I decide to try a new tactic and not buy anything until I get to Park Place.
I shoot two threes, land on Oriental, and roll again.
“Hey, wait a minute, you’re not going to buy that?” Philippe leans forward.
“No, it’s junk.” I shake the dice.
“I’ll buy it, then.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Of course I can. I’ll buy it for a dollar.”
“What? You can’t.” I sit forward. My springy curls fall in my face and I push them away. “I don’t want you to have it.”
“Too bad. The rules say if you don’t buy something, I can make an offer.” He talks very slowly, like I am a dunce. “And since Cynthia won’t want it, I can take it for a dollar.” He pulls a Monopoly dollar out.
“He’s right,” Cynthia says. “It’s really something that you don’t know this, Rosie.”
God’s bones, she is infuriating. It is nearly a hundred degrees and way too hot to ride out to Swanson’s, which is why I am playing Monopoly, trying to work my way into the conversation I want to have with Philippe.
My dog is bored to death. If Harry hadn’t started buying soup bones to keep Augustus busy, he’d be sitting on top of the Monopoly board, his tail thumping. Instead, he’s flopped in the corner, chomping loudly.
A fly buzzes at the window screen, trying to reach the bone.
I grab the rule book and flip through. This bores me in about thirty seconds. I roll the dice again, land on Electric Company. What I really want is Boardwalk and Park Place—or if not that, at least the railroads.
While Philippe is buying everything he lands on, Cynthia picks at her scab. I sneak a hundred-dollar bill from the bank and then two fifties.
Philippe lands on Marvin Gardens. I slip another hundred under my knee and then one more. Stealing makes the game less gouge-your-eyes-out boring.
Philippe moves to Pacific Avenue. I land on Atlantic and hand the dice back to Philippe.
“Aren’t you going to buy anything?” he asks. His coat is off.
“I’m waiting for Boardwalk.”
“You can’t win with Boardwalk because no one ever lands on it and you will spend all your money for nothing. You would be much better off if you watched how I play and did that.”
I ignore him. I roll the dice. Bam, I am on Park Place.
Then I get another speech on how I should start small with St. Charles Place and how I should especially try to buy all the railroads. “Even the utilities have their purpose, so buy them.”
Hornets whir.
I rub my hands together so hard they sizzle. I throw the dice. I land on Boardwalk.
“See?” I roar.
“Hey, is she cheating?” Cynthia asks.
“No, I am not, but we might as well quit right now because I have already won.”
Augustus looks up when he hears the spikes in my voice.
Then my dog whines—and it is a good reminder to hold my tongue because I have something I need to do and I need a friend to help me.
I consider if Philippe is my friend anymore or not.
The sun glints like foil. Philippe turns to me, his eyes a hot steely blue.
“Put all the money back, Rosie.” His voice is a low sharp arrow that scrapes at the nerves running up the center of my back. “All the money you stole from the bank—every bit of it.”
My mouth hangs open; Cynthia rocks on her heels. “I knew she was cheating. I didn’t see her but I just knew. This is why you don’t have any friends, Rosie. You should look in the mirror and mend your ways. That’s what my mama says and she knows a lot of things.”
“Shut up, Cynthia.”
I pull the money out from under my leg and hand it to Philippe.
“I was just testing you.”
He rolls his eyes.
I bide my time and keep quiet as we go around the board a few million more times and Philippe has to buy a trillion houses and even some hotels. “I have something I need to do tomorrow and I was wondering if you would help.”
“I can help,” Cynthia says, hopping up on her knees. “I like to do things.”
Thunder rolls through my face. “For the thousandth time, Cynthia, mind your business.”
I turn back to Philippe. “Yes or no?”
He shrugs.
Hornets whirl. I compose my face and pull all the parts that are tight with fury back into position. I stand up. “I was just going to help someone who means a lot to me, but fine, I’ll do it myself.”
I grab the leash and together me and my Gloaty Gus stomp out of the room.
Behind me, I hear Cynthia saying to Philippe, “But I like to help people—how come you don’t want to do that?”
I need Swanson to take Augustus, so here’s how I do it.
I dial her phone, and when her answering machine picks up and talks in a computer voice, I say: “Can you bring Augustus to your house for the morning? I have something I need to do.” Then I hang up.
A few minutes later she drives up in her jeep with Queenie in the front. With all the black paint we spread over the yellow and fire-engine-red splotches, it looks almost new. Augustus jumps right in and Swanson gives him the patting of his life, which I am mostly okay with now that I know he is making something of himself.
I don’t tell Swanson about my plan because she would try to stop me.
I don’t tell Augustus because he would want to come.
I don’t tell Harry because he would say I have the sense of a turnip.
I stuff my message to Avery Taylor deep in my pocket and climb onto the Blackbird.
“You ready?” I whisper as the smell of rotten meat soaks into our skin.
“I don’t know about this, Rosie.” Phillippe lets out a little whine. “What if somebody sees us?”
“We’re hiding between dumpsters,” I snap, sitting back on my heels. “No one’s going to know we’re even here.”
The heat rises off his coat, and an edge of moldy bread sticks to the bottom of my shoe. I try to rein in my temper.
The Shop Value parking lot is empty this early in the morning. We are waiting for Avery Taylor to start his shift, bagging groceries. He always parks his Camaro in the same spot (by the entrance sign) and he leaves his roof down so everyone can admire his shiny leather seats and polished steering wheel.
Philippe looks at his watch, loosens his helmet. “I just don’t want to do this, Rosie.”
“But you promised. I already said if you do this, I will play three-player again. Friends do things for each other.”
“Well, maybe friends don’t ask things like this.”
“Just be quiet,” I hiss, already hopping mad. “This town loves hockey more than donuts. No one else is going to do anything about Avery Taylor. It’s the right thing to do.”
Philippe’s nerves would make anyone unsteady. I shift my weight so my left hip takes more of the load. My heels dig in the sand.
“But what if he tells the police or something?”
“He won’t. They’d ask around why someone would want to do something like this to him and sooner or later they would figure out he is the one doing all these bad things to Swanson.” Philippe is really getting my goat now and I lash out. “Philippe, your job is the easy job.” I blow my breath out in a loud angry whoosh.
“All right, all right, you don’t have to get mad all the time,” he says. “I’ll do it.”
I pull Harry’s work gloves on and remind myself to bury them when I am done.
When I open the dumpster, the smell of rotting meat soars up.
Philippe plugs his nose and rolls around on the ground, gagging deep inside his gigantic coat.
“Stop being such a baby,” I snort. “You’re only the lookout. I’m the one who actually has to do this.”
I poke around until I find a pound of hamburger with most of the plastic wrapping off. Already there are maggots crawling around and one gets on my glove. I hold my breath.
The
World Book of Unbelievable and Spectacular Things has plenty to say about maggots and how many days it takes for them to start wiggling on a piece of rotten meat. This tells me this hamburger has sweltered in the dumpster for at least twenty-four hours. Three more days and we’ll have flies.
Retching, I dump the meat in the trash bag and reach back in for a package of pork chops.
“What are you doing?” Cynthia has snuck up on us and is watching me pull the plastic wrapping off.
I glare at Philippe.
“Nothing. Go away, Cynthia.” I drop the chops in the bag.
She plugs her nose. Her eyes are very big. I see how her hair is combed to one side and there is the nest underneath.
“She’s going to tell,” Philippe groans.
I have to hold my breath so I don’t ignite.
“I am not going to tell. Tell about what?”
“Cynthia, you can’t be here.”
“But why? I want us to start being friends.”
“I’ll think about it, Cynthia. If you go away.” I fish around in the dumpster and pull out a pound of sausage links, already blue.
“But I just want to be your friend.”
“Well, you can’t, not now. I’m busy.” I hold the trash bag open and dump in the sausages, and the horrid smell leaks out. “I’ll play Ping-Pong and three-player Monopoly and whatever you want later. I just can’t do it now. Okay?”
“Even Barbies?”
I boil over. “No, not Barbies. I will never play Barbies. Now leave.”
We lose many valuable minutes watching Cynthia sniffle and then finally she runs home. Every couple of seconds, though, she turns back to see if she can see anything or if we have changed our minds.
“If you look back again, I will never play with you!” I scream.
This may not be the smartest thing because a lady pushing a baby carriage stops when she hears the ruckus and we have to hide between the dumpsters—holding the trash bag close—until she walks away.
I feel woozy from the smell. I wonder if you can die from this.
When Avery Taylor drives in, he parks exactly where I thought he would. He spits on his thumb and polishes the door handle. He leaves the top down and walks into the market.
“Okay, now it’s your turn,” I tell Philippe.
You don’t have to tell him twice. He jumps on his red bike, eager to get away from the smell, and pedals into the lot. His job is to ride around, and if anyone comes while I am doing my part, he will fall and pretend he has skinned his knee.
The distraction is the thing.
I hold the bag as far from my nose as possible and rush over to Avery Taylor’s convertible. The leather seats shine, the steering wheel gleams. He must spend hours on this car. I hear my papa’s voice asking me if I am sure I want to do this. I tell him it may not be what he would do or what Harry would do and it sure wouldn’t be what Mrs. Salvatore would do, but it is what I would do.
I lift the bag and dump the rotten meat all over the front seats. I use my gloves to spread it out, making sure it is well arranged in a single layer so it will sizzle and stick to the leather. There are maggots everywhere.
When I am done, I race to the dumpsters and pull the Blackbird out of its hiding place. Philippe pedals over, huffing badly under his coat.
“But what if he drives it and the smell gets to him and he passes out and crashes and gets killed? It will be our fault.”
“Don’t be silly, Philippe. You don’t get in an accident because of rotten meat. You don’t even drive with rotten meat in the car.”
—
Philippe and I pedal out of the parking lot as fast as we can and it isn’t until our tires are crackling across the grit on Main Street that I feel the crunching in my back pocket.
I drag my feet to stop, bellowing as loud as Harry: “I forgot the note, Philippe! I forgot to leave the note.” Cars zip past, then the milk truck. “I have to go back.”
“You can’t go back now,” Philippe snaps. “Look, there’s somebody watching the car.”
Sure enough, a man who looks an awful lot like Mr. Peterson is inspecting Avery Taylor’s car.
“But this will all be for nothing if I don’t leave the note.”
I ignore the doubts climbing inside me and turn around. “Somebody has to stick up for Swanson and it won’t work if Avery Taylor doesn’t read the note. It’s the right thing to do, Philippe, you know it is.”
I have to wait for the man to leave the car and hurry into the store, and sure enough, he has a baby backpack.
God’s bones. I figure I have exactly one minute before Avery Taylor runs out of the store screaming.
I rush back into the parking lot, pedaling as fast as I can, bouncing in a pothole and running over a piece of the plastic meat wrap. I jump off the Blackbird and stick the note to the steering wheel:
You will never get a hockey scholarship if you bother Swanson again—because we will tell the world how horrible you really are.
I don’t have time to admire my work. I turn the Blackbird around and fly it faster than it has ever flown before.
Augustus and I sit on the front step watching the sand swirl on the street like sugar.
Wind gusts down from the sandpits, tearing leaves from their branches, sending grit up my nose.
Eddie the Barber has a long line waiting. He holds up a box of dog bones for me to see and sets it right beside the bowl of M&M’s. He is good that way.
A taxi drives up, its tires scratching at the sand. I know without looking who is inside.
A thin woman gets out, pays the driver, and pulls out a suitcase and a leather briefcase. She turns and stares at Augustus and me. She has slate-colored eyes, springy curls tucked tight in her ponytail, and a frown bigger than Alaska as she tries to keep her heels out of the grit on the road. I have already given Augustus the talking-to of his life about no jumping.
My mum waves a slow sort of half wave, like she is Queen Elizabeth and knows exactly the way manners work. There are no hugs—just us standing a few feet from each other, me wondering what should happen next.
A leaf from the maple tree twirls across the yard. I straighten my back and hold out my hand. I make it strong, not like a wet trout at all. I wait for her to bend down to pat Augustus, who right now is sitting still as King Tut, but she ignores him (not a good idea) and marches up the steps, leaving the suitcase for me.
Of course, Cynthia is on the steps, her eyes very big. My ears twist.
“Wow, is this your mama, Rosie? I never met your mama before, but I know it’s her because she looks just like you. Wow, exactly. I didn’t even know you had a mama.” She holds out her hand, and there is a grape soda stain on her cheek. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
I try to push around, not really wanting my mum to see the girl who doesn’t brush her hair being friends with me.
Cynthia reaches out and tries to help carry the briefcase. “I bet my mama would invite you up for coffee, ma’am, if she was home, but she’s at work, did you know she got a new job at Charlie’s Place out on Route 54, Rosie?”
My teeth open enough for a hiss: “Stay out of my business, Cynthia.”
But then of course Philippe rushes out of his apartment yelling (in a new happy voice that, come to think of it, I haven’t heard before) about how if Cynthia wants to go canning she better hurry up. He is dragging a big trash bag stuffed with empty cans behind him. His gigantic wool coat is unbuttoned to the ground.
He stops short when he sees us. My mum’s eyes widen. Augustus thumps his tail. Dog books say you should be ready for bad behavior before it happens, that’s the secret to everything, so I wrap the leash around my hand a few more times and reach for our door. I stab the key in our lock because I can’t get inside our skinny apartment fast enough.
Inside, the coffeepot is gurgling and Harry has put a plate of jelly donuts on the table.
“Deborah,” says my grandpa, pointing to a chair at the table.
�
��Harry,” she says.
And that’s pretty much when my very bad dog decides enough is enough with my mum not paying any attention to him while he is still being quiet as King Tut. He takes a flying leap so he stands almost as tall as she is, and when she squeals and pushes him away, he slips and scratches her leg.
“No, Augustus! Bad dog. Bad, bad, bad dog.”
His tail thumps as he waits for the patting of his life, which doesn’t come because my mum loses her balance and grabs the table just in time.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I pull Augustus away and push his big moose rump on the floor. “Bad dog,” I say, even though you’re not supposed to say that when he is doing something good (which he is now). Then my dog wiggles out of my hands to jump on my mum again. “Augustus, get off.”
This time Harry stomps on the leash and Augustus sits. “What are you thinking?” he roars, and I don’t know if he means me or my dog.
Immediately my dog’s grin disappears and his eyes grow large and miserable and he crawls under the table. Harry can have that effect on someone.
“You’ve spent more than a year looking for a dog that is this misbehaved? I just don’t see the point, Rosalita.”
Harry hands my mum a kitchen towel so she can wipe the grit off her leg and he goes to get the Mercurochrome tincture, which she rolls her eyes at. He puts coffee cups on the table, cream and sugar, and little plates and spoons. When he takes a donut, he tears off half and sneaks it to Augustus.
As we sit around eating, my mum reaches in her purse and pulls out some glossy brochures.
“Don’t even bother, Deborah.” Harry gives Augustus another piece of donut.
“I’m offering her a golden ticket, one that you could never give her.”
Harry balls his fist, takes a big slug of coffee. His ears twitch. I see him counting to a million.
“I know you are trying your best,” my mum continues, “and of course you live close to her father, but she doesn’t even visit him.”
Harry gets up to pour more coffee. He grabs a tin of sardines, sneaks a fillet to Augustus, and plops one into his mouth. Then he says, “What’s different, Deborah? You’ve never wanted to be in her life before. Not really.”
Chasing Augustus Page 15