What the Dog Said

by Randi Reisfeld

  “But you stayed in my dad’s program anyway,” I said, just starting to see how hard it must’ve been for him. The gang had a strong pull—in a twisted way, they were like his family. Then my dad came along, seeing something worth saving in JJ. Maybe JJ telling the truth, finally, was the proof that Dad had been right.

  “Thanks,” I said shakily.

  “You’re the one who really pushed me to do it.”

  “With all those texts?”

  “Nah. Those were stupid.” He waved me away. “It’s what you said. It stayed with me.”

  “All the work he put into you will have been for nothing?” I guessed.

  “You said that if I was really grateful to him, I should honor him. I should do what he always told me. If I knew something was the right thing to do, I should be brave and do it even if I was scared—”

  “Especially if you’re scared,” I finished for him, my voice anything but triumphant. JJ had made his choice. I still had one of my own to make, and it scared me to death.

  I watched JJ ride away, staring as the reflecting light on the bike seat got smaller and smaller, until it was just a pinprick, and the night swallowed him.

  It’s over. Nothing can bring my dad back, but Detective Gregory Abernathy will finally get the justice he deserves. And I played a big role in that. So why wasn’t I dancing on the ceiling, jumping for joy?

  And what would happen to JJ now? Did doing the right thing make him a target for the thugs?

  Or would he eventually end up back with the gang anyway? Is it possible that he would stay strong and continue on the path my dad started him on?

  I turned it over in my mind. There was only one conclusion I could come to. My dad believed in JJ. That’s enough for me.

  I should call my mom. I should race to Regan’s room. But all at once, I felt so very, very tired. All I wanted to do was sleep.

  It wasn’t until I’d reached my room that I realized Rex hadn’t followed me. I called his name, but got no response. Had I accidentally locked him out? I retraced my steps and opened the door. No dog. “Rex! Where are you?” I called. “It’s time for bed.”

  No answer. I checked the kitchen, but the chowhound wasn’t there. Nor was he in the living room, bathroom, or any of the bedrooms. I finally found a pooped-looking pooch the last place I looked, belly-down in the tiny mudroom.

  “Come, we’re going to bed,” I said.

  “I think I’ll hang out here. It’s cooler.” His tail brushed the floor.

  “I’ll open the window in my room and turn the overhead fan on,” I offered.

  “That’s okay, Francie.”

  Not okay. Rex hadn’t spent a night in any room but mine since he got here. Was he upset about something? He’d heard JJ’s confession. Maybe the dog … who certainly was not just a dog … needed his space?

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I knelt and scratched behind his ears.

  “I’m good,” he assured me, closing his eyes.

  “You know you can stay with us, right? I already told you we’re pulling you out of Canine Connections. You don’t have to go live with someone else.”

  Rex flicked his eyes open but didn’t say anything.

  “Are you sick?” I asked.

  His head jerked up. “Sick? No way! I feel great! The tiles here are so nice and cool on my belly. Besides, it’s closer to the kitchen.”

  I gave up and started down the hallway. “If you change your mind, you know how to tug open the door to my room.”

  “Wait,” Rex called.

  I spun on my heel. “What is it, Rex?” The dog was looking at me with big, soulful eyes.

  “Aren’t you going to say good night, Gracie?”

  I stopped breathing.

  Say good night, Gracie.

  The dog had called me every name except my own—and now he comes out with it? Only my dad called me Gracie. I thought I’d never hear those words again.

  I began to take short, rapid breaths. I felt my chin tremble, and though I bit my lip, it quavered, too. Acid tinged my throat, my eyes watered, stinging. I could feel my entire body welling up like a balloon being filled with air—only it kept going, bigger, bigger, and bigger, and I couldn’t stop the explosion. I did not cry prettily like Regan, or weep discreetly like Mom. I burst into a sobbing, snot-dripping, hiccupping mess. My whole body shook so badly, I dropped to my knees, wrapped myself around the pound dog, and wept loudly enough to wake the dead.

  22

  Say Anything

  Mom stumbled upon me in the morning, curled up in a ball next to the dog. Her gasp woke me. “Grace—have you been here all night? Were you crying?”

  “I … guess so,” I said groggily. I knew my eyes were puffy, my cheeks stained with tears and dried mucus.

  Reaching down to help me up, she asked nervously, “Did something happen?”

  Only everything.

  A little later, over a crunchy bowl of oatmeal, I carefully downloaded Mom on JJ’s confession—leaving out the part about meeting him at the beach at night. My mom gripped and twisted a tissue throughout, but never once stopped to question me or voice any doubts. She hugged me hard. “I’m so proud of you, Grace.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “My baby—this has been hardest on you. And here you are, the one who brings us closure.” Then she shook her head. “I can’t believe I just said that. I hate that word.”

  Me too.

  Mom probably heard it a lot in her support group. I heard it all the time, from nearly everyone—teachers, other adults, even kids my age.

  “What does that even mean?” I said. I pictured it like a race. Once you cross the finish line, you’re done. It’s over. It’s officially time to stop mourning and move on. My personal finish line is like the horizon—you can swim the whole entire ocean and never get there.

  My mom said, “Well, it means that finding out what really happened to your father helps in the healing process.”

  “I don’t want to heal. It would be like our lives with him never happened.”

  “That’s not it, Grace. The idea is that with time—with each passing day—it’s supposed to hurt a little less. The pain will always be there. That doesn’t ever go away completely. But eventually, it will feel okay to go on with your life, to smile, laugh—dance.”

  “Didn’t take Regan too long,” I said. But I could no longer drum up any righteous anger at my sister. She didn’t grieve for Dad the way I did, and I was not okay with that. Her coping methods were different, but I was beginning to wonder if that made them less worthy of respect.

  “You knew your father maybe better than anyone in this family,” my mom interrupted my thoughts. “Do you really think he would have wanted you to be sad forever?”

  I pictured my dad’s big grin, his twinkling eyes, his off-the-wall sense of humor, love of music, and inept dancing. His bear hugs.

  It was my turn to hug my mother.

  Hours later, I decided to play catch with Rex in the backyard. The dog had been acting … I don’t know, a little droopy or something ever since we got up this morning. He’d been unusually quiet, too. An invigorating game of “get it,” “bring it” was sure to cheer him up.

  Now that we were playing, however, it became clear the dog didn’t actually need cheering up. Rex acted his usual hyper-excited self, racing after the balls I tossed. His tail, that hairy propeller, was in overdrive. He launched himself into the air to intercept each ball before it hit the ground. Dutifully, he dropped each one at my feet, panting fiercely, waiting for me to toss another. He barked, he yipped, he even whined once.

  But he didn’t say anything.

  Which was odd for the chatterbox.

  I tried to tease a few words out of him. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

  Rex tilted his head to one side, then the other. Like he didn’t understand.

  Neither did I. What, had Rex gotten shy all of a sudden?

  “Are you having fun?” I asked.

 
; “Woof, woof!” was all I got in return.

  “Are you thirsty? Do you want some water?” I tried.

  In response, he leaped and tried to grab the ball out of my hand. “Okay, okay, I’ll throw it,” I said.

  Bright-eyed, Rex panted his approval.

  I didn’t know what else to do—or say—so I just lobbed the ball again.

  My cell phone, tucked in my pocket, signaled an incoming text.

  “Hang on,” I said to Rex while I checked it out.

  Movies & Cheesecake Factory in 1 hr, Mercy had written. I hesitated. Then I texted her back.

  The movie, a cheesy rom-com, was mindless and the popcorn supersize, just the way I liked it. Between the four of us—Jasmine, Kendra, Mercy, and me—we devoured it.

  We shouldn’t have been hungry for dinner, but the Cheesecake Factory beckoned, and miraculously there was no wait. We slid into a booth.

  “What I love most about this place,” Mercy said, flipping through the spiral-bound menu, “is that my mother hates it.”

  “Go for it,” said Kendra. “Order something really decadent.”

  “That’s my plan—something deep-fried and over-salted with zero nutritional value,” Mercy quipped. “Or, you know what? A Green Chile Cheeseburger could also satisfy.”

  I looked at the ingredients: spicy green chiles, melted cheese, and onions with tortilla strips, salsa, and chipotle mayo.

  Mercy wasn’t done. “French fries on the side. And for dessert, Reese’s peanut butter chocolate cake cheesecake.”

  “I’ll have what she’s having.” I pointed to Mercy when the waiter came to take the order.

  Kendra went for pasta and an extra fork to dip into Mercy’s dessert. Only Jasmine stuck with a salad. “The dance is next week. I will fit in that dress,” she said defensively.

  “Right, like one meal is going to make a difference,” Mercy scoffed.

  “Speaking of the dance.” Kendra caught my eye. “Maybe you’ll change your mind? Now that things are more”—she paused, looking down as she settled the napkin on her lap—“resolved?”

  She meant JJ’s confession. I’d told my friends the Twitter version of the story—very limited. I wasn’t ready to confide more. And I totally wasn’t ready to get dressed up and pretend to be upbeat for the eighth-grade dance. “I don’t think my groove thing is up to shaking,” I tried to joke. “I’m not sure if I have one.”

  What I didn’t say: I was afraid of a music-caused meltdown. There are certain old songs always played at school dances, bar mitzvahs, weddings. Like “Livin’ on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi. That was the one my dad and I—and Regan, too, now that I think about it—used to try and outsing each other to see who could punch the air higher. And for the slow dance, if they played “In Your Eyes,” I’d fall apart. It was my mom and dad’s wedding song. Plus, who knew what else I might be ambushed with. Hearing those songs on my iPod was one thing—bursting into tears in front of a hundred kids was something else.

  Before Kendra could try to convince me, the orders arrived.

  “Anyway,” said Jasmine, measuring out a teaspoon of dressing to sprinkle on her salad, “I’m just glad I’m getting to go.”

  Right. I’d almost forgotten that part of Jasmine’s punishment for cheating in French was a ban on all extracurricular activities. Like it wasn’t bad enough she got three days’ suspension and an F for the semester. Luckily, they’d relented on the dance.

  I suddenly lost my appetite. I’d never know if she got caught because the teacher got suspicious when my own failing grades suddenly soared, and my answers matched Jasmine’s exactly. That’s because I never confessed. Mercy wouldn’t let me.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she insisted.

  I hadn’t meant to do anything wrong.

  “You need the passing grade,” Mercy lectured me. “Besides, unless she told you how she was getting the answers, you couldn’t have known anything. Not for sure.”

  Yeah, I could.

  When I got home that evening, Rex overgreeted me, nearly knocking me down by jumping on me and licking my face as if he hadn’t seen me in days. His eyes were bright as he raced around me so speedily that his tail actually created a breeze. When he trotted away from me it was only to return a minute later with my mitt in his jaw.

  I laughed, heartened by this shower of affection. “I guess you’re feeling better! So what was bothering you before? Were you shocked into silence because of JJ?”

  Rex dropped the baseball mitt at my feet, darted into the mudroom, and returned with my softball. I stroked his head. “Right, I get it. You’re multitalented, you can act just like a regular dog. But we both know you’re not. So … let’s have it, Rex, say something. Say anything.”

  Rex titled his head as if he didn’t understand. Then he barked.

  23

  The Essay!

  “I loooove you, I looove you, Get up! Walk me!” No, Rex didn’t say that—he had not miraculously regained the ability of speech overnight, but by now I was used to the daily wake-up call, the full-frontal face licking. Even as early as—I checked the clock—five a.m.?

  “No way,” I said to Rex. “Unless you talk to me. Then I’ll get up.”

  The dog’s tongue was hanging out, his tail going a mile a minute, but no words were forthcoming. I scrunched down in the bed and pulled the covers over my head. Then I got a text.

  Who was up at this hour? Curious, I grabbed the cell phone. Regan? She never texted me, not if we were both home. Her style of communicating is barging into my room without knocking.

  Need a favor, she’d written.

  Of course you do. I rolled my eyes.

  Please read e-mail.

  Okay, that was enough to get me out of bed. Under “subject,” Regan had put Favor. Her message was, Can you check this for mistakes?

  The attachment was titled Parsons School for Design, Writing Sample.

  I’d almost forgotten my offer to help her, but did remember that her effort had been pretty lame, and needed a lot of work. I wasn’t intending to read it right now. I opened it only to see if she’d actually attached it.

  Then I read it.

  Surprise number one: This was a brand-new effort. She’d deleted her first try and started all over.

  Surprise number two: She’d changed her topic. Originally, she picked the one that highlighted her selfless volunteer work training a service dog. This wasn’t that. This topic was “someone who’s had a significant influence on you.”

  Whopper of a surprise: She’d chosen … me? How would this make her look good to the college? And if it didn’t … again, where had my selfish sister gone, and who is this selfless person impersonating her?

  The writing was still lame, and her run-on sentences, non sequiturs, gratuitous overuse of exclamation points, “like,” and “totally” made her sound like a ditzy beauty pageant contestant. But as I read on, I realized there was something else that might outweigh her mistakes. She’d told the truth.

  The person who’s had a significant influence on me is my sister, Grace, and she’s my younger sister! I think she would be surprised that I picked her, because probably I don’t show it. In our family (besides our mom) there’s only two of us and it’s like these roles were given to us when we were born. I’m the social one, the total girly girl who really cares about fashion, and what I look like is very important to me. I have a lot of friends. Grace is the smart one. She always gets As and she reads a lot and likes baseball. Some people think she should try to be more like me, but I wish I could be like her!

  It’s not because she’s smarter then me, and it’s not that she’s very nice. Even though she thinks I’m superficial, she always does favors for me. It’s because she’s brave. Being brave was not something I thought affected me. But she showed me that it’s very important.

  In November, our dad died. It was sad for all of us. I didn’t know what to do except continue doing what I usually do. Going to school, hanging out with m
y friends and designing fashions, which is my passion, and why I want to attend your school, which is the best in the world for that.

  Grace stopped doing everything she used to do. She shut herself in her room and wouldn’t talk to her friends. She wasn’t worried that she could lose them, even though she doesn’t have a lot. She hardly ate. She lost weight, which most girls would be happy about, but I don’t think she cares. She stopped doing her schoolwork, and got Fs. That was maybe the worst thing because she’s naturally smart and I think she’s proud of her normal good grades.

  The only activity she did was a favor for me. She took this dog that we adopted to school to learn to help disabled people. She did that, like, three times a week, even though I was supposed to do it. I was always too busy.

  I kept telling her it was time to stop acting like a freak and get back to her normal life. She would answer that life would never be normal again because Dad’s not here.

  I thought she was only making things harder for herself, but now I realize that she was being really brave. My sister didn’t care what other people thought of her. She didn’t try to hide her real feelings and act like things were totally okay. She was not okay. And she was okay with not being okay. Does that make sense? I think it’s brave to show how you really feel even if those feelings are downers. I couldn’t do that. I didn’t want to lose my friends or mess up my grades. I want to get into your school and that was all I thought about. I even adopted the dog because it might make me look better on my application. I know that doesn’t make me look good. But in the end, because of my sister, the world has one more dog who could one day give a disabled person a new life. I didn’t contribute so much when the dog was in training, but I’d like to contribute now. As you will see, the original designs I am now submitting serve an actual purpose for the service dog. As well as being fashion-forward, which you don’t normally see.

  Design # 1: Waterproof Burberry-inspired booties, leash, and matching cone to shield a dog’s eyes in the rain.