Beauty Returns

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “I need to do it myself.”

  I repeat this line to my family all the time, but today I sound and feel more irritated than I should. First-day-back-to-school nerves. Since I lost my sight, I’m even less confident than before.

  “Now, let me see if I have this right…you’re runnin’ late...”

  Bonk, in the background a ball bounces, followed by scrambling, scratching paws and claws, my Chocolate Lab.

  Thunk, the ball landing in my dog’s mouth. Shawna is throwing the tennis ball for Beauty, technically okay, since the dog isn’t in harness and working, but annoying because Beauty seems to like my sister better than me. And there’s that bouncing noise.

  Dad ignores it and continues,“…yet you will not accept a lift from me because you wish to establish your independence.”

  Dad sounds the way his coffee smells—rich, deep, and mellow. A coffee-drip drawl coupled with a Mensa vocabulary; that’s my father, the lawyer.

  “Would it not be a better idea to establish your independence on a day when, say, you were not at least fifteen minutes,” I can hear him tapping his watch crystal here, “behind schedu-el?”

  “I wouldn’t be late, if you could talk faster.” I walk out of the kitchen down the hall to the hat tree.

  “…and if Shawna would stop fooling around with Beauty. Beauty, come on now.” I grab her harness from a hook and shake it. Then I bend over, hold it out for her, and smile. “Good dog.”

  The trainer at Canine Vision told us that if the dog doesn’t step into the harness immediately, it means there is something wrong. The dog may be sick, or too old and tired. But I worry about something else. What if Beauty just plain realizes I’m not a dog person at all? I used to be really scared of them. Does she sense that I’m relieved when she just comes to me when I call her—especially when my puppy-crazy sister is around?

  She pushes her head through the front loop, and, feeling the tug, I pat her head and rub her warm silky ears.

  She’s the only dog that I can rely on. My irritation dissolves.

  I know I can get to school today without riding in Dad’s massive SUV. I can live my life the way I want. I don’t have to be afraid. People won’t stare at me because of a white cane. They’ll stare at this incredible dog, whom Shawna says is beautiful. They won’t avoid me for my disability—they’ll approach me because I have Beauty. With this confidence, I give in.

  “Fine,” I say. “The defense rests. Can we go now?”

  “One sec,” Shawna calls. I feel her hands patting down the flaps on my pants pockets. Then she tugs at my collar and picks something off my shoulder.

  “Lint,” she tells me.

  “Enough!” I grab my backpack from the same hat tree where I hang Beauty’s harness.

  “All set?” Dad asks. “Shawna, you coming too?”

  “No, I’m walking with friends.”

  Dad doesn’t argue with her. Beauty and I walk outside together.

  “Car, Beauty,” I tell her, and when she stops, I feel for the door handle, lift it, and pull.

  “In, girl.” We both squeeze into the front together with Beauty on the floor. It’s awkward till Beauty turns around and settles, and I arrange my feet around her. I don’t want to sit in the back, and I like her close by me.

  We drive off with bagpipes playing, Dad’s favourite Highland CD. The air-conditioning is going full blast, which is probably just as well since I’m starting to sweat. I breathe in the new-car smell of glue, vinyl, and other carcinogens. Mom loves that scent—she sells cars, and she got the Status with her family discount.

  At the third block, Dad turns down the volume on his CD player so he can talk.

  “First day of your senior year. It’s exciting.” Dad sounds more northern the further we get from home. “Can we try for a little less partying? I know the temptation’s there, the big last hurrah. But you’ve got to get those grades up for college, after all.”

  “Oh, I’m going to work harder, Dad. I promise. What kind of average do you think I need to get into Queens?” Queens is the university Dad went to.

  “I think they’re askin’ for nineties now. But there’s a good school not half an hour away from here, son. You don’t need to go to Queen’s.”

  “But I want to. It’s tradition, right?”

  “Sure, son.” He pats my shoulder. “We’re arriving at your school now. I’ll take you in the front driveway. There are four steps up to the front door. You gonna be all right?”

  “Yep. Just stop the car.” I turn towards him when the car comes to a halt. “I am going to get into Queens, Dad. I know you don’t think so, but I will.”

  “I believe you can do anything you set your mind to, Kyle.” He pauses for a moment, his southern breather.

  “But don’t always make things hard for yourself. Life’s given you enough challenges.”

  I shrug him off. “See ya, Dad.” Beauty and I climb out.

  Freedom. I inhale deeply. Even though it’s hot today, I can smell the fall coming. It’s a spicy, almost smoky scent that hangs over the warmth. In another few weeks, the air will bite and leaves will change colours—the second fall that I won’t be able to watch it happen. To me, red and orange have changed into tastes, like apples and tangerines.

  “Find the stairs, Beauty.” I hear her whine.

  “What’s up, girl?” It’s as if she’s spotted something that’s upset her. She finally moves forward and stops at the first stair. I count the three steps and Beauty pauses at the landing, waiting for my instructions. It’s working. I’m all by myself, and I’m heading into the school. Once we step inside, the air is thick with smells: salami, sneakers, cherry bubble gum, sweat, floral deodorant, all mixed together.

  I’d hoped to be earlier, so the halls wouldn’t be crowded. Kids jostle past me. And it doesn’t seem to faze Beauty at all.

  “Hello, Doggie.” “Hi, Puppy.” Beauty gets about four hellos to my one. We take the stairs and I run my hand along the wall, and then along the metal lockers till I get to mine.

  “Yo, Kyle, my man. What’s happenin’?” It’s Ryan, who talks a little different when he’s nervous—ghetto-speak, like a rapper. My dad has wondered out loud whether Ryan’s wearing his father’s pants, and whether his belt succeeds in holding them up, since the crotch hangs down by his ankles. Guess he dresses the part of a rapper, too.

  “I like the dog,” Ryan tells me. “This is a new angle we’ll have to explore. Dogs are chick magnets.”

  “I believe you’re right,” I answer, although, how would Ryan know? He hasn’t been the least bit lucky with the female half of the population. “We should probably get you a mutt.”

  I hang up my bag in the locker, taking my new digital recorder out and slipping it into my pocket. Then Beauty and I walk ahead of Ryan, back to the stairs towards our first class. She stops at the top of the stairs. I reach my foot out to touch the edge of the step. Beauty whines softly, just like she did outside the school.

  And then I hear a voice: high and musical, like chimes in a wind. It’s Elizabeth, the girl who raised Beauty.

  “Beauty!” she calls, and before I can give a command, the dog bolts down the stairs.

  One hand on the railing, the other still gripping the harness, I stumble after Beauty. I can’t even count the steps, I’m going down so fast. Any second I will pitch over, and my face will scrape down the edges of the remaining stairs.

  “No, Beauty!” I yank at her leash to give her a correction. She finally stops, at the bottom, like she’s supposed to.

  “Man, you all right?” Ryan asks me, his voice coming up from behind me.

  “What is with that chick? Is she nuts? Calling your dog’s name, then running away.”

  I shake out my hand, which feels burnt from its speed ride down the railing. “Did she have red hair?”

  “Uh huh. Hot but a little young.” Ryan thumps my back.

  “You don’t want to mess with her. She’s out of your league. It said so ri
ght on her shirt.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Elizabeth and Magic

  Standing in front of her locker mirror, Alicia is un-tacking, re-twisting, and re-tacking her hair back on top of her head. “Phew, wish we had air conditioning in this place.” She fans at herself with one hand.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I accuse her, as I tackle my combination lock.

  “Tell you what?” Alicia asks.

  I point to the words emblazoned on my shirt. OUT OF YOUR LEAGUE. But Alicia peels off her sweater at that moment, and across the front of her tank top in sparkly gold letters is the word HOT.

  “Never mind.” I shake my head wearily as I throw my junk in the locker.

  “Meet you in class. I gotta use the can.” I snap my lock shut again and duck into the washroom to attack the stain on my own top. The wet blob that forms around my chest has grown even larger. I lean forward for a better look, and the wet sink counter leaves a horizontal mark across my crotch.

  “Perfect, perfect,” I mutter at my mirror image.

  I turn Alicia’s top inside out and reach to the back of my neck to rip the label away. The fuzzy seams run down my shoulder and around my armpit, standing up in a small ridge. My shirt looks just the way I feel—all inside out.

  Poor Kyle—he nearly performed a head-first slide down the stairs. I shouldn’t have called out Beauty’s name like that. I suck in my cheeks and brush on more shading under the bones, another layer of mascara over already crusty lashes. Best I can do. Can’t delay facing the rest of high school any longer. I sigh and dash out again, down the long empty corridor.

  My first class is English, and I hesitate outside the open door. Five minutes late and the packed classroom already sits in a death-watch kind of silence. Another breath, then I bustle in, wincing at the teacher, hoping she won’t ask for a late slip. She smiles at me as I slide into a seat behind Alicia.

  Mrs. Dejean talks about the wonderful adventure we’re going to have with Shakespeare this term. She’s a tiny woman with bright eyes and a big voice, and she belts out some of Willy Boy’s most famous lines: “To be or not to be...” “A rose by any other name…” Then she launches into a love sonnet, which sounds pretty enough, but does anyone really understand a word? Mrs. Dejean holds her hand to her heart and recites as though she is in love, “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun.”

  Instantly, I think of Kyle’s eyes. They’re nothing like the sun either—more like the sky, expansive, blue.

  Willy-Boy talks about all the colours his love is not; her lips aren’t coral red, and her breasts aren’t snow white. (The guys at the back of the class chuckle at the word breasts. Idiots. The hats they’re wearing on their heads in this heat must be roasting their brains.) Willy’s girl doesn’t smell great or sound like music.

  And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare

  As any she belied with false compare.

  Even though he keeps telling us what she isn’t, I get the feeling his love for her makes all her colours and smells a thousand times better.

  I look down at my pants and notice that the juice stain at my knee shows again ever so faintly. I roll my eyes. I wish love would make this berry colour fade. Love? I try to shake myself out of it. Whose love am I thinking about? All that fills my head is an image of Kyle, tripping down the stairs, which is ridiculous because clearly he can’t see colours, nor are we in love with each other. But I shouldn’t have run away from him. I should have stopped, made sure he was all right and apologized for calling Beauty. Too late now— stupid stupid.

  I still have French to sit through before lunch period.

  The to-be verb, être: Je suis, tu es, il/elle/on est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils/elles sont. My mind wanders, coming back to back with Willy’s “To be or not to be” (English is by far my more favourite subject), I find myself confusing the lines, trying to translate them in my mind—Etre ou pas être, not quite as musical. We do passé composé and finally future: je serai, tu seras, il sera. Hey, I know a saying with that verb in it: “Qué sera sera.”

  What will be will be—is that French or Shakespeare? Or both? Maybe Shakespeare wrote in French or got translated.

  I wonder about that line. Do we have to accept things ‘being’ and ‘happening’ randomly? Do we just sit around and wait?

  I don’t think so.

  So I decide right then. I am going back to the senior floor to try to talk to Kyle. First, I’ll apologize, then we’ll take it from there. Just talking to the guy isn’t breaking my deal with Alicia. Not when she’s wearing Boy Catcher cologne.

  The bell buzzes, and I’m off, down the hall. Senior lunch is at 1:00, so I head upstairs to the top floor to look for Kyle, against a tide of kids coming down.

  Bump, bump. “Excuse me.” “Sorry.”

  I feel all bruised when I finally make it. Then I kind of sneak around, ducking behind people till I spot him outside the chemistry lab. He can’t see me so he’ll never know I’m there unless I speak to him.

  I walk closer, watching how he touches Beauty’s head ever so gently. That gives me time to get up my nerve. I take another half step and stop. If I go closer now, I’ll disturb them. Beauty will break for me. I know it. I can’t do it!

  Now I’ve lost my nerve, so I decide to walk right by. They’ve formed the perfect bond between dog guide and human. If Kyle is good to Beauty, that’s what matters most. He loves Beauty; he doesn’t have to like me.

  If it hadn’t been for Beauty, I could have made it past without him ever knowing. But she sees me and barks. It’s a curious mix between a roar of joy and a howl of pain, not her regular bark at all. I walk faster, hoping she’ll behave the way she’s been trained, but she’s bucking like a horse that’s trying to throw its rider.

  I duck down the next stairwell feeling that life is so unfair. I can’t even go near Kyle without distracting Beauty from her most important purpose. Never mind, I tell myself. Alicia and I made a pact—a solo year, no boys to mess us up. What difference does it make if Beauty can’t function as a dog guide with me around? I’m going to leave Kyle alone anyway, for my own sake as well as his and Beauty’s.

  At home, after school, lying back in the comfort of my unmade bed, I wonder about fostering another dog for Canine Vision. Will it be better when I have my own dog again—a whole year of another Beauty?

  “All set?” Mom calls as she bustles in the door.

  She pokes her head into my room and wrinkles her nose at the mess. “Did you know you have your shirt on inside out? Better change that.”

  I think about telling her that I like it that way, just so she doesn’t get her way all the time. But I’m anxious to switch, myself. I grab one of Debra’s black hand-me-down tops. That should go with beige, too. When I slip it on, ready to pick up my new dog, I feel right-side-out again. Mom honks the horn so I hustle out the door.

  “Eww.” I pick up a baby bottle full of what looks like cottage cheese off the floor of the van.

  “Never mind now. Hop in.”

  “Fine.” I sweep the baby junk off the seat. The van smells of sour milk, and Mom keeps her window rolled down as we drive off to Canine Vision.

  “Air conditioning’s bad for the environment anyway,” she tells me when I complain about the heat. It’s a long drive but at least traffic’s good and we get there quickly.

  All around the brick building, we can see trainers and volunteers walking dogs, some in harness and others with leashes and jackets. I notice a wiry Border terrier wearing an orange jacket—a hearing-ear dog—and think how wild it would be to try to train one of those.

  Mom parks in the back, and the moment we step in the building I smell the earthy, sock smell of dog. I realize how much I’ve missed that smell since Beauty left. I grin, walking a little quicker. Mom really moves to keep up as we head to the puppy program office. It’s a small room, covered with framed photographs of blind owners and their dog guides—same grey speckled linoleum floor as the hall, shaded w
ith clumps of dog hair. Natalie, a dark-haired lady who loves dogs as much as I do, smiles as she gets up from behind her desk.

  “Ready to meet Magic?” she asks.

  I smack my forehead with my hand. “That’s the dog’s name. I wondered why Mom called her ‘magic’.”

  “We’re hoping she will be.” Natalie winks at me. “I’ll go get her.”

  Mom and I sit on the wooden armchairs against the wall opposite Natalie’s desk. My grin grows wider, even as the chair grows harder beneath my butt. A new puppy—I love everything about them: floppy ears and paws, roly-poly bodies and rabbit-soft fur. They smell like hamburger, and they bounce around you to play. You can’t be unhappy around a puppy.

  The door opens, and in walks a grownup-looking Golden Retriever. Is this the surprise Mom mentioned?

  Her eyes are golden brown, and she shows just enough white around them to let us know that she feels worried about the whole situation. She stops and looks at me for a moment. She must decide I’m okay. Her body changes mood almost instantly. Her tail wags, and the long golden hair from it sweeps the floor.

  “How old is Magic?”

  “Ten months,” Natalie answers.

  Magic walks over to me, and I pat my teenaged dog.

  “But that means we’ll only have her for a little while,” I protest.

  Magic licks my hand fervently, as though desperate to make up for the time we’ve lost together.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just you’re so experienced, and Magic’s other family had to move to England on short notice. The big bonus is that Magic’s toilet trained and well-behaved. She’s already had a great assessment.”

  “She’s supposed to be wonderful with kids,” Mom said.

  “Definitely—the previous family had a five-year-old and a three-year-old. Plus there’s one more consideration.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Magic is a purebred Golden Retriever, and we have her papers—which means we’re considering her for the breeding program.”

  “That means we’ll be able to keep her?”

  “Well, if her eyes, elbows, and hips check out. We’d only bring her in to breed, and then whelp and nurse her puppies.”