The Queen of Kentucky
Page 16
“They don’t know for sure if he’s gonna make it,” I say, trying not to cry.
“Aw, I remember that picture you had of him at Four-H camp,” she says. “He’s a real mutt, but cute enough, I guess. Are you gonna get a new dog?”
My mouth falls open. The thing about Candace is that she means well. She has a good heart. Tact, however, is nonexistent in her world. Plus, she has diarrhea of the mouth, which is why I can’t tell her a secret. For instance, at 4-H camp a horrifying case of poison ivy found its way to my backside—and this news was broadcast at every cabin.
“We’re just gonna take it one day at a time,” I say. I look around at all the other kids in my class, grouped together, gossiping and laughing. And then I catch Wolf’s eye as he walks into class and quickly direct my gaze back to Candace.
“Oh!” she says suddenly, as an idea comes to her. “This Thursday, when we find out if they liked us and if we get on the school paper, maybe you could start, like, a pet obituaries column or something. You know, if he doesn’t make it.”
I gasp involuntarily.
She recognizes her thoughtlessness, and I can tell she feels horrible. One hand flies to her mouth and the other grabs my hand. “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry. I just mean, you know, that dogs and cats and stuff are like best friends, like family sometimes, and you could help a lot of kids at school by doing a pet obits thing.”
“You always say exactly what’s on your mind, don’t you, Red?” Wolf says, stepping between us to take his seat.
“Yeah, I do,” she snaps. She crosses her arms over her maroon PCHS PRIDE T-shirt and cocks out a hip defiantly. “Like, for example, her dog was way cuter than you think you are.”
“I’m still cuter than I think you are,” he retorts.
The last bell rings and Candace squeezes my hand and moves toward her seat.
“Oh, and too much hair gel, brother,” she adds. “You look like you drowned in a salon.”
I glance back at him to see his eyes twinkling. He loves getting a rise out of people and actually takes most digs as well as he hands them out. I quickly face forward again, not in the mood for sparring with Wolf.
“Hey, Rosa Jo,” he whispers, leaning up close to my ear. “I didn’t know about your dog. Sorry. I was a jerk today.”
I spin around in my seat to look at his face, to search for sincerity. It’s there.
“Here,” he says, holding out a picture to me.
I look down at it and sigh. It’s adorable. That signature melt-me grin. Those sparkly brown eyes and small, perfect ears. And too much gel or not, I love his perfectly spiked hair. I feel an involuntary urge to reach out for the picture. I want to put it in my locker, blow it up and paste it on my bedroom wall, practice kissing on it.
“No gracías,” I manage to say, and I turn back around, sitting firmly on my trembling hands.
“I really am sorry,” he whispers in my hair.
I give a swift nod but don’t turn back around, because I don’t trust myself, and I will not cry.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name,” I pray along with my family. My eyes are sealed shut so tightly that the black is turning purple and neon fireworks are going off on the insides of my eyelids. That’s how fervently I’m praying. That’s how bad I need God to hear my prayer.
My parents picked Ben and me up from our schools today and we stopped by church before heading to the vet’s office for an update. Momma led us up front and we each lit a candle for Bandit, our footsteps echoing eerily in the empty cathedral. I open my eyes and find that I can’t stop looking at my candle now, as Dad leads us through the Lord’s Prayer. It’s beneath the Virgin, the fourth one over in the second row, its flame flickering for Bandit.
“Hear our prayer,” I whisper, gripping tightly to the rosary in my hand. “Hear our prayer, please.”
“His outlook is good,” Dr. Switzer tells us in the waiting room, and we breathe a collective sigh of relief. “He’s got a long road ahead of him,” the doctor warns, not wanting our hopes to soar too high, “but he’ll pull through.”
I hug him. I can’t help myself. I hug him with all my might. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you,” I mumble into his white coat.
Dr. Switzer pats my back and then pulls away some. He squats down and looks me dead in the eyes. “Now, Ricki Jo, he may never be the same Bandit he was before. He won’t be able to run and play for a long time, and then, when he is able, he may have some psychological issues that you can’t feed into. Don’t pity him. He may be fearful, he may be jumpy, but it’ll be up to you to snap him out of it. Don’t feel sorry for him and he won’t feel sorry for himself.”
I guess he sees the mortified look on my face—Can I get a little bedside manner here?—because he awkwardly pats the sides of my arms and tries to smile.
“But, you know,” he continues, “we can talk about all that once he’s feeling better. He should recover well, and although you’ll have to watch him, clean his wounds, and give him medicine, he should be back on the farm in about a week or so.”
I bite my lip and nod. Poor Bandit.
Momma and Ben stay out in the waiting room (my folks worried about how my little brother might take seeing our dog so battered), but Dad and I follow Dr. Switzer down a small hallway to a caged area out back. I hear barking in the kennel as Dr. Switzer opens the back door. All the barking makes me jittery and I hold my dad’s hand, gripping it tightly, hoping Bandit is awake and that if he is, he isn’t scared, too.
“He’s still very weak,” Dr. Switzer warns us as he leads the way to a big cage off to the side, away from the ruckus.
On a long work table, Bandit rests in a big, clean cage. My eyes fill with tears when I see my dog lying there, his chest and face shaved close so that, even under all the bandages, I can see scratches, stitches, and bite marks. Thick black stitches crisscross his ear and a shaved ring circles one eye.
“We hope we can save it,” Dr. Switzer says, reading my mind. “He’ll need another surgery.”
I gulp and nod, scooting closer and wrapping my fingers around the wire of Bandit’s cage.
“And the tube?” I ask. A thick ivory tube sticks out from his upper chest, and then again near his neck.
“Infection,” my dad answers, putting his hands on my shoulders. “The tube helps drain the infection, sweetheart.”
I look over at Dr. Switzer and he confirms this with a swift nod.
I let it all sink in. This is not quite what I imagined when we were told that Bandit’s outlook is good. I watch his belly move up and down slightly and take encouragement from the steady breaths, trying to block out the persistent wheezing. I wish I could touch him, wish he would open his good eye and see me, wish I could take him home.
“We’d better get going,” my dad says gently.
I sniff and nod, wiping my eyes. “Bye, Bandit,” I whisper. “I love you.”
My dad shakes the vet’s hand at the front door, while Ben and I follow my momma out to the car. On the way home Dad explains that Bandit had major surgery on his neck and chest and needs to stay a few nights for observation. He starts to go into details that make my stomach turn along with the curves on our road, and I stop him. I saw the ear, the eye, the jaw, and all the blood. I saw how bad it was. The only thing I need to hear is that Bandit’s outlook is good. That, I can cling to. That, I can accept.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask Momma as I sit cross-legged on the floor next to her.
I already halfheartedly finished my homework, so I dive into the warm heap of towels that just came out of the dryer. I love the smell and warmth of just-washed bath towels. I can’t help but put my face into each one before I fold it and add it to the pile. It’s one of those things, like comfort food, that makes me feel better instantly.
“Did he already leave for work?” I ask again, worried. Dad usually kisses us before heading over to Toyota, and it’s l
ate. I really hope he didn’t leave without saying good-bye.
“He had something to take care of,” Momma says matter-of-factly. She folds faster, more militantly, and her face is set and determined.
“Oh,” I say, understanding. A cold chill runs up my spine and I grab another warm towel. “He went to see the Gumbels, huh?”
She looks up at me, surprised, and then shakes her head and resumes folding. “He went to see the Gumbels. And Animal Control is with him.”
“He called them?” I ask, frozen in place.
“He called them,” she answers, not missing a beat. “Animal Control came over here for the dog that… didn’t make it… and they took it over to the Gumbels’ house together. Your father is very angry, Ricki Jo. It could easily have been you or Ben.”
My mother’s words bounce around in my head. It could easily have been me or Ben. It’s almost been me before, actually, but I doubt telling her that will make her feel any better. The fact is that it was Bandit, and now he’ll never be the same.
I am happy to hear that justice is knocking on the Gumbels’ door, but I worry about my dad at the same time. The Gumbels are mean, and they will still be our neighbors after the folks from the pound are long gone. And they won’t like it much that Luke killed their biggest dog.
Luke killed their biggest dog. I don’t know what came over him, but my dad said he found a bloodied piece of firewood near Bandit’s doghouse with black hairs all over one end. Luke must’ve grabbed the first thing he could get his hands on, and with the woodpile being right there, nature’s baseball bat was the weapon of the moment. Which means he got really close to the dog tearing at Bandit’s neck. Which means he practically killed a dog with his bare hands.
I shiver again and wrap a beach towel around my shoulders. My momma raises an eyebrow, but I just grab a washcloth and keep folding in silence. I can’t believe Luke won’t talk about it.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
“So the meeting’s today, then?” Luke asks me on our way into the gym.
“Yeah. I’m pretty pumped,” I say. “I mean, I don’t know how much they’ll actually let me write, but it should be fun, and I can meet new people.”
“Oh, trading in the Fab Four?” he teases.
“No, sir,” I say, pulling a dollar bill out of my purse for a Coke. “We’re still fabulous—and we’re five, by the way—but I’m broadening my horizons. And you know I love to write.”
“I know,” he says, leaning up against the vending machine. “And if you publish anything like what you write in your diary, it should be a pretty juicy read.”
I stop cold. “You read my journal?”
He tries to keep a straight face, but he’s a horrible liar. When I see his telling smile, I relax. I can’t believe I bought it for even a second, ’cause obviously Luke would never do that. Still, I just can’t let it slide, so I lift up his shirt and stick my cold cola can right up under it, freezing his abdomen.
“Hey! Ow!” He squirms. I laugh hard and hold tight to keep his shirt down over the can. He’s jerking around like a spaz, all flailing right angles, and it’s hilarious.
“I didn’t read it, okay?” he screams. “Hey! Stop!”
I stick out my tongue and retrieve my Coke. “Serves you right.”
“I’m gonna get you back for that, Ricki Jo,” he warns, grabbing his book bag from the floor and backing down the hallway, bumping into a few kids as the tunnel behind the gym starts to fill up. “I’ll get you.”
“Bring it on, Foster!” I sass and head back out to the hallway.
On my way to Miss Davis’s classroom, I cut through the cafeteria to see my crew. From the way she’s waving at me from our table across the room, Mackenzie looks like she’s landing planes. I smile and wave back, really appreciative of the effort the girls have made this week. My parents are starting to complain about all the phone calls I’ve been getting at home (which I’m hoping will open their eyes to the brilliance of buying me a cell phone), and it seems Kimi found another girl for them to get homework from, which is a huge relief.
“Can’t today, girls,” I say, holding up my brown bag. “I’m going to a meeting for the school paper.”
Kimi wrinkles her nose. “Ew. The paper? You’re such a nerd, Ericka.”
Sarah elbows her, hard.
“Just kidding,” Kimi says quickly, rubbing her arm and glaring at her best friend.
I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Whatever. I think it’ll be cool. I’ll meet new friends, and hopefully get to write a cool column.”
“What do you mean?” Mackenzie asks. “We’re your friends.”
“Yeah, I know,” I say. “I just like writing, and I think it’d be cool to do the kind of articles we read in Seventeen and stuff.”
“Oh my god!” Kimi says, almost spewing her Diet Coke. “Yes! You didn’t say you were going to write something chic in the paper, you know, to actually make it worth reading. I’ll give you tons of hair and makeup tips if you need them. Just ask.”
“Thanks,” I say, spotting the editor, Mitch Mills, leaving the cafeteria. He’s an upperclassman, effeminate and well-dressed. Some kids say he’s gay, but I don’t know how you can tell that just by looking at a guy. “Catch y’all later.”
I turn to go, not wanting to be late, and almost run into a tray full of mystery meat.
“Where you going?” Wolf asks, his confident grin slipping. “I was about to join y’all.”
“Take my place, then,” I say coldly. “Poor substitute, but whatever.”
I leave him standing openmouthed at our table and weave my way through the hungry throng, my heart pounding like crazy. Part of me is proud that I’ve managed the cold-as-ice treatment toward the crush of my life all week, but the other part is completely ticked off that the one time Wolf decides to eat with us instead of with the ball players, I’ve got a meeting.
I hustle down the hall and blow into Miss Davis’s classroom out of breath and am relieved to see that they haven’t started yet. Candace perks up and pats the seat next to her. I collapse into it and smile at the kids around the table, surprised to see a really diverse group, from jocks to wallflowers.
Mitch looks at the clock and then down at a sheet of paper in front of him.
“Well,” he says, clearing his throat a little, “let’s get started.”
I pop open my Coke and take out my lunch, nibbling as I wipe all thoughts of Wolf from my brain. I want to focus completely on Mitch as he explains his vision for this year.
“First things first. We read the freshman samples and would like to welcome the two of you to our staff,” he says, and heads nod all around him.
I smile. I mean, I kind of figured they wouldn’t have invited us back just to reject us in front of everyone, but you can never be sure. I let out the huge breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and slouch back into my chair. It feels good to be accepted so easily.
Mitch goes on about the deadline for this month’s issue, but since I’m new, I have no responsibilities this go-round. Still, it’s interesting hearing everybody give input and offer up suggestions, and I really like putting faces with some of the bylines. Like, I didn’t realize that the sportswriter is actually Mayor Green’s son. That makes him the biggest celebrity I’ve ever met, which I do recognize as totally pathetic.
The meeting is going well and I’m so focused on what Mitch is saying that I completely forget about the Bandit situation until he asks if anyone wants to pitch a new column idea. Candace grabs my hand and raises her other one.
“Mitch?” she asks. “I, um, kind of have an idea. My good friend is dealing with a very sick dog, and I know we can all get so attached to our pets, like family, and I thought it might be really nice for their owners to be able to see an obituary for that family member in the event that they pass away.”
The room is still for a moment.
“Not that Bandit will,” she adds quickly, looking over at me.
“So, I’d like to do a pet obits column,” she finishes, “if you don’t think it’s stupid.”
Mitch’s too-thin face cycles through a bunch of expressions in rapid succession as he thinks it over. Then he asks for comments and the group weighs in with pros and cons, although it looks like most people are behind the idea. One girl does say that we’d want to limit the space, keep the obits short.
“True,” Mitch says, rolling his eyes and smoothing his swept-over hair. “High school is depressing enough.”
I tend to agree.
“Anyone else?” Mitch asks.
“Actually,” I say, “I’d really like to do a column, too.”
I take a deep breath and put on my best smile. You could sell ice cubes to Eskimos, my dad always says, and looking at this crowd, I think I’m going to have to be quite the salesman.
“Okay,” I say, standing up, which only puts me at the same height as the beast on my other side. (I think he throws shot put.) Another deep breath. And go.
“A lot of people delight in the misery of others,” I begin.
This statement triggers a mini-uproar of facial expressions, although no one makes a noise. That was kind of awesome, I think to myself before moving on.
“So, what I want to do is a ‘Traumarama’ column, like the one in Seventeen magazine. Except I would open it up to be accessible for guys, too. I was thinking that I could create an e-mail account for submissions, and kids could send in their tragic stories. I would edit them, exaggerating here and there, you know, adding my own flair. They could send in all kinds of mortifying experiences, like with kissing, parents, sports, whatever! We’d keep it light, and I would edit them to be even juicier and funnier. The original e-mailer’s identity would remain anonymous, of course.”
“Example?” Mitch asks.
“Uh…” I wrack my brain. “Okay, like I could write about being new to this school and feeling really self-conscious already, you know, ’cause I’m new and haven’t really gotten my growth spurt yet… in any capacity.”