“I thought this was a beginner’s class, didn’t you, Hud-man . . .” he trailed off, warned by the fierce look in my eye. “Hud?”
“It fits with my schedule,” she said. “I talked to Miss Senger before class, and she said I could go at my own pace. Your name’s Hud?” She instinctively reacted the same way most people do when faced with a conversation with Gus. Change the subject and pivot away from him as quickly as possible. I felt a sudden wave of sympathy. It couldn’t be easy being Gus, no matter how much confidence he dripped.
“Hudson, actually.”
“You were in my Art History last year.”
“Yeah. You came at the end.”
“My father has a wacky job. We move around a lot.”
“Wacky?” Gus reinserted himself into the conversation. “What does he do?”
“Auditing for a bunch of big companies.”
Neither one of us knew what that meant, so we scrambled for a follow-up. Conversation would have been easier without Gus breathing down my neck, but to be fair, he probably felt the same way. Maybe I should have claimed Alana when he asked me. Should have told him I was going to “hit that.” I just couldn’t imagine those words coming out of my mouth.
“Heard you’re homeschooling this year.” How is it that Gus always knew everything about everyone? “Did you suddenly get religious or spend time in the slammer over the summer?” He laughed hard at that and then turned to Alana whose blank face demanded an explanation. “The only people who homeschool are religious kids and incorrigibles.”
Alana beamed her saucer eyes on me. “If you’re homeschooling, why are you here?”
“I’m only taking two classes. I leave after art . . . next period.”
“AP Art?”
“Yup.”
“I guess we’re in the same class again.”
“So why are you homeschooling?” Gus insisted.
“Senior year’s a waste of time. I’m trying to start a few businesses and need time to work on my novel.”
I didn’t feel the need to mention college was not in my future. I also wished for a trapdoor to suddenly open and swallow up Gus.
“Novel?” Alana’s wide eyes opened wider than I thought possible. “You’re writing a novel?”
“A graphic novel.”
I wasn’t exactly writing one but was sure thinking about it, and I had been ever since I’d discovered the genre and been swept up in it. There’d been some false starts and stops, but they hadn’t led to much.
“I’d love to see it sometime. What’s it about?”
“What kind of businesses are you starting?” Gus interrupted, and I was grateful I didn’t have to explain the graphic novel that didn’t yet exist.
“I have two.” This was true. I’d gotten the idea for my dog-walking business after listening to my neighbor’s dog bark all summer long. I had three clients. My neighbor’s one-eyed Chihuahua, driven to near-psychosis by long, endless days of boredom. A three-legged Labrador whose owner had emphysema. And a snow-white, perfectly-coiffed poodle that wanted nothing more than to go outside, but lacked the delivery system to get him there until I came along. I’d printed some cards and knocked on doors of houses where I’d seen or heard dogs before. “One’s a dog-walking business.”
“Dog walking?” Gus guffawed. “Give me a break. Your mom lets you be homeschooled so you can walk dogs? Dude, you must have her twisted around your little finger. What a scam!”
“What’s your other business?” Alana asked.
This one was tricky, but I was proud of the idea even though I only had one client. It seemed to me like an easy way to sit back and collect money with little or no expended effort, not that walking dogs took much. “You know those commercials on TV where an old person falls down and calls for help by pushing a button they wear around their neck?”
“You’re the guy who runs over to their house to pick them up after they fall down?”
If there was any doubt, I knew then that Gus was determined to make me look bad in front of Alana. It was all part of the “guys trying to impress girls” thing. If we were reindeer, we’d be butting horns. If we were beta fish we’d be fanning our fins at each other. But we were just two awkward guys trying to outwit each other. Or at least Gus was trying to outwit me, and I was trying to out-class him.
“So I started thinking,” I talked right over him, doing my best to ignore his last dig. “There are probably a lot of old people living by themselves who have problems that aren’t exactly emergencies but fall just under the level of emergency.”
“Yeah,” Alana stopped outside our classroom. This would be where I hoped to get rid of Gus. “I’ll bet there are. So what exactly would you do?”
She didn’t go inside so we all just stood there. Five minutes before class started.
“I give them a prepaid cell phone and program it with my direct number. Then they can call me anytime if they need me for an emergency right below the level of a 911 call.”
“Hah!” Gus snorted. I purposely avoided looking at him.
“Cool.” Alana smiled, and a tiny dimple formed in the middle of her chin. Right in between two of her three zits. I’d never noticed it before, probably because I’d never been that close. “Like, what would that be?”
I truthfully didn’t know, and, actually, I was hoping there wasn’t such a thing as an emergency right below the level of a 911 call. My plan was to charge a monthly rate and not have to do any work.
“Wow. So much stuff,” I said as seriously and mysteriously as possible.
Alana looked a little skeptical. “How many customers do you have?”
I looked down at the ground, wishing lying came more easily to me. “So far I only have one,” I said. “But my mom’s a nurse, and she has some leads. There’re a lot of upsides to the business since my costs don’t increase much as new business comes in. Same with the dog-walking.”
“But you can only walk so many dogs at one time,” Gus challenged.
“I can take different group of dogs out at different times if more business comes in.”
Gus’s mouth opened then closed silently like a fish. I’d finally succeeded in silencing him.
“I love dogs,” Alana said. “But I never got to have one since we moved around so much.”
“Maybe you can come with me to walk the dogs sometime.” It came out before I could stop myself. Idiot! And with Gus right there as an eyewitness . . . “If you want,” I added foolishly, like she didn’t know she had a choice in the matter.
“Yeah, maybe,” she said. “Bell’s about to ring. You going in?”
There were four chairs to a table, and I spotted two empty seats side by side. I moved quickly to claim them, assuming Alana was right behind me, and set my backpack down before noticing she was already across the room sliding into another chair obviously reserved for her by the looks of the jacket hanging over the back. And the guy next to her . . .I knew who he was. A nice enough guy. Decent artist. Okay-looking if you like that clean-cut, athletic kind of look. Tall. Bryce Something. Not the kind of guy I’d picture with Alana, but then again, neither was I. All right, maybe she had a boyfriend, and that wasn’t the worst thing in the world. There were still nineteen other girls in yoga class, including Penelope. There was still a whole school year in front of me. Or was Bryce Something maybe just a friend?
Alana glanced across the room and gave me one of those four finger fluttering type of waves. The kind that little kids use. And old ladies. And pretty girls.
>>>
THINGS TO DO TODAY:
1. Start art project
2. Walk dogs
3. Work on graphic novel for real
4. Do a little homeschool homework every day so I don’t have to cram for bi-monthly meetings
5. Empty dishwasher and wash dishes
&nbs
p; The cell phone ringing two inches from my right ear rattled me back to consciousness. How was it already noon? Caller ID showed Mrs. Dickinson, my one and only emergency contact client. I coughed a few times and cleared my throat to get the sleep out of my voice.
“Mrs. Dickinson, are you calling for help?”
“Why, yes dear. Is it okay to call now?”
“It’s okay anytime you need me.” This was my first ever call, so the adrenaline was pumping. I hadn’t expected to get a call so soon, or actually even at all. Mom took the car to work which left me only with my bike, but Mrs. Dickinson was just four blocks down the street.
“I know you said I was only supposed to call for emergencies but . . .”
“No. Actually, for emergencies call 911. Call me for anything just less than an emergency.”
How well could I market this business if my one and only client didn’t even understand its purpose? But in fairness, neither did I.
“Well, that’s what I meant. This isn’t really an emergency, but it’s just less than one. I need help with my email. I’ve tried and tried to get onto my account, but it keeps saying . . . wait a minute, I wrote it down . . . invalid password. I know I’m typing it correctly because it’s my name.”
“Mrs. Dickinson . . .” The clock on the wall showed twelve, and I still hadn’t eaten breakfast. My stomach was growling, and nothing on my list had been checked off. The list I so optimistically created when I got home from school that morning. Was it only that morning? Alana? Gus? That morning?
“Mrs. Dickinson. Just give me twenty minutes and I’ll be there.”
“Please hurry,” she said.
Mrs. Dickinson did have a dog that, as far as I knew, was never allowed further than her mailbox. A chubby but mellow cocker spaniel that would be a perfect addition to my existing team of three dogs. All I needed was to slowly work Mrs. Dickinson into the idea, convincing her the dog needed socializing and exercise.
“I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“Can you make it in ten?
The customer is always right . . .
. . . but when they’re not, you have to tell them they’re wrong in a way that lets them think that they’re right. If you can’t, then just keep your mouth shut or risk losing your customer.
“It’s a good thing I signed up for your service.” Mrs. Dickinson smelled like lavender which made me think of the flowering vine on the side of Alana’s neck. “I don’t know what I would have done otherwise. Come with me, the computer’s in my sewing room.”
“No problem, Mrs. Dickinson. Technically . . .” I had to be careful here, and saying it to her back as I followed her down the dark and narrow hallway seemed like a less hostile way of setting her straight. Family pictures covered both walls. “My service is really for things that fall just below the level of an emergency.”
“Like what?” She stopped suddenly and turned to face me.
“Like, uh . . .” Her liquid blue eyes filled with accusation. Careful, Hudson. “Like, for instance . . . say a stranger knocks on your door and you don’t feel safe answering it. You could call me, and I could come by to make sure no one’s hanging around, scoping out your house or something.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Dickinson’s face went white with fear. “I’d never thought of someone knocking on my door to case the place. Do you think that’s what they’re up to? A young man came by just last week wanting to know if I needed my gutters cleaned.”
I didn’t want to scare her, but I needed to set boundaries.
“I’m not saying that people who knock on your door are all bad. But if you feel nervous about anything.” I tried to think of a less scary example of my services. “Let’s say you go to get in your car and find the tank is empty. You could call me, and I could come by with a can of gas to get you to the nearest station.”
That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking when I came up with the idea for my business, but it was the first thing that came to mind.
“But I have AAA for that purpose.”
This was wasn’t going well.
“Or if you’re feeling sick. Maybe you have the flu or something. I could go to the store and bring you medicine.” That seemed easy enough, and people didn’t usually get the flu more than once a year, if that.
“I suppose so.” She flipped the light switch and the dark hallway lit up so I could clearly see the family photos. “But if my email isn’t working I can’t speak to my children and grandchildren,” she motioned her hand towards the wall where children and grandchildren surrounded us. They smiled down at me like I was the only thing standing between Mrs. Dickinson and no email.
“You’re right,” I knew when I was beaten. “You’re absolutely right. This is very important and qualifies as something . . . just below the level of an emergency.”
She smiled, and I followed her into the sewing room.
“Now you take all the time you need while I go look for a phone number. A gentleman I met at the Senior Center is interested in your services. I told him all about you.”
Two minutes later, I went out to look for Mrs. Dickinson and found her rummaging through a kitchen drawer.
“I know I put it here.” I could hear the frustration in her voice. “Darn it.” She looked up at me. “Did you fix my email?”
“Yes. The problem was you had your Caps Lock on, and your password is case sensitive. If it ever happens again just press the Caps Lock key again.”
“Wait a minute.” She pulled a sticky pad from the kitchen drawer and wrote in flowery cursive, her hand trembling ever so slightly.
If email password doesn’t work, check Caps Lock button.
“I’ll put this on my computer.” She peeled the purple sticky note from its pad. “Now what was I doing here?”
“Looking for the phone number of the gentleman who wants my services?” I was proud of myself for remembering to say gentleman instead of guy or man.
“That’s right. I don’t know what I’ve done with it, but I’ll keep looking. He’s new at the Senior Center, so maybe I’ll run into him there again if I can’t find it.”
“I appreciate it, Mrs. Dickinson.” Lady, the cocker spaniel, was lying on a pillow in the corner of the kitchen. She lifted her head and thumped her tail against the pillow when she saw me. She seemed pretty lazy, but maybe she was just old.
“Hi, Lady girl!” I walked over and gave her a few friendly rubs behind the ears to get Mrs. Dickinson used to the idea that Lady and I were friends. I’d wait for the gentleman’s phone number before I asked for Lady’s business. “And Mrs. Dickinson? You should change your password. It’s a bad idea to use your name.”
“But it’s so easy to remember.” She looked as hurt as if I’d just slapped one of her grandchildren.
“That’s exactly the point. If it’s easy for you to remember, then it’s easy for someone else to guess. Someone who could possibly hack into your account.”
“Oh dear.”
There went the scared look again. I’d have to remember with Mrs. Dickinson it was a balancing act of getting her to do the right thing without destroying her peace of mind.
“It’s okay for now. Let me know when you want to change it, and I’ll come over and help you.” I thought about the online tutorial I read about entrepreneurship . . . always ask for the business. “And please give me a call when you find the gentleman’s number.” I hoped the when as opposed to if would plant it more firmly in her mind. “Bye, Lady!”
Lady thumped her tail politely in response before collapsing once again into the soft pillow.
No need to judge myself so harshly . . .
. . . if all my goals weren’t accomplished on the first day. Or so I told myself. After all, a list was only a suggestion. It might take a few weeks to get the hang of my new life as a self-directed homeschooled student running two businesse
s and writing the great American graphic novel.
In the meantime, I’d better pay special attention to the things Mom would notice when she came home. She was the one who held the key to my future, or at least the key to my last year of high school. Prioritized right below Mom were the dogs. They’d have to be walked before their owners got home. Felix’s owner was no problem; he was nearly housebound with his emphysema and didn’t care when Felix got walked, as long as it happened before dark. The others, though—they expected their dogs to be home no later than five o’clock.
May as well have the TV on while I empty the dishwasher and wash the sink full of dirty dishes. A show was on about people who survive on their own in the Arctic wilderness. Amazing, the things they had to do just to get through the day. Did I have it in me to live in such a harsh environment? Could I? Would I?
When the dishes were done, I still didn’t know if the woman with the arsenal of weapons would be safe from prowling grizzlies that night. There was a load of clothes in the dryer that really needed to be folded before the wrinkles set in past the point of shaking them out. Mom would be happy if I folded them since she hadn’t specifically asked me to. And why not do it in the living room where I could finish watching the show? Turns out it was one of those marathons where they play the whole season in one day. After the first episode, I got lured into the next one. It was hard to tear myself away, but there was justification. I was getting an idea for a possible graphic novel. Someone living in the wilderness. Hallucinations from too much alone time. Maybe even an abominable snowman. Wolves howling at the door. Spending all that time home by myself, I thought I could relate. Before I knew it, another hour was gone, and I was going to have to hurry to give the dogs (or The Boys as I called them) the hour they had coming.
Buster, the one-eyed Chihuahua, was easy to collect. The fence between my backyard and the backyard where he spent most of his life had a loose board. If I lifted it, he’d come charging through, mad for any distraction from endless days of boredom.
Going Places Page 2