Without a chance of pending rescue, I know I should move along, let whatever is happening be, but then a girl pushes out from the circle, wiping tears from her eyes. As she passes me, she mumbles, “Jerks. That poor thing. They’re so mean.”
In the space she’s left, I see a tuft of black-and-white fur about the size of a schnauzer but not exactly the right shape or color for a dog. I step closer to get a better look.
It’s a … baby goat.
Which makes no sense. I don’t live in the country. I live in a regular suburb in the shadow of San Francisco. People keep dogs and cats for pets, not farm animals, but the creature in the circle is definitely a goat.
She’s mostly white with a mask of black around her eyes and three of her feet, making her look like she’s wearing socks but forgot to put one on, which is really adorable. Though, the cutest thing about her is her droopy black ears. When she moves, they flop around the sweetest face I’ve ever seen. She’s like a living, breathing stuffed animal.
She makes a baby bleating noise, and I think I’m in love.
“Watch this,” a boy who looks vaguely familiar says. Then, out of nowhere, he claps his hands really loud and screams, “Boo!”
I practically jump out of my skin, but that’s nothing compared with what happens to the tuft of fur. She freezes up. Just like I did onstage, but instead of remaining upright, she tumbles onto her side and stays there.
Most of the kids laugh like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. She’s only down a few seconds before she scrambles to her feet again, which renews the kids’ laughter.
They think it’s funny to purposely frighten her, but it’s cruel. Bile rises in my throat. I feel that goat’s helplessness and fear like it’s my own.
My whole life, I’ve never felt brave, and I don’t feel one ounce of courage now, but after the day I’ve had, I know I can’t let them scare that goat again, and they’re going to do it.
Suddenly, those emotions I pushed way down deep pop back up to the surface like ghost ships and whack-a-moles. All at once, I’m sad, embarrassed, ashamed, mad, and tired. Really, really tired of being me—the kid who lets every opportunity blow by her, the dud who watches from the sidelines as the world races past, the scaredy-cat who would walk away and let an innocent creature suffer. Before I even understand what’s happening, all those clanging emotions make something inside me wake up, and for once in my life, I’m not thinking. I’m doing.
I run into the circle and throw my arms around the goat’s neck.
She’s cute as a button, with little nubs for horns and wiry fur that pokes the back of my arms. She doesn’t seem to mind my arms around her and pushes her head into my cheek before nibbling at the collar of my T-shirt.
The kids are silent and still. Apparently, my sudden appearance has stunned them.
I’m pretty stunned myself, and I look around the circle, not sure what to do next. There are six kids as tall as beanstalks and just one of me—anxious, cowardly me.
But as I stare at those middle school faces, unsure of what to do, the little goat gnaws at my T-shirt, her mouth tickling my chin, and the defenseless sweetness of her makes me feel the wrongness of injustice in a way I never have before. The strong should never pick on the weak.
Something deep inside me starts to burn, and I’m fuming. I think my blood is actually starting to boil, and just then, when I’m angrier than I have ever been in my entire life, I recognize one of the middle schoolers. It’s Jamie. The trumpet-blaring, escape-route-blocking, most obnoxious kid in my grade. At first, I didn’t realize it was him because he’s hanging out with a bunch of older kids I don’t know and has somehow gotten so big this year that he blended right in with them.
But seeing Jamie there makes me even madder, and before I know it, I’m yelling nonsense. “Run! Principal Huxx is coming. Principal Huxx is coming.” I have no idea where this lie comes from, and I’m awed by how believable I sound because my hands are shaking like leaves and my heart is beating so fast I think I might freeze up again. But for the first time in my life, none of my symptoms are happening because of nerves. It’s righteous fury, and it’s powerful.
It’s also effective. Most of the kids take off like the guilty.
The only ones who stay behind are Jamie and an older boy who looks so similar to him it must be his brother.
Unfortunately, Jamie swings his trumpet case and laughs, not worried in the slightest. “Good one, Marvel.”
Jamie’s brother elbows him in the side. “Dude, is that the girl that totally freaked out onstage this morning?”
“Yep, Matt. That’s her.” Jamie smirks.
“Duuuude, that was sick! Especially when Principal Huxx had to drag her off the stage. Funniest thing to happen since I’ve been at Bayside.” He points at me as if I’m not actually a person, but a punch line.
I stroke between the goat’s horns. She leans into me, pressing her side into mine as if she’s trying to hide from the boys. I don’t blame her. I feel my adrenaline draining out of me and my surge of bravery along with it. I want to hide too, but I have to stay with the goat. I can’t leave her alone with these two.
“Oh, oh, dude. Show her what happens to the goat when you scare it,” Matt says.
I pull the goat closer to me. “No. Don’t. I already saw it. You can’t do it again.”
Matt balks. “Why not? It’s totally funny.”
“I don’t think she likes it.” I mean, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that no one, not even a goat, would enjoy freezing up and toppling over.
“We’re not hurting the stupid thing. It’s a fainting goat, blockhead. That’s what it’s supposed to do,” Jamie says.
“How do you know that?”
“Duh. YouTube. Funny pet videos,” Jamie says like I’m brainless. “It’s the best. Look, Matt’s been recording her.”
Matt starts to show me his videos. I can’t decide if these two are bullies or oafs.
“We’re going to edit it together into a hilarious montage,” Jamie offers, as if that makes it okay, which it doesn’t. It makes it so much worse.
“You can’t. It’s mean to scare her on purpose.” I spend way too much time feeling afraid to think it’s a laughing matter and I’m definitely not letting them record her anymore.
“It doesn’t hurt it,” Matt says.
“Her,” I correct. “She’s a living creature, not an it.”
“It could be a boy.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. Yep, they’re oafs.
“Well, it doesn’t hurt her,” Matt says.
“Maybe not physically, but you don’t know how she feels inside.” But I do. If anyone understands fear, it’s me. I pull her face toward me protectively. She nips my ear before pulling away to eat garbage, but I stay where I am, kneeling on the ground near her in case she needs me.
“It’s a goat,” Matt says, exasperated.
“She’s,” I correct again. “Besides, is she even yours?” I’m positive Jamie’s family does not own a goat.
“No, we found her eating garbage but …”
I pull an old food wrapper from her mouth. “Then you have no right harassing her.”
“Yeah, so what are you going to do about it?” Matt’s eyes narrow, and his mean streak shows. Yep, he’s a bully.
My heart starts to beat fast again, and my palms start to sweat. I turn my head toward my house and try to calculate if, carrying the goat, I can outrun Jamie and his brother. Not likely.
I pull out the only threat I have. “If you don’t leave her alone, I’ll run back to Bayside and really get Principal Huxx.”
Matt turns to his brother. “She wouldn’t, would she?”
“Probably,” Jamie says. “She’s a total jerk tattletale.”
I try not to move a muscle. I think my threat might have actually worked, but I don’t want to jinx it.
To my complete surprise, the boys begin to leave.
I’m amazed it works
. I start to feel rather proud of myself.
Then the goat butts me with her head. The force of it is unbelievably hard for a baby, and I lose my balance. I topple over dramatically, arms and legs thrashing like one of those ridiculous wind-sock guys.
Matt pulls out his phone and starts recording me.
Jamie roars with laughter and yells, “GET HER OFF THE STAGE!”
The poor little goat freezes up and tumbles over, landing on her side next to me.
“They’re perfect for each other,” Jamie says, laughing his head off.
Matt high-fives his brother. “Score! Let’s get out of here and leave the dippy kid with her defective goat. We’ve got a video montage to edit.”
Great, more videos of me making a fool out of myself. As they walk away and leave me alone with the goat, I decide to worry about it later because I know I will.
We both scramble up. The goat starts munching on garbage, and I brush myself off. Jamie’s right.
We’re perfect for each other.
I inspect my new friend.
She’s wearing a frayed, battered collar with a tarnished tag that says one word—Butter, which must be her name—but there aren’t any other details. No phone number. No address. Nothing.
Despite the lack of information, there’s no doubt in my mind Butter has an owner. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have that collar. Although, one look at her condition, and it’s clear the person responsible for her doesn’t deserve her. Butter’s fur is matted with mud, she stinks like garbage, and she’s been left to fend for herself for who knows how long. Between bored middle schoolers, scavenging raccoons, and a trash diet, it’s a miracle she’s still alive. This little goat needs someone to protect her.
I run my hands over her back and legs, making sure she doesn’t have any cuts or alarming injuries. (I realize I’m not a vet, but my anxiety makes me hyperaware of medical problems that could happen—broken bones, festering sores, embedded splinters—so in a way, I’m the next best thing.)
She cranes her neck around and watches me with eyes the color of Mom’s hydrangeas. The unusual hue and the emotion shock me. I didn’t know goats could have pale blue eyes or the ability to pierce a human’s heart. As she looks at me, I get the impression she’s trying to tell me how scared and lonely she’s been.
“You’re okay now. I got you,” I say, reassuringly stroking the side of her face. She leans her head into my palm, and I feel the weight of her trust.
I continue to caress her cheek while I finish my examination, and she waits patiently.
Despite being dirty and smelly, she seems healthy. While she definitely needs a bath, she’s still the cutest creature I’ve ever seen. Her spotted fur is slightly puffy like a baby chick’s, and one of her knobby knees has a black patch.
There’s a dent on the top of her head between her horns, and when I scratch there, her fluffy white tail wags like a dog’s. “You like that, do you?”
She tilts her head toward me, and I swear, she gazes at me as if she wants to speak.
It’s not a question of if I’m going to take her home, but how.
I have three choices: coax her into following me, attach a leash to her collar, or carry her.
As an experiment, I take a couple steps away. “Butter. Butter, come on,” I say, my voice three octaves higher than normal.
She stares at me.
I pat my knees. “Come on, girl, let’s go home.”
She blinks and cocks her head to the side.
Well … that’s not going to work.
I rummage around my backpack for something to use as a leash, but since I’m not in the habit of carrying around rope, I don’t find anything. So, option number three is the winner.
I scoop Butter up.
At first, it’s awkward trying to get her situated, but once I do, her little goat legs cross in the front, and she rests her head into the crook of my neck.
And off we go.
We’re getting close to home when she starts to squirm. “We’re almost there,” I tell her, and she seems to understand because she calms. I hug her tight to me and pick up my pace.
When we reach my house, I set her down and open the gate.
My house is like something out of a storybook. It literally has a white picket fence. There’s also a ginormous garden in the back. It’s five times the size of our actual house and is overgrown, but somehow tidy at the same time with all kinds of flowers, herbs, and vegetables planted in rows of containers. It’s my mom’s pride and joy and the perfect home for a goat.
I know I can’t simply plop Butter down and turn her loose in Mom’s garden. I value my life too much. I need a solid plan for Butter’s housing and care, one that includes persuasive counterpoints for all the objections Mom will throw at me. She’s not going to be easily talked into letting me keep Butter.
To form the best argument, I need to become an expert on goat facts fast, and for that, I need the Internet. I carry Butter into the house.
My big brother, Reef, is in the family room. He’s got his head down, intensely focused on his cell phone. (Don’t even get me started. Reef got a phone when he graduated from elementary school. I have to wait until the end of eighth grade because Mom signed a stupid PTA pledge to keep phones out of the hands of middle schoolers.)
I try to tiptoe by without him noticing. This is not as silly as it sounds. Cell phones mesmerize Reef. Imagine a snake in front of a charmer.
I almost make it to the hallway.
“Hold it,” Reef says.
I stop. Unfortunately, my brother is the boss of me when my parents aren’t home. Curse birth order.
“What the heck do you have there?” Reef slips his phone into his pocket and comes toward us. He’s in the eleventh grade and he’s huge. He’s all arms and legs and muscles. (He also has a scrawny, fuzzy mustache that he accidentally forgets to shave. I’m not allowed to point this out to him, even though SOMEONE needs to tell him. It’s like letting him walk around with spinach in his teeth.)
“Reef, meet Butter. Butter, meet Reef.” I take one of Butter’s legs and wave hello with it.
“Wow. Mom’s going to blow her top.”
“Maybe not. Look at this face.” I hold Butter’s muzzle à la proud, cheek-squeezing grandma.
He shakes his head. “She’s totally going to lose it. You’re lucky Dad isn’t here.”
“Dad’s never here.” He’s in the navy and is on sea duty. He spends most of his time on a ship that floats around gigantic oceans, which means he can’t come home often. He does get leave, but his last deployment has been a long one—almost a year.
“That’s not his fault. It’s his job.” Reef always defends Dad, but he’s had more time with him. When Reef was little, Dad had land duty. He went to work during the day and came home at night like a normal father doing a safe, boring job, so he knows him better. The two of them had time to bond. Me, not so much. I feel like I hardly know Dad at all.
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” I don’t want to argue with Reef about Dad. I hate thinking about Dad because, when I do, all I see is his ship bobbing like a rubber ducky in a raging sea. My version of Dad’s world is a mash-up of Jaws and every shipwreck scene ever filmed.
I’m scared he might not come home at all or that, when he finally does, he’s going to be disappointed in me. Despite my name, I’m not exactly a marvel. I’m a jittery jumble of fears, a coward first class. Dad is literally a hero. He’s the bravest person I know. We’re polar opposites.
Reef snaps to attention and pulls rank. “He’s coming back.”
“I know. Stand down. I’m not staging a mutiny.” If I wasn’t holding Butter, I’d salute him just to get his goat (pun totally intended).
Reef’s cell phone rings. Suzanna’s picture pops up. She’s his girlfriend. I like her just fine, but we’re supposed to pronounce her name with a slight French accent, which I totally don’t understand because she’s a boring ol’ American teenager and not French at all. No one in her
family is French, not even distant relatives. To each their own, I suppose.
“Whatever. It’s your funeral.” Reef swipes his phone open and turns on the charm. Maybe Suzanna can get him to get rid of that pathetic mustache.
I take Butter into my room and set her on my bed so I can google. My plan for convincing Mom is to create a pros-and-cons list heavy on the pros.
I pull up some pertinent facts and make a list:
Officially, Butter is called a myotonic goat.
Myotonic goats have a genetic disorder called myotonia congenita.
Myotonia congenita makes their muscles suddenly tighten when something scares them.
The Internet says fainting doesn’t hurt them, but as someone who has spent their whole life being afraid of everything and feeling stressed out, it seems unbearable to me. If I fainted every time something frightened me, I’d fall over constantly. That’s why I need to be the person to watch over Butter. No one can relate to her the way I can.
I add a few more items to my list:
They are smaller than normal goats.
There are also miniature versions.
She could be a purse goat. Mom would like that. I glance over at Butter to see if I can determine her size.
She’s eating my bedspread.
I put her on the floor.
She’s about the size of a Lab puppy and already too big to stuff into a purse, but I triple-underline miniature versions, anyway. I think that would appeal to Mom.
I google some more important information on housing and food. Butter needs an enclosure, hay, and lots of water, so not too costly to care for. I put an asterisk by hay, and at the bottom of the page, I jot down $200, my savings account balance, to show Mom I’m willing to pay for Butter’s upkeep with my own money. Mom’s a fan of ingenuity.
I discover more neat things about goats. They can be trained like dogs (handy), and they communicate with people by making eye contact. (I knew it!) I add these details to my pros column.
I also discover a negative. Goats are foragers. This means they eat everything in sight. I do NOT add this to my list.
Better With Butter Page 3