be back in a jiff. He doesn’t argue. He’s more than ready for a rest. I head straight for the information booth. The lady behind the counter hands me a commuter rail schedule when I ask about trains to Littleton. I sit with Reggie and eat both apples while I figure it out. Supposedly there’s a train every hour on the hour till eight o’clock. So that’s good. I check the price table. It definitely looks cheaper if you’re under twelve. That’s really good. But a one-way ticket still costs way more than three dollars and thirteen cents. And it doesn’t say anything about how much extra for pets.
I stand up. I untie Reggie’s leash.
“Sorry, boy,” I say. “Time for Plan Whatever.”
We must actually be on Plan G or H by now. But I’m tired of keeping track.
stick out my thumb.
Cars whoosh by. A few of them honk—losers. No one stops for us, though. I check the compass again. “North by northwest,” it says. So this should be an OK street to take. Back in our old neighborhood, Mom was always telling people Littleton was a quiet little suburb northwest of Boston.
We wait. We wait. We wait some more. Hours go by, seems like, before anyone stops. Well, maybe not hours. But a really long time.
It’s a young guy in an overnight delivery van.
“Dude, where you headed?” he says.
I tell him.
“That’s like twenty-five miles away, man. I only make local deliveries,” he says.
“Are you going past any roads that might take me there?” I say.
“Who knows?” he says. “You probably need Storrow Drive. But they change which streets you can use every freaking day around here. That’s the Big Dig for you, man.”
“Does that mean yes or no?” I say.
“Hop in,” he says. “We’ll soon see.” He starts clearing parcels off the passenger seat. I roll the van’s cargo door open for Reggie. The back is full of packages. I try not to look too relieved. But I feel a whole lot better knowing this guy has to be someplace soon.
I command Reggie to hop up inside.
His ears go flat. He sits down out on the tarmac.
“Forward!” I say.
He looks away from me.
I climb into the van myself and tug on his collar.
He lies down in the road.
“Ol’ Rin Tin Tin’s not into it, eh?” the driver says. He pulls a ziplock bag of dog biscuits out of the glove compartment. “Here, try one of these,” he says, winking. “Deliveryman’s best friend.”
I try luring Reggie into the van with a biscuit. Nothing doing. I wave it in front of his nose. He must be hungry by now—I know I am—but he won’t even sniff it. “It’s not going to work,” I tell the driver, “he won’t go.”
I climb out and shut the cargo door. I try handing the biscuit back, but the driver tells me to keep it, no problem, he’s got plenty. I put it in my pocket and ask him how far away he thinks Storrow Drive is. He says not that far, just on the other side of the station and over by the substance abuse hospital. I don’t bother to ask him why he didn’t say so in the first place. I don’t want to know. I just thank him and he drives off.
Reggie stumbles to his feet. He laps my hand. I dig the biscuit out of my pocket and give it to him. He eats it in two bites. I give him a good scratch behind the ears. What else are you going to do with eighty pounds of intelligently disobedient German shepherd?
“Looks like we’re walking,” I say.
As usual he sticks his tongue in my ear.
“Gross,” I say. “Dog biscuit breath.”
ucky for me, this part of the highway runs along the Esplanade, so there’s someplace to walk—sort of. But it’s true what Mom is always saying about Boston drivers. We’ve been dodging pickups and taxi cabs since we started. At least it’s a really beautiful day out. Not a cloud in the sky. I’ve
got my jacket wrapped around my middle. Indian summer. Supposedly it’s based on the term “Indian giver”: the gift of a few summer days in the fall that get taken back again by winter. The Native Americans supposedly gave all sorts of gifts to the Pilgrims—like their land—that were only symbolic. The Pilgrims didn’t get that, and were really ticked off when the Native Americans wanted everything back after the first Thanksgiving, which caused the French and Indian War. Or something like that. Anyway, it’s hot. And this knapsack sure is getting heavy. I have no idea how long it will take to get to Littleton. But I can’t make Reggie go any faster. His hip is really acting up now. He’s half limping, half hopping to avoid using his bum leg.
I stop for a second to dig those ugly black sunglasses out of my knapsack. A big-ass SUV comes screeching to a halt ahead of us. It idles beside the road, in spite of all the honking cars swerving around it, waiting for us to catch up. The people inside must think Reggie and I are still trying to hitch a ride. I wave them on, but they don’t budge. When we eventually get to the SUV’s passenger-side door, the window hums down.
It’s Timmy Burns.
I blink once or twice to make sure it’s not just sunstroke or something. No, it’s really Timmy Burns.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back.
“My dad made us stop to see if you’re OK,” he says.
“Everything’s fine,” I say.
“OK,” he says. “See you, then.” The window starts to go up.
“Wait!” Mr. Burns shouts from the driver’s seat. “What are you doing wandering down a busy highway like this all by yourself?”
Think quick, Nicky. “I’m on my way to the Hatch Shell,” I say. “I usually run my dog out there. My mom couldn’t drive me today. Her car’s in the shop.”
“No kidding! That’s where we’re going,” Mr. Burns says. “Hop in!”
Timmy rolls his eyes at me. I can’t tell whether it means Don’t you dare or Sorry my dad’s being such a loser.
“Thanks anyway,” I say. “But my dog is kind of funny about getting into strange vehicles.”
“You sure?” Mr. Burns says. “It’s pretty far.”
“May as well give it a try,” Timmy says, real cool-like. He reaches around and opens the back passenger-side door.
I hesitate. He has, after all, been trying to beat me up for a solid week. But they have water fountains at the Esplanade, and Reggie and I could sure use a drink. There’s also that hot dog cart, and I still have three dollars and thirteen cents. So I climb up onto the backseat. I say, “Come on, Reggie.” I don’t put my heart into it, though. It’s not even a real command. He cocks his head and whines. “See what I mean?” I say. “He won’t do it. He was trained to be my guard dog as a puppy.”
“Yeah, you said,” Timmy says. “Try again.”
“Come, Reggie,” I say. He hesitates. He puts his forepaw up onto the running board. He takes it back down.
“It’s no use,” I say, relieved.
“Come on fella,” Timmy says. “It’s OK.”
Reggie whines, then struggles up onto the seat beside me, dragging his bum leg behind. I reach over to help him the rest of the way. He yelps, but soon he’s settled onto his good side and I’ve shut the door behind him. I strap on my seat belt. “I guess we’re ready to roll,” I say, feeling totally trapped. Mr. Burns peels back onto the road in a spray of gravel behind us.
No one says much at first, which is fine by me. Then Mr. Burns says, “It was Timmy here who spotted you.”
“Tim, not Timmy,” Timmy says.
Whatever.
“Timmy said you two were school chums,” Mr. Burns says.
“I did not!” Tim says. He turns to face me and rolls his eyes again. “What I said was, ‘That looks like the new kid from homeroom who dumped that bag of dog food all over the Supa-Sava.’”
I don’t say anything. I don’t really want to get into it. I’ve got bigger problems to worry about than how much this kid hates my guts.
“Nicky, right?” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. So he does know my actual name.
“I’m Tim,” he says. “Not Timmy.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
“What’s your dog’s name again?”
“Reggie,” I say.
“Reggie?” he says.
“Don’t look at me,” I say, “I didn’t name him. He came that way.”
“Reggie’s an all-right name,” Tim says. “Reggie’s cool. Aren’tcha, boy?” He reaches over and pats Reggie’s head.
Reggie licks his hand. Traitor. I shoot him a dirty look. He won’t get into a delivery van for love nor money, but he’s got no problem hanging out with, like, my biggest enemy in the entire universe.
Tim starts fiddling with the radio. He picks a hip-hop station. It’s way better than the heavy metal Mom likes. We don’t talk for the rest of the drive over to the Hatch Shell. It doesn’t feel weird, though. It actually feels OK.
“Everybody out,” Mr. Burns says when we find a parking space. He and Tim start unpacking the SUV. They’ve got a couple of lawn chairs back there, a big nylon bag, and some extra jackets and stuff. I wait till they’re not really looking and then I help Reggie down. I don’t want him jumping on that leg anymore. We’ve still got a long ways to go. I lead him over to a fountain for joggers. I make a cup of water with my hands. Reggie laps up ten straight handfuls.
Mr. Burns and Tim are staring at us.
“Well, thanks again for the lift,” I say.
Mr. Burns holds up the nylon bag. “We’re going over to the island to fly the kite I got Timmy for his birthday,” he says. “Want to tag along?”
“I probably need to rest Reggie first,” I say. “His hip has gotten a little stiff from dodging traffic.”
“I noticed he was limping pretty bad,” Tim says. “That’s how I recognized it was you.”
He’s not limping all that bad.
Yes he is, Nicky. He totally is.
“You sure you don’t want to come along?” Mr. Burns says. “It’s one of those trick kites.”
“Another time, maybe,” I say.
“Suit yourself,” Mr. Burns says, gathering up the lawn chairs. “Let’s go, Timmy—before all the good spots get taken.”
“I’ll be right there,” Tim says.
“Don’t forget your jacket,” Mr. Burns says. “It’s windy out there.”
“Obviously,” Tim whispers, under his breath.
The two of us watch Mr. Burns head across the Hatch Shell lawn to the island where the kite-flyers are. As soon as his father’s out of earshot, Tim turns to me and says, “You weren’t in school yesterday. Everyone was going mental. The principal asked in every class if anybody had seen you. You running away or something?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Wow,” he says. “What did you do?”
For some reason, I tell him. I tell him everything. I don’t know why. Maybe because my dogs are tired after being on the lam for so long. Maybe because I didn’t get much sleep last night—or the night before. Or because I haven’t been able to reach Rita yet today. And because I really miss Marky right now and I would have told Marky everything. But I tell Tim all about Reggie being an ex-seeing-eye-career-change-dog, not a guard dog. I tell him how Reggie’s ex-master, Old Alf, fired him for unknown reasons, which landed Reggie in the pound. I tell him how Reggie led me around Boston as if I was blind and introduced me to all sorts of people, like Sal and the old guys, Mrs. Strazzulo, and Jenny. How I let everyone believe I was Old Alf’s grandson, until the mailman sort of caught me. How Reggie went mental on Mom because he thought she was trying to attack me when she was only high-fiving. I explain about taking off in the middle of the night after Mom threatened to send Reggie back to the pound. About doing the Freedom Trail and sneaking onto a duck boat. About breaking into Old Alf’s empty house and sleeping there. I tell him how we nearly got caught by the real-estate guy, how Reggie hurt his hip
sneaking into the graveyard, how we didn’t have enough money to buy a train ticket back to Littleton in the suburbs. How we decided to hitchhike there instead.
“Littleton? Why are you going there?” Tim says.
“It’s where my dad lives,” I say. I hope.
“Your parents split up too?” Tim says.
“Yeah,” I say. “They’re getting a divorce. They’re just waiting for the papers to go through.” And it’s weird. It’s the very first time I’ve ever actually said that word—divorce—out loud to anyone before. Not to Rita, not even to Dr. Holkke.
“Wow,” Tim says. “You’re, like, crazy.”
“I go to a shrink every Wednesday,” I admit.
“Doesn’t it suck?” he says. “I go Thursdays after school.”
“Big-time,” I agree.
“So now what are you going to do?” he says.
“Keep hitchhiking, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t,” Tim says.
“Why not?”
“Are you kidding? Every cop in Chucktown is probably on the lookout for a kid with a shepherd. There’s probably a citywide APB out on you right now. You know how grownups get about missing children. You’re a sitting duck. Especially the way Reggie’s limping.”
“You think so?” I say.
“Trust me,” he says. “You’re better off taking the train.”
Even though he’s still technically my archenemy, I know he’s right. Plus I shouldn’t really be making Reggie walk on that hind leg. Even Tim can see that, and he’s below grade level in both math and English.
“Do you have any money on you?” I say. “I’ll pay you back.”
He shakes his head no. “How much you need again?” he says.
I tell him.
“I’ve got an idea,” he says. “If you come and pretend to fly kites with us for a while, my dad’ll probably offer to buy us hot dogs and stuff for lunch. The two of us will volunteer to go and get food at the cart, but we’ll only buy a couple of franks for Dad and pretend we already ate ours. You can pocket all the rest of the money.”
How I Got a Life and a Dog Page 15