I would almost feel guilty for accepting points when I went to see her. Almost. I glanced again at Hannah’s check marks. “I’m going next door,” I told Mom. “And I’ll be happy to” — I eyed the chart — “make a salad for dinner tonight. And set the table. And —” I could already picture the row of red checks growing beside my name.
Mom laughed. “Leave something for Hannah,” she said.
Over the next days, Hannah and I nearly killed ourselves earning check marks. I invented a new system for loading the dishwasher, visited Consuela until she ran out of things for me to do, and helped Dad organize his nails, brads, tacks, and screws. We fought every night over who should get to set the table, and we both jumped up as soon as we’d finished eating so we could be the first to clear it. Our parents were probably wishing they’d never shown us that chart.
Honestly, I was a little tired of the whole thing myself. “After all that work, I only have a hundred and thirteen points!” I said to Hannah, a week after we’d started.
“You could always clean the basement,” she said.
“Ugh. So could you,” I told her. “I happen to know you only have a hundred and six.” We had been neck and neck for the last few days. Cleaning the basement would push one of us fifty whole points ahead — but even with our birthday deadline looming, neither of us could face it.
Our basement is like something out of a horror movie. It’s dark and damp and full of spiders, which both of us hate, and it’s packed with broken furniture, old decorations, and boxes of junk.
All too soon, our birthday was only days away. We used to fight about what kind of party to have, so now we take turns deciding. Last year it was my turn. We hiked Piney Mountain and had a picnic on top. This year Hannah decided to have our party at the shelter. Mom and Dad even agreed to give us points for asking our guests to donate stuff for the animals instead of giving us presents — Hannah’s idea, but I was okay with it. It’s not like you usually get anything that great from other kids anyway. Lots of times it’s stuff they got and didn’t want and their mom put it on a shelf until they had a chance to regift it. Plus, like I said, there were those points.
When the day of the party arrived, the Saturday before our real birthday, I tried to be a good sport. I brought a bag of dog food to donate. I was friendly when I met the shelter staff. And I helped blow out the candles on our bone-shaped birthday cake. But I thought Hannah was pushing it when she asked our guests to help her walk the shelter dogs, her usual volunteer job.
“Come on, there are some brand-new dogs I’m dying to meet.” Hannah led us to the dog kennels. “They just came in yesterday.”
“Ooh, look at that one,” our friends said as they went down the row of dogs. “Awww, so cute!”
Hannah stopped short in front of the third kennel and stared into it. I got goose bumps. I knew instantly that Hannah had just met the right dog for her.
I peered inside. The scruffy black dust mop in the cage peered back at me, its soft brown eyes almost hidden behind a wacky fringe. Those eyes … They looked familiar. They reminded me of someone kind and loving — Aunt Beth, maybe? I cleared my throat, wondering if I might actually be allergic to dogs. “What — what kind of dog is that?”
Hannah snapped out of her daze. “He’s a schnoodle.” She pointed to the sign on his cage. “A cross between a schnauzer and a poodle. His name’s Tigger. Isn’t he absolutely adorable?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
I looked again into Tigger’s soft brown eyes. I could sort of imagine how somebody might think he was cute. I could picture him in a flowerpot or a wheelbarrow.
Hannah went back to the shelter the next day. And the next. She tried to get me to come with her, but I refused. I was not into hanging around a bunch of sad-eyed animals that nobody but Hannah wanted. I went back to helping Consuela.
The day before our real birthday, Hannah came home looking very small. Her face was pale. “They’re putting Tigger’s picture on the website today,” she told me. “Mr. Cole says he’ll get snapped up in a minute.” Mr. Cole is the rescue center’s director. She sat down on the hall steps. “Oh, Heather, what’ll I do?” she asked. “I don’t have the points. I have to let him go.” Her eyes filled with tears.
I swallowed. I felt my own eyes growing moist. No! I gritted my teeth. I stood tall. I was not going to fall for it.
“Oh, Tigger.” Tears began to slide down Hannah’s face.
I closed my eyes and pictured myself pedaling swiftly and silently down a winding road, far ahead of a pack of other racers. Then I sighed, and let that beautiful bike roll right out of my life.
I bent down to hug my sister. “Look,” I said. “If we clean the basement together, we’ll each earn twenty-five points. And then if I add all my points to yours, we’ll have enough for Tigger.” I knew Mom and Dad would agree to that. They love it when we cooperate.
Guess what we spent our birthday doing? Oh, it was gross. Spiderwebs draped themselves across my face as I pulled boxes off shelves and carried broken toys and furniture up the stairs. When Hannah swept the floor, the clouds of dust made us both choke. We were tired, sweaty, and sore. Then I picked up one last box, and the bottom fell out. “Arrgh!” I glared down at the pile of books, cards, loose snapshots, and — what was that?
I plucked a white-satin-covered book from the heap and flipped it open. “Look at this,” I called to Hannah. “You know how we hardly ever see any baby pictures of ourselves? Here’s a whole album!” We sat on a broken-down sofa, under a bare lightbulb.
“Look, that’s us right after we were born!” Hannah pointed to two red-faced, black-haired babies. “We looked a lot more alike when we were tiny.” She turned the page.
“I can almost remember that mobile,” I said. Familiar red and yellow stars dangled over our double crib.
“But who’s that?” She jabbed a finger at the picture.
It was a dog. A big brown dog with soft brown eyes, lying on the nursery rug. “That’s Toby,” I said, without even having to think about it. I flipped a few more pages, and there he was with his head on my two-year-old lap. I knew it was me by the blond curls: by then my hair had turned lighter.
“Toby?” Hannah asked.
I shivered and tears came to my eyes. “Toby. He was soft and warm and he smelled good.” The memories came rushing back. His wagging tail. The way he skidded across the floor when I chased him. His silky-soft ears, and his sweet breath. And those eyes. All of a sudden, I knew the real reason I’d offered to give Hannah my points. It wasn’t because she cried. It was because Tigger’s eyes reminded me of Toby’s. Those eyes made me remember how it felt to love — and be loved by — a dog.
“Toby,” Hannah said. “How could I have forgotten him? Of course! No wonder I’ve always loved dogs. Toby was the best.”
I was afraid Hannah was going to start crying again, so I hurried her upstairs to show the album to Mom. She gasped when she saw it. “Toby was my dog before I got married,” she told us. “When he died — oh, I was so sad. You both were, too. Heather sort of shut down, but Hannah cried and cried.” She smiled at me. “You gave her all your stuffed animals to try to make her stop.”
Even then, I couldn’t stand to see my sister cry.
“Finally we just put this photo album away and hoped you both would forget all about Toby.”
“And we did,” I said. “Sort of. But I guess Hannah remembered the good parts about having a dog and I only remembered the hurt. That must be the real reason I never wanted a dog.”
Mom nodded. “Same with me,” she said. “But I’m ready now, and I think you are, too. I think we’re ready for Tigger.”
We picked him up that day. I’ve forgotten all about the bike — I’m too busy with Tigger. He loves to go running with me, then come back and snuggle on the couch with Hannah. Mom and Dad are crazy about him, too. It turns out that he’s the right dog for all of us.
I even have a framed picture of him on my wall. Hannah t
ook it. He’s in a wheelbarrow.
Ellen Miles loves dogs, which is why she has a great time writing Puppy Place books. And guess what? She loves cats, too! That’s why she came up with a series called Kitty Corner. Ellen lives in Vermont and loves to be outdoors every day with her dog, Zipper, walking, skiing, or swimming, depending on the season. She also loves to read, cook, explore her beautiful state, play with dogs, and hang out with friends and family. Visit her website at www.ellenmiles.net.
“Make sure your father doesn’t eat all of the pomegranate seeds, okay?” my mom asks as she races around the house, packing up her stuff.
“Why don’t you tell him?” I ask, because I’m going to be eleven tomorrow, and I don’t care about pomegranate seeds. “Or take them with you. It’s not my job to nag Dad.”
Mom frowns as she tucks her laptop into the front section of her wheelie bag, and then tucks her long, red hair behind her freckled ears. “You’re right, sweetie. I’m sorry. May I have a hug good-bye?”
She holds out her arms and I move in close enough to smell her green-apple shampoo. “Have a good night. I love you so, so much.” She squeezes me extra tight.
“Do you love me enough to get me a dog?” I ask.
She laughs even though I’m not kidding. “You’re right about Dad,” she says. “I’ll talk to him.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I say as I pull away. “It’s all I want for my birthday.”
“Sweetie, you know it’s not a good time,” she replies.
I grunt as I head upstairs, taking two steps at a time. What my mom means is that she and my dad got divorced last year and they have joint custody of me. Except rather than having me switch off between their houses, we have a Bird’s-Nest Custody Arrangement. And no time is a good time.
Here’s how it works: I stay in one place while they Ping-Pong between the house we all used to share and their new apartments on the other side of town.
One week my mom lives here with me. The next week my dad lives here with me. They alternate being here for Thanksgiving and Christmas. On my birthday we’re supposed to celebrate together like the happy family we never were. It’s meant to be easy and amicable, which means friendly. And it sounds like it should be. But then there are things like pomegranate seeds, and who left the bathroom a mess, who’s supposed to help me with my science fair project, and who changed the cable setup and forgot to inform the other person.
This Bird’s-Nest deal is supposed to make my life easier but all it means is my mom and dad have more stuff to fight about. I so wish I had two houses like my best friend, Trevor. He’s got a pool at his dad’s condo complex and a giant trampoline at his mom’s house. Two dogs, too: a miniature schnauzer at his dad’s and a golden retriever at his mom’s.
I have no pool, no trampoline, and definitely no dog.
I’ve had pets before, but they never last. Batman and Robin were my first.
Picture me at eight. I’ve got the same red hair and freckles and sticky-outy-ears I do now, except I’m shorter and even scrawnier. Also, this is pre-braces, so my two front teeth stick out.
It’s my birthday and my parents tell me I’m old enough for my first pet. I’m ecstatic. Like if I could do backflips I’d be doing ten in a row. The three of us go to the pet store at the mall. I run right up to the puppy pen and pick out a small, brown guy with black floppy ears and a superlong tail that whips back and forth.
As I’m reaching for the dog — he’s almost in my hands — my parents rush over to stop me. “No, you misunderstood,” Dad says.
“We’re getting you a fish,” Mom explains, grinning like crazy, like this is actually good news.
“But I want a dog,” I say, practically in tears.
“Okay, how’s this? We’ll get you two Siamese fighting fish,” Dad says.
This intrigues me. Siamese fighting fish do not sound as good as a new puppy but they’re better than nothing. It’s not like I can leave the pet store empty-handed.
I pick out one blue fish and one red fish. They both have big, beautiful fins that are practically translucent.
The lady working at the pet store tells me, “Those are both males so you’ll need separate tanks because they’re so aggressive.”
My mom raises her eyebrows and turns to my dad. “You could’ve asked me before promising him two fish,” she whispers, thinking I can’t hear.
“Great,” my dad says to the pet store lady, pulling out his wallet and ignoring my mom. “We’ll take two tanks. Two sets of rocks. Two sets of food. Whatever we need.”
Money changes hands. The fish are mine!
I carry one tank. Dad carries the other. Mom walks ahead of us to the car, her boot heels click-clicking fast on the sidewalk. She’s not happy.
I name my blue fish Batman and my red fish Robin. I stare at them for a while. Then I call Trevor and tell him to come over. This is before Trevor’s parents got divorced so he still lives down the street. He’s at my place in less than five minutes.
“How come they’re in separate tanks?” asks Trevor.
I explain about the fish and aggression, feeling smart and informed. I talk extra loudly too, in an attempt to drown out my parents’ voices. Their fight started about the fish but now my dad is mad that my mom is Facebook friends with her ex-boyfriend, Raul.
“Let’s watch them fight,” says Trevor.
I flinch, thinking he means my parents. But no, he’s staring at the fish.
“They need their own space,” I say.
Trevor shakes his head. “They’re called Siamese fighting fish for a reason. They have to fight. It’s in their blood.”
“Do fish even have blood?” I ask. “I think they’re mostly water and tissue.”
“Every living thing has blood,” says Trevor. “Anyway, they probably won’t even fight because Batman and Robin are buddies. Everyone knows that.”
He has a good point. I dump Batman into Robin’s tank.
The fish circle each other. Then they eat the food floating on the surface of the water.
“This is boring. Let’s work on our hole,” Trevor says.
We are digging a hole to Australia and we still have a ways to go. I follow Trevor outside.
I come home after sundown. We haven’t even made it to the center of the earth, but we have made progress. I am muddy and tired. Also alarmed because Robin is missing and Batman is floating belly up in the tank.
I scream and both of my parents run up to my room. They take in the scene and my mom explains what must’ve happened. Batman ate Robin. Then his stomach exploded.
No more fish for me.
“Don’t say ‘I told you so,’” Dad barks at Mom.
Mom throws up her hands and leaves the room.
We go to Theresa’s for my birthday dinner. It’s my favorite pizza place and a family tradition. Except my mom and dad don’t talk all night. After the pepperoni pie, my birthday cake comes out. Eight candles blaze and all of the waiters sing to me. My parents won’t even look at each other. The cake should be delicious, but tonight it hurts to swallow.
For my ninth birthday my dad surprises me with a box turtle. He’s asleep in his cage and I want to pick him up, but we agree to wait until he wakes up.
Turtles aren’t as good as dogs, but I learn some cool things about the species: They’ve been around since dinosaurs roamed the earth. They can grow to be 350 pounds and live for over a hundred years. Also, in 1968, the Russians shot one into space. I name mine Michelangelo, after the Ninja Turtle. I’ll wrap an orange bandanna around his head when he wakes up.
Except Michelangelo sleeps a lot. So much so that my mom intervenes and discovers Michelangelo is dead.
Yup, that’s right. My dad bought me a dead turtle.
Dad takes him away and buys me a skateboard instead. I race Trevor down the driveway, fall down, and break my wrist.
We go to Theresa’s straight from the hospital. My new cast itches and my parents fight, not because skateboar
ds are dangerous — they already covered that territory at the hospital in front of the pretty nurse who winked at me and patted my knee — but because Mom says Dad is flirting with the hostess. Dad claims he’s only being friendly.
On my tenth birthday my dad hands me a box. “We know you really want a dog so here’s a hundred dogs,” he says with an embarrassed laugh.
I am confused. The box is large. When I shake it, pieces rattle. I unwrap it and find a puzzle called Dog-a-Palooza. There are a hundred dogs pictured. Puzzles are the worst present unless you are into puzzles and I am not.
Two months later my parents tell me they’re splitting up.
Tomorrow is my first birthday with divorced parents. And we can’t go to Theresa’s since my dad is dating the hostess and my mom refuses to set foot in the place.
I hear a car pull into our driveway and look out my bedroom window. Dad is walking up to the front door, his lumpy purple duffel bag over his shoulder. His brown hair is shorter than I’ve ever seen it. I can’t picture his face sometimes, weeks he’s gone, but when he’s here it’s like he never left.
Soon I hear my parents’ voices downstairs. My dad is telling my mom he can’t stand pomegranate seeds anyway, that she needs to relax.
Something bubbles up inside of me and I run downstairs to the kitchen.
Mom is yelling but stops, midsentence, when she sees me.
“Hey, Jack,” Dad says, giving me a bear hug, then ruffling my hair. “I swear you got even taller this week.”
I break away from him. “I’m not celebrating my birthday with you guys,” I say.
“What?” Mom asks, confused.
“Is this because of the dog?” asks Dad.
“No!” I scream. “I don’t even want a stupid dog anymore. I just want you two to stop yelling at each other all the time because you always ruin everything!”
I run outside, into the backyard to my old, rusty swing set. I am sick of the stupid Bird’s Nest and I wish my parents would get regular divorced like everyone else’s parents.
Lucky Dog Page 3